Page 18 of Ladybirds

“Tell me, Princess, what were you thinking?”

Sara’s lips purse, her steps growing violent. Her foot lands in a puddle, splashing her jean-clad calves with dirty water, and she feels her fraying sense of control snap. “Would it kill you to leave me alone?”

“Possibly. Terribly kind of you to ask. And here I was beginning to worry you didn’t care,” he mocks, laying a splayed hand over his chest.

“I don’t,” she snaps, voice as tight as her grip. Her phone case groans under the pressure, knuckles white.

“So cruel,” he sighs.

She almost laughs. Almost. She can feel it, cutting and dark, clawing its way up her throat. Sara swallows it down, lets it settle in her chest like a stone. She refuses to let him goad her into embarrassing herself in public (again). “Feel free to go sulk somewhere.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I rather like our walks.” He smiles, curved and wicked. “I find them incredibly entertaining.”

She fights the urge to run back to her apartment and crawl into bed just to bask in the silence. Aside from bathrooms, her bedroom seems to be the only place he won’t enter. Whether it’s because he has at least some small amount of decency, or because he doesn’t want to face her wrath should he cross that line, she’s not entirely sure (though she has her suspicions).

He seems more amused than cowed by her temper.

Sara shoves her phone in her pocket, determined to give him nothing but a cold shoulder. It’s taken weeks, but she’s realizing that’s the only leverage she really has on him. She’s not half as “entertaining” when she doesn’t speak back.

From the corner of her eye, she catches sight of his pout a second before his lips curl into something smug. “Oh, are we giving the silent treatment another go? Pity.” He blinks in front of her, so suddenly it nearly makes her stumble to a stop. The glare she sends him is edged with threats, but his grin only widens. “I suppose I’ll have to take it upon myself to speak for the both of us. It has been such a long time since I’ve had the opportunity to discuss the Baroque period.”

Her teeth clench, jaw aching, as he falls in step beside her—filling the silence with droning facts about Bernini and Rubens. She tries to tune him out; ignore the lilting rise and fall of his voice.

It’s insult added to injury that he makes the topic almost interesting. Even more so, when she goes to her art appreciation class and has to listen to the same lesson in her professor’s dull voice.

The little cafe around the corner from her apartment is busy as always, but meeting late morning means she’s avoided the majority of the nine-to-five crowd. From a table in the corner, she spots Jen waving to catch her attention. Sara plasters on as wide a smile as she can manage, waving back as she weaves through the sea of bodies and chairs.

She sees a shadow in the peripheral, feels her heart drop, but when she looks it’s only a stranger in a charcoal coat. Sara feels as relieved as she does silly. Seth has never followed her here—he avoids any and all cramped and crowded places if he can help it. She suspects it has less to do with her comfort and more to do with his. Once, she caught his shuddered expression after a child ran through him quicker than he could blink away. A place like this—brimming with bodies and furniture—it would be close to impossible for him to avoid all contact.

She wonders, quietly and only to herself, if it hurts him.

Jen hugs her in greeting, firmer than usual, but no less comforting. “How are you?” Only Jen could ask that and mean it. It’s never just an effort to make polite conversation; she sincerely wants to know.

Yet, still, Sara can’t bring herself to burden her with the truth. “I’m holding up.”

Jen’s face falls, just a fraction, and Sara knows her best friend has seen right through her. The shadows under her eyes probably don’t help. “You look tired.”

The truth is she looks like shit and still smells a little like sage (she can’t, for the life of her, seem to be able to get it out of her clothes). “I’ve had trouble sleeping lately. Probably just nerves, you know, with classes having just started.” She gives Miles a half-armed hug before sitting across from him and sending him as honest a smile as she can muster. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he echoes, but behind his thick-rimmed glasses, he raises a dark eyebrow.

Sara knows he’s not fooled, either.

Jen sits beside her fiancé, hand linking with his under the table. “It’s the Literature class isn’t it?”

Sara appreciates that Jen understands her well enough to give her a sympathetic wince. “British Literature.”

“It’ll be fine,” Jen soothes, her nails tapping on the table. They’re teal today. “Just, maybe, actually read the assignments this time. That usually helps.”

“Jen, I do read the assignments,” Sara insists, but the look Jen sends is weighted and knowing. “Except for maybe that one time freshman year.”

“Yeah, ok,” she says, teasing. “Well, I got you an ice water, but I’m going to go get a parfait,” Jen says, pulling out her chair. “Do you want anything?”

Sara chances a glance at the line, cringing. It’s long enough for her to know Miles definitely won’t be letting her off the hook. But, if she has to suffer through his interrogation anyway, she might as well get food for it. “Can you grab me a cheese danish?”

Jen nods, turning to Miles expectantly.

He shakes his head, leaning further into the chair. “I’m good.”

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