Octavia
Something’s very wrong.
I knew it the moment Matt burst into the room, his face pale and his eyes burning. I was sure of it when he pulled us into his arms, sinking to the floor, as if trying to protect us.
But from what?
My mind keeps returning to that piece of paper he held in his hand. Was it something important? A personal letter? An official paper?
Matt is more silent than ever, which is quite the achievement, given he never says much in the first place. He leaves the kids’ bedroom, and I hear water splashing in the bathroom next door, then his steps going down the stairs.
I follow him down, determined to get some answers out of him, but can’t see him anywhere inside.
The door is halfway open.
He’s standing outside, on the porch, rubbing one of his wrists. He doesn’t turn to look at me when I approach him.
He looks like hell, hair windblown, falling in his face, dark smudges under his eyes, his cheeks sunken in. His beard is growing too long, the ends slightly curling.
I wonder if it’s soft or wiry. If his hair is a silky as it looks.
If I’ve completely lost my mind.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?” I ask carefully, not to set off his nasty temper. “Would you like me to stay a bit longer? I don’t mind,” I rush to say before he stops me or kicks me out. “I don’t mind at all.”
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Silence fills the space between us, heavy and hot.
“No need,” he says after a few beats.
No thanks. No explanations. The crumpled piece of paper is half-sticking out of his pocket, but I can’t see what’s on it.
A chill travels up my back. I rub my hands together. “All right. I’ll leave you, then. You know, Matt…” I wait, but he still doesn’t turn toward me. This guy really is a tough nut to crack. “I may be barely legal, and I don’t pretend to be a genius or anything, but if you ever need to talk to me, I promise I’m a good listener. And I won’t betray your trust.”
His jaw clenches. His lashes drop, shadowing his cheekbones. He seems to be struggling with something.
Maybe he’ll open up to me, tell me what’s on his mind, what scared him so badly earlier.
But then he says, his voice clipped, “I don’t need to talk to you, or to anyone. Just go.”
And just like that the illusion shatters, and he’s back to his jerky old self.
It’s probably for the best. I’d almost imagined I saw a flicker of soul in his eyes. What a fool I was to believe it even for a second.
“You seem unhappy,” Adam says as we stand in line to buy our ice cream. “Are you okay?”
He looks concerned. He came on time to pick me up, and offered his hand when we crossed the street.
I declined, but still. He offered. He’s asking how I am. He’s being nice.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” I smile at him as we approach the counter and consider the few flavors available. “I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Nothing particular. Or maybe…”
“Maybe?” He lifts a brow.