“Do you want me to be corny?” He tries to grin, showing me that double-dimpled face. “Will that make you come back inside?” He forces a chuckle before saying, “It’s not just Liz. Blesk had me at cello…”
The contradiction between that cringy joke and his serious brows pulled tight, makes me smile. “Okay. Just… I just want you to call me Blesk.”
“Okay... Blesk.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “Can we go back to the couch? Can you stop trying to run away from me?” He combs his fingers through his hair. “It kinda hurts my ego.”
A half-smile pulls at my lips, and I nod, just once.
We walk slowly back to his apartment, with him practically sheep-dogging me over to the couch.
“I won’t run,” I say.
“Your track record is sketchy.”
I bite my soft smile. “True.”
We sit down. He rubs his hands on his thighs, eyes glued to me with an intensity I’m not comfortable with, and yet— I accept.
“I remember you... Blesk.” He studies my face, shaking his head in awe. “You’re a duchess, ya know that? You were always beautiful to me, but now… Well, fuck. You have grown into this woman. I couldn’t have drawn you. What happened yesterday with Er?—"
“Don’t.” I lift my hand to stop him talking.
His jaw muscles pulse, and he closes his eyes.
“Konnor?”
He opens his eyes.
I look at the man across from me—so similar to the boy I once knew—and my throat thickens. I’ve always wondered, I’ve always hoped that what came after me was everything he finally deserved. “Did your new family give you a good life?” I clear my throat. “Have you had a good life, Konnor?”
His green gaze softens on my face. “I’ve had anawesomelife. And it’s about to get better.”
I sip my coffee, now a little cold, but I’m too nervous to ask to put it in the microwave as if a slightly cold coffee is the end of the world when we are literally reliving our trauma.
As Konnor cooks us bacon and eggs, I can see the unanswered questions filling his eyes. Questions that clearly make him irritable. He'd be terrible at playing poker; his feelings shine through his gaze.
I like that about him.
That authenticity… that truth.
He's softly spoken with me though—cautious, even—as if I'll detonate at any moment. To be fair, I did run, twice. I wonder if the first time I ran, he didn’t follow because he knew he couldn’t outrun the elevator. I never thought that through. How he probably takes the stairs. No one would wonder why because he’s an athlete. No one would guess he’s afraid of confined spaces. I feel that in my heart.
He turns the cooker off and stares at the pan for what feels like too long, then he says, "Are you okay?"
Of course, I'm not. But I'm a lot better off than Erik, who was air driven to the hospital yesterday and tailed by whoever he is working with at the moment. A tech CEO, maybe, or— I don’t want to think he’s finally got himself wrapped up in The District business. But, as soon as I saw those cars. My first thought was… the District mob.
And Erik is alone.
Will the hospital call my dad?
Will my dad call me? I sip the cold coffee. I can't help but think about whether Erik is in critical condition or if he's even awake and angry, remorseful, and?—
Forcing those thoughts down, I lie, "Yes."
He shakes his head at the pan, eyes unable to lift from the grease and bacon. He grinds his teeth, then forces out words, his voice deeper, tone darker. "Do you want to go to the doctors? To check?—"
"No! That's not necessary."
He nods at the stove as if disappointed. Does he know? Does he know that IletErik… do things to me.
