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“Yeah, but… the scenery.”
“I’m not understanding.”
Her face falls, her teeth scraping over her bottom lip. “Maybe it’s because I was an obituary writer…”
“Did your boss ever pay you?”
“Winston? Are you kidding?”
I’ll have to pay him a visit…
She plops down in the grass and pats the space next to her. “Join me?”
I remain standing with both hands in my pockets. “Maybe next time.”
“Okay.”
She draws her knees to her chest and folds her arms on top. Never mind that it affords me a sneak peek of her panties—I’m sure she knows and doesn’t care.
At first, I admire the view. Then I take in the whole sight of her. The sadness that’s emanating from her in an unmistakable wave.
“Why do youreallycome here?”
“If I told you, you’d think I were weird.”
I bite the bullet. Mostly because my curiosity is piqued, and I’ll need her trust if she’s to open up. I bend down in a stilted move to sit next to her. Being significantly smaller and more flexible, sitting on the grass is more comfortable for her than it is for me. My long legs stretch out in front of me, and I await her confession.
She takes me up on my cue.
“It’s like I said. I find it relaxing here. It’s like I’m among people I care about. See, I told you.Weird.”
“That is what most would consider weird. Yes.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. However, that does not make it wrong. Wrong being relative.”
“You judged me for dipping my French fries in my milkshake that one time.”
“I take that back. Some wrongs are universal.”
She smirks. “I’ll let you spank me with the crop if you try a French fry in a chocolate shake. It’ll change your life.”
“Bargaining punishments so that I’ll indulge you in your peculiar food habits?”
“Think about it. It’s a win for everyone.”
I let the amusing moment pass between us. I’ll hand it to Lyra—she makes for engaging conversation. Some of the most engaging I’ve ever experienced. In my superficial world of the rich and powerful elite, conversations predominantly comprise of boasting and listening for your chance to do so.
“How did your mother feel about you playing piano? Would she have preferred that you play the saxophone like she did?”
Lyra’s expression shifts. It freezes into a grimace and her body stiffens. “That’s complicated. She ran a tight ship.”
“As in?”
“As in… she expected the best of the best. She’d make me play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star ’til my fingers ached. ’Til they bled.”
“Perfectionist.”
