HIM
Though the first few minutes are a whirlwind of greetings and unpacking, I finally manage to catch her eye as we go inside.
We end up next to each other, me carrying Lady Anna's things and her trailing the woman herself. In a moment of excitement, I reach out and brush her hand, ever so slightly, to get her attention.
I'm practically buzzing, waiting to see her smile, hear her greeting.
That is, until she looks at me.
She yanks her hand back like she's been burned, and I've never seen her give anyone the look she is giving me now. Not like when we first met, when she would look at me with veiled disdain and annoyance. No. This is hatred. Unconcealed anger.
I freeze.
What happened? What did I do?
There's something in her eyes—more than fury. Hurt. Betrayal. As if I did something unforgivable and then had the nerve to smile afterward.
It's like I've been dunked in an icy lake.
Elliot runs into me from behind because I stopped walking, and I almost fall flat on my face. I stumble after her to keep up, but she turned away from me as soon as I hesitated.
I'm pulled away by Stephens, so I can't even follow her. Did she think I was someone else? What could I have done to make her react like that?
She won't look at me. Won't even speak to me. My hand still tingles from where she yanked hers away. I thought she'd be happy to see me. I thought I'd done something good. But now all I can think is: maybe everything is ruined. Maybe the thing I thought she wanted wasn't right. Maybe I don't understand her at all.
I rack my brain all day, searching for where I went wrong. She seems to be avoiding me, too, which is not helpful. All I see of her until dinner is the corner of her skirt, or the fading sound of her footsteps.
Dinner is no better. Even though we are sat across from each other, she dutifully keeps her eyes down at her soup.
I get so desperate I look to Adah for help. She just shakes her head, her eyebrows bunched, as confused as I am.
Amber is so distracted she drops her spoon, the clatter cutting through the silence and splashing Mr. Stephens. He gives her a long-suffering look.
Everyone keeps glancing between us, making no attempt to hide it. I even try nudging her under the table, but she's curled in on herself, as if the very thought of contact repulses her.
Even the always-unperturbed Mrs. Hobbs' face betrays her. She looks like she wants to hide in her wine glass.
I can't take it anymore.
"Would you mind passing the salt?" I finally spit out, openly staring at her. She doesn't even bother looking up before using a single finger to slide the salt towards me, as if the very possibility of our hands brushing is appalling.
I can feel my own temper rising to meet hers. What's with this treatment? I grind my jaw and eat my soup in great spoonfuls, staring daggers at Laura the whole time. Everyone practically runs from the table when Mrs. Hobbs releases us from dinner.
She tries to slip out with the rest of them, but I catch her arm.
"Let's talk," I whisper sharply.
She seems caught—refusing means talking to me, but so does going with me. I pull her as gently as possible—as she doesn't exactly resist, but doesn't make it easy either—into the mending room.
I let her go, turning to close the door. I picture her standing behind me, arms crossed and glaring like she'd rather be anywhere else. I open my mouth. Close it again. Thinking. Try to find a gentle way in.
"I don't understand—"
Thwack.
Staring at the door, fist still closed on the handle, I raise my other hand to feel my head—where whatever she just threw at me—hit.
I look to my left and see what I think is a rolled-up flat cap sitting on the ground. Not hard enough to do damage, but substantial enough to hurt.
I turn slowly, blinking at her.
The woman I see standing there looks like she's about to lunge at me—another unknown, crumpled object in her hand.
We stare each other down for a minute, me utterly confused and her fuming mad.
Her chest rises and falls in great gusts, her nostrils flared. She looks like a coiled snake, ready to strike.
"How dare you?" she hisses at me.
"Excuse me?"
"I said. How. Dare. You." She stalks closer to me, cheeks flushed. A day's worth of confusion and disappointment bubbles under my skin. I don't even know what she's talking about. Helping her? Dragging that bastard away? Getting the person who hurt her fired?
I blink at her. My heart is still catching up, thudding in my chest. I want to ask her what the hell I did wrong, but the words come out sharper than I mean them.
"I was helping you!"
She lets out a noise that's a strange combination of anger and disbelief, letting the other object fly.
I dodge easily, and it hits the door next to my head with surprising force.
I clench my fists, trying to breathe.
"I'd appreciate it if you stopped throwing things at me." My voice is still cold, but it isn't loud.
"I'd appreciate it if you grew a brain," she says back, mocking my tone.
"Nice. This is really some 'thank you!'" I scoff, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"And why would I thank you?" she growls back.
"Oh I don't know, maybe for what I did with that bastard?"
Her hand clenches like she'd like to throw something else.
"You are the most arrogant, self-centered, loathsome man I have ever met!" she practically screams at me.
"And you are the most difficult, ungrateful woman I've ever met!"
She lets out another one of those noises.
We stare at each other, breath heaving. The air between us feels scorched.
"Get out of my way."
"Fine."
"Fine!"
She brushes by me, through the door, slamming it on her way out.
I stand there for a long moment, alone in the mending room. Her projectiles lie on opposite sides of me like shrapnel.
My hands shake. My jaw hurts from clenching.
I thought I'd done the right thing.
I thought she'd be happy with me.
I don't know anything anymore.
What the hell went wrong?