Wallflower Ink

Chapter 9

With a self-deprecating smile and a soft sigh, I leave the living room and enter the kitchen. I set the plate of cookies on the bar then turn to go back outside. The groceries aren't going to bring themselves in and I need a distraction from my troubled thoughts.

On my second trip back to my car, Jace rounds the corner of my house from the back yard. He stops to eye me warily, and I give him what I hope to be a welcoming smile. But his gaze remains guarded, even when he begins walking toward me again. He falls in beside me, more silent now than he'd been this morning. My mouth works around all the words I want to say but they just won't form, my vocal chords refusing to cooperate with my brain.

And so, we finish unloading the car in silence. With the last bags slung over his wrists, his hands are free to grab the box on the backseat. I open my mouth to protest, but then think better of it. There is nothing in the box I should be ashamed of, yet I feel shame creep hotly into my cheeks just the same. Tucking my head and lowering my eyes, I carry my own burden to the house in silence.

In the kitchen, Jace sets the bags and box on the counter, his eyes flitting to the contents of the cardboard carton. He looks away quickly, as if having just been caught spying on his neighbor through a cracked mini-blind. He says nothing about what he saw, though I think I saw curiosity in his eyes before he'd turned away.

"I'm a social worker," I say without any preface to speak of. "At least I was, until nine o'clock this morning."

"Oh?" he says, turning back to me. The curiosity is definitely still there, but so is an uneasiness, a questioning of where this conversation might be headed. Lord knows the last one had lead us nowhere good.

I utter a weary sigh.

"Look," I say, averting my eyes as heat creeps into my face, "I'm sorry about last night. I'm just not used to ... Not comfortable with ..."

I shake my head then meet his eyes again. He is staring at me openly now, but his features remain blank. It's as if he's taken every facial expression he possesses and stuffed them in a corner somewhere, as if even the guarded look he'd given me earlier no longer feels safe to use. I understand. I shake my head and offer him a weak smile.

I start over.

"I just want you to know that I'm going through some things right now. I'm not making an excuse, and I am certainly not trying to justify my behavior. I just wanted to try and explain. I'm sorry for how I acted last night. I'm not usually such a bitch."

I bite my lip and fight the urge to turn away, even as the heat in my cheeks intensifies then crawls slowly down my neck. By now, my skin must closely match my hair, but I refuse to hide either of them. It's a long moment before Jace breaks the silence, and I jump at the quick bark of laughter that shatters the quiet of my kitchen.

My gaze flits to his, and in his eyes I find a perfect blend of amused confusion. I offer him a small smile and an off-handed shrug. Maybe this won't be quite as bad as I'd feared. Laughter is a good sign, right? It's not quite what I'd expected but that doesn't make it bad.

"Look, if I crossed a line last night, I'm sorry," he says, his initial amusement quickly fading.

"You did, but that's not your fault. I just don't talk about my life before this one. Not with anyone."

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. If I ask about something that makes you uncomfortable just tell me."

I nod and he continues.

"We're going to be spending a lot of time here together in the next few weeks, and it would be nice to know a little bit about the person I'm bunking with."

"That seems reasonable."

"I don't think you're a psycho--and if you are, I ask that you keep that secret and any murderous impulses you might have to yourself. But it might help us both if you could at least throw me a bone here and there."

He pauses then scratches his chin, clearly thinking. I press my teeth tightly together, fully aware that anything I say right now might take us right back to where we started.

"I know you said you weren't interested in our being friends, and I respect that, but it wouldn't hurt either of us to be friendly," he finally continues, his tone thoughtful. "If it helps, you can just consider us colleagues. You can be friendly to a co-worker without making things personal."

I nod in agreement. "You're taking this better than I'd expected, better than I deserve."

It's as if he instinctively understands how I'm feeling and is treating me with kid gloves. I'm not sure what I feel more: grateful or ashamed. He is far kinder than I had given him credit for and it makes my recent behavior toward him seem that much worse. I swallow the lump of regret forming in my throat then stick out my hand. He eyes it warily, then gives me a puzzled look.

"Can we start over?" I ask, my hand hanging in the air between us like the proverbial olive branch of peace I hope he takes it for. When he finally takes it in his I have to bite back a relieved sigh. "I'm Merri Lonán, ex-social worker and socially inept wallflower."

He laughs at that, the last of his own tension melting from his shoulders as I watch. He shakes my hand, then gives it a friendly squeeze.

"It's nice to meet you, Merri. I'm Jace Declan, unbearable busybody and overpriced torturer for hire."

I can't suppress a chuckle as I pull my hand away. This can work. As long as we keep things light and impersonal this whole thing can actually work: what I have planned for Jace, what I have planned for myself. It's as if that single handshake has set me back on my original path and his good nature is the gentle shove I've needed to start me back down it. Mentally, I thank him for that, for the true nature of the kindness he'll never know he's shown me.

My smile softening, I ask, "So, what would you like to know?"