thirty
Admonishments and Admissions
Bastian and I have barely spoken in two weeks. He helps repair the severely damaged books with his magic, and emerges from the shadows to give Oscar scritches, but otherwise, he avoids me…The first week was an agonizing, circular thought pattern.
What did I do wrong?
Is he mad at me?
What can I do to make it better?
The one time I asked what was going on, he lied and told me that nothing was the matter. I pushed him, and he just blooped away into a pile of ink, disappearing for nearly two days.
Then my period started and I owned up to the fact that I’ve donenothingwrong. He agreed to be fuck buddies. Any butt-hurtedness on his end is all on him.
And now it’s the day before opening. I have just enough stock that I can add little decorations artfully placed between the sections to give the illusion of fullness. I’ve been campaigning on my new social media page for a month and, while many of my followers are too far away to come into the shop, many have placed online orders.
I’ve been scanning in the last titles Bastian fixed all morning, when suddenly, he appears before me with another book in hand. I give him a fleeting glance, because looking at him too long makes my heart pound like thunder, and my pulse rush. Most of it is anger, but an undeniable portion is also desire. I want him to talk to me. I want him to want me.
Oh god. When did that happen?
“You can set it in this pile,” I say, gesturing to the books I haven’t entered into the system.
“Caitlin,” he murmurs, and the tenor of his voice is different. No longer aloof and distant, he sounds like he’s in pain.
I glance up at him.
“You’ve done nothing wrong.”
Vindication sings through my blood, but I can’t let him know how validated I feel. I turn my attention back to the books.
“Okay.”
He tsks. “I can feel your haughty delight, no matter how you hide it on the surface.”
I scoff and glare up at him. “I’ve done nothing wrong, butyouhave.”
“I know,” he says, his jaw flexing as he looks away.
I cross my arms.
“I apologize for allowing you to feel negatively after our last encounter.”
“Weird apology, but okay. Go on and explain yourself now.”
He shakes his head. “I cannot.”
“No, you can,” I say.
He glares at me.
“You have the capacity to describe what went through your head when you left me dripping in that bath after the best orgasm of my life and then refused to speak more than three words at a time to me for two weeks.”
The furrow in his brow deepens with every word.
We stare at one another in silence for a moment, and then he does it again, disappearing into an inky splotch on the ground.
“Yeah, just run away!” I roar at the walls as pins prick behind my eyes.
