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She walks towards my chair, her steps hesitating as she nears me. I hear her reach for my coffee mug, and a slender arm comes into my line of vision.
I don’t think; it happens before I realize it.
My arm juts out immediately and my fingers circle her wrist in one fluid, effortless motion.
She freezes.
I freeze.
My eyes snap to her face. It’s her. It’s orange boots girl.
“Don’t do that,” I tell her, her wrist still in my grasp.
“Why?” Her eyes are clear brown with a tinge of honey in them. I’d know those eyes anywhere.
I’d know the zap of electricity that pierces me as my skin comes into contact with hers anywhere.
What is happening?
“You shouldn’t be gathering the plates,” I repeat.
“Why not?” she asks again. Doesn’t try to snatch her hand away.
“Because it’s not your job,” I tell her. Because I can’t stand sitting here while she’s loading my dirty dishes in her arms. “Also, because you’re not staying.”
She tugs at my hand as though my fingers have burned her and I let go. She cradles her hand with her other one and then slides them both around her waist, her posture crouched, closed off. She is protecting herself.
From what?
From me?
The shoe is on the other foot, sweetheart.
“Are you going to fire me?” she asks me.
I cock my head to the side. I can’t put my finger on it, but there is something in the way she’s talking to me. Something really strange. It’s almost as if she’s waiting for something.
As if she has already explained herself to me.
Remade introductions.
Begged a thousand pardons.
Groveled.
And now the ball is in my court, and she’s waiting for my move. To either reject her or take her back.
Is that possible? No, it’s not.
Because none of that has happened. She has not even introduced herself to me, let alone begged my forgiveness. Not a word of explanation or any form of apology for all the things she did to me has ever passed between us. And yet here she is, standing in front of me, her eyes big and round and quickly beginning to shine with unshed tears. As if she’s waiting.
Hoping.
I grab the back of my neck. This is unbearable. In a minute, the fat tear that’s gathering at the corner of her eye is going to drop and I–
I stand up so abruptly, I nearly upset her tray. I quickly grab it to stop the dishes from cluttering to the ground. She does the same. Our hands meet for the second time, and liquid heat runs through me, nearly making my knees buckle.
I inhale sharply.
