Look Back at Me (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 1)

The Red Fog

As soon as Viola stepped out onto the balcony, she knew that Rhys wasn't the Juliet to her Romeo. His face was dark, and she saw the tense, displeased line of his shoulders. She left the door half open behind her, mostly to let the heat from inside keep her warm, and inhaled. The air was crispy, and tiny snowflakes lazily swirled in the dark behind the railing.

"Evening, Rhys," she said, still keeping her voice light.

There was still a chance she was misinterpreting his furrowed eyebrows and his lips pressed in a stern line. Perhaps, the pain in his shoulder bothered him. Don't be daft, Viola. You know better.

"You're enjoying yourself," he stated in that meaningful way of his, muscles dancing on his jaw.

To Viola's chagrin, the old reflexes kicked in right away. Guilt. Shame. The urge to fix his mood, to explain herself, to– She took a measured breath, halting the whirlpool of her thoughts.

It's been ten years, and nothing changed.

Or did it?

"What's wrong, Rhys?" she asked.

She sounded cold and withdrawn - but she was losing hope any other tone would be appropriate at the moment. After all, he wasn't even looking at her.

"Nothing's wrong," he grumbled, his gaze down under his feet. Like a petulant child.

Is she supposed to guess? Offer options of what it was that she's done wrong, to bury herself even deeper, to justify his displeasure with her?

"I am not having this conversation with you," she said firmly, and he lifted his eyes at her. "It's not even a conversation. It's once again the same silent treatment you'd been giving me for years," she continued, "and I'm having none of it."

She turned sharply on one place and stepped back, her hand lying on the door handle.

"Vi," he said, in the same disgruntled tone. As if it's her. As if she's the one being unreasonable.

There was no point - to stay, to try to talk, to hope that it could be better for the two of them. You know it, Viola. Just go inside.

She looked at him over her shoulder.

"Yes?"

"Why did you leave in the afternoon?" he asked, giving her a heavy look.

And just because she'd been feeling so excited, and happy, and so in love with her new life, and because she'd been looking forward to seeing him, and because it hurt so much to get this sort of reception - how many times before have you had this exact scenario play out for the two of you? - Viola narrowed her eyes and stepped to him.

"Why are you asking?" she hissed, losing her composure, quite possibly for the first time in her adult life. "You think you know the answer to this question. You're bloody Rhys Holyoake, and you've already decided why I did what I did. Whatever I answer right now doesn't matter. If I get it 'right,' it'll just confirm you're clever. If I get it 'wrong,' I'm lying and being evasive. There's no winning this sort of an argument with you." She angrily shook her head. "And again, this isn't even an argument. It's you letting me know you're displeased with me for a transgression you imagined I'd committed. It's Amsterdam all over again."

"I didn't imagine you shagging me and leaving without even saying goodbye," he barked.

"Pardon?" Viola asked.

"You didn't even let me touch you!"

His voice was rising. Someone inside might hear them. Viola stretched her hand to the door, planning to close it, but it seemed to trigger some sort of a temper tantrum in him, possibly because it looked like she was going to leave. You should, Viola.