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I take a step back, knowing better than to get in her way again. Henry gets up and starts toward the door, and for a moment, I just stay there, watching them.
Her answer won’t change, huh?
My fingers grip the strap of my backpack tighter, the empty notebook weighing heavy on my shoulders. But then I remember another book I’m carrying. Her book. And not just the book, but the paper stashed inside.
The fucking list.
The corner of my mouth tips upward as I follow after them in a hurry, not willing to risk losing her.
I’m fine with staying out of her way, but she won’t be able to dismiss me that easily.
Not when I’m pretty sure I know what she’s up to.
A group of drunk college guys gets in my way. Cursing silently, I push through them just as the door closes behind Birdy.
Seriously, how does she move so fast?
I hurry my pace, pulling open the door. The cool night air hits me in the face as the door falls shut behind me, muffling the noises coming from inside the bar. I look around until my eyes land on Birdy, who’s already a few yards away.
“Does the guy have anything to do with that list of yours?” I call out after her.
Penelope abruptly comes to a halt, her shoulders squaring.
Well, that got her attention. Good.
I jog, crossing the distance between us just as she turns to me, her face a mask of innocence. “What list?”
“Your bucket list. That’s what it is, right? Your book dropped after…” My words trail off as I try to find the right way to describe what happened earlier.
“You tried to manhandle me?” she offers, the same moment I say, “Our interaction.”
“Of course, you’d see it that way,” she huffs. “After all, you’re good with pretty words.”
You’re good with pretty words.
That’s the second time she’s implied that she knows exactly who I am, not just that, but that she’s listened to my music to know what she’s talking about.
“Is there something you want to say to me, Birdy?” I ask, my brows rising.
“What I wanna know is, why haven’t you returned to me what’s mine?”
“After what happened? Yeah, I wasn’t about to volunteer for another round of lashing.”
Those pretty pink lips part in outrage. “Lashing?”
“At least not that quickly. A guy has to regroup at least.”
“And you did that by snooping around and reading what’s on the paper?” she asks, her cheeks turning crimson.
“Hey, now!” I protest. “I had to figure out how important that was and how soon I should give it back. Totally goes under regrouping.”
“You could have just given it back and not read it at all. It’s private.”
“If it were anybody else’s paper, I would have done the same,” I shrug.
“But it wasn’t anyone else’s list, was it? It was mine. Written inbraille, so you went out of your way to snoop around.” She points her finger at me before turning her hand and extending the palm. “Give me the book.”
Give her the book and lose the only leverage I have? I think not.
