“To you, I mean,” she goes on.
“I know what you meant.” I tilt my head and stand up straighter, curiosity unfurling inside me. “What are you apologizing for?”
“I—was rude,” she says. “Last week. When?—”
But she doesn’t continue, and my lips quiver with a smile I try to suppress.
She can’t make herself say it. So I nudge her in the right direction.
“When I asked you out?” I supply.
A beat of silence. “Yes.”
“I wouldn’t say you were horribly rude.” I sidestep the mess of my sandwich on the floor and grab a rag from a drawer.
“Fine,” Aurora says. “I was inappropriate, then.”
“In what way?” I say, peeling the slices of bread and fillings up and tossing them into the sink. Then get the rag wet and wipe the spot several times, until I can no longer see the greasy residue of ham or mayo.
I can practically hear Aurora’s struggle as she forces herself to speak, probably through a clenched jaw or gritted teeth—not because she’s angry but because she’s infernally bad at conversations like this.
“I was wrong,” she says finally, the words stiff. “I shouldn’t have asked you for?—”
I listen more intently, waiting for her to go on. Is she going to say it?
“For no strings attached,” she finishes. “I incorrectly assumed that you might be interested in that arrangement, and you were offended.”
Satisfaction trickles through me, and I hum. “Would you have been interested in that arrangement?” I say. “Really, truly interested?”
Silence.
“I’ve wanted those things in the past,” I go on. There’s no point in lying; Denice’s confirmation from Saturday wouldn’t let me anyway. I wipe my hands and trail out of the kitchen, back to the living room, where I settle on the couch that still smells faintly of lemony disinfectant. “And apparently I still exude those vibes,” I go on. “So?—”
“You don’t.”
Once again, though, Aurora surprises me, and I blink. I’m not sure I’ve heard her correctly.
“What?”
She sighs, and she finally begins to sound more normal when she continues. “You don’t come off that way—casual or superficial or whatever you want to call it.”
I raise my eyebrows, running my fingers over the fraying thread of the couch as I wait.
“I mean, I guess at first you do,” Aurora admits, reluctant but not stilted or uncomfortable like before. “Because you flirt a lot. But I’ve gotten to know you a little better. And I know you’re not really like that. So…I’m sorry. Okay?”
“Apology accepted,” I say promptly. Hope tries to rise in my chest, but it’s not the bright, blossoming flame it’s been in the past—it’s tinged with pain now, and apprehension, as I remind myself that this doesn’t mean anything.
This doesn’t mean anything, as much as I wish it did.
Even so, I know—I can’t deny—that Aurora isn’t just a pretty face or someone who’s swayed my grudging interest, the way Goddard described Elabeth. Ilikeher.
“I will, however, need you to tone down your shameless flirting,” I tell her, because I think the best, most pain-free option I can hope for is a shallower version of what we were before. “I know you’re desperate for me, little vandal, but it’s simply not going to happen, all right?”
The words hurt, and what’s worse, they don’t have their intended effect; Aurora doesn’t laugh. The sound that trails down the line is one of weak amusement at best.
“Got it,” she says as I strain to listen better, trying to figure out exactly what I’m hearing in her voice. But I get nothing. She adopts a businesslike tone as she goes on. “I need to go eat a quick lunch, so I’ll let you go. I’ll be by later to do some finishing touches on your place.”
She doesn’t ask whether I’ll be here, and I don’t offer the information, because I don’t know myself. I have a feeling spending time with her will just make things worse for me right now.
