Page 83 of Late Bloomer
“Right. Talking about how beautiful her art is that you creep on definitely screams that you’re annoyed by her and not desperately head over heels.”
“I don’t creep! I… catch a glance here and there.”
“Mm-hmm. I also know that you’ve actively chosen to spend time with her outside of farm work, something which you avoid with every person in your life. Even your best friend,cough, cough.”
“Do I really have a choice when I was forced into living with her? What am I supposed to do? Hide under my bed?”
“You’re getting rather defensive over someone you claim not to have strong feelings for.”
“Because I am a defender of the truth in the face of your egregious lies!”
“Calm down, Elle Woods, this isn’t a trial. I’m just bringing up a few points.”
“Speculation, Your Honor.”
Diksha rolls her eyes. “I also know that girl looks at you like she’d move mountains for you. And you look at her the same.”
“Can you tell me what this look means?” I say, swiveling my head to shoot daggers at Diksha. She giggles.
“It means youloooooooveme,” she says, taking one hand off the steering wheel and squeezing my cheek between her fingers.
I pull away, sitting in sullen silence for the rest of the drive.
“I know everyone is entitled to an emo phase,” Diksha says, putting the car in park. “But I wish you had the courtesy to experience yours when My Chemical Romance was touring. Then you’d at least have an outlet for the moodiness.”
“I always feel so validated by our talks, thanks,” I deadpan, shouldering my tote bag and opening the car door.
Diksha grabs my wrist and plants a smacking kiss on the back of my hand.
With a sigh, I duck back into the car and do the same to hers. “I hate you.”
“Love ya back, babe,” she calls as I close the door and walk toward the house, the crunch of gravel as she heads down the driveway echoing around me.
I should probably go check on the plants, see how the different plots are draining, but I’m… I’m feeling so damn much—too damn much—I need to take a minute to regroup.
I open the door to the cabin, ready to make a beeline to the couch.
And immediately get a jump scare from Opal, who’s standing three inches inside the doorway.
“I have a surprise for you,” she says, oblivious to the small heart attack she gave me.
“Wasn’t that greeting enough?” I ask, hand on my chest.
Her eyes are wide, burning with energy, as she shakes her head. “I need to blindfold you.”
“What?”
She moves forward, pulling a bandanna from her back pocket.
“Absolutelynot,” I say, sidestepping her outstretched arms.
Opal’s shoulders drop, a hum of nervousness radiating off her. “Can you at least cover your eyes with your hand?” she says, biting her lip.
“Opal, what the hell is going on?”
“Please,” she whispers, leg bouncing.
It’s not fair how that look of hers unravels me, how after a week of not talking, her radiant energy lights up something in my heart.
