Page 137 of Cerulean Truth
"Haha,” I answered, sarcasm dripping from my voice. I almost flipped him off. Almost. His eyes narrowed, as if he knew what I was thinking about.
Then he sighed. "Didn't you ever feel overly emotional when you were back in the Human World?"
"Yes, of course, I did!" I replied wearily.
"Okay, so how did you handle emotions over there?" His tone was still a lot more patient than I was used to by now, but his question still grated on my nerves.
"I handled them quite well," I snapped.
"Gods, Emma, could you not make everything so personal? I'm only trying to help you. But I can't help you translate, if you're adamant to match your emotional level to that of a godsdamn lobster."
"Funny. You should be on TV," I responded dryly.
"Well, I do have the looks for it," he quipped unexpectedly.
He did. My heart fluttered.Asshole.
"Too bad you miss the brains," I teased, attempting to match his lighter tone.
"Did you just call me pretty but dumb?" he asked, feigning insult.
"No, not pretty, no." I winked. Then I laughed at his indignation.
"Yes, well, I certainly had to dumb things down to train you," he teased back, though slightly below the belt as truth rang through his words. Ouch.
An awkward silence followed.
"So, uhm... Do you still feel your anger?" I asked, partly trying to change the subject, partly intrigued. "You didn't... I don't know, 'work' through it?"
He stilled, then mumbled softly, almost like a confession, "The anger is always there. Always. Palpable. Never really out but rather right beneath the surface... ready for me to use."
He straightened up, his words measured and weighted. "That is, until I met you—you, who frustrates me more than anyone I've ever known. I swear, sometimes, you make it almost painful to maintain control. All the years I spent learning to channel the anger without expressing it," he huffed, "thanks to you, they’re all steadily going down the fucking drain."
I wasn't sure if he was joking to lighten the mood or genuinely trying to explain his hot-and-cold behavior toward me.
"I'm sorry." I said apologetically, and he shot me that beautiful half smile. He didn't smile often, but whenever he did, he really took my breath away.
"So, what did you do when you were feeling sad or down?" he continued his former line of questioning.
I shrugged. "I don't know. Sometimes, I'd indulge in a massive stress-eating fiesta—lots of cake and cookies. Other times, I'd turn to music, I suppose."
"Okay, so you have an emotional connection with music?" he deduced.
“Yes, yes, I do.” I looked at him expectantly.
“Okay... so go get fucking your music and try!” He was losing his patience again.
I glowered at him. “You know what,” I said with irritation, “I’ll practice on my own tonight. Thanks for the tip.”
If he was losing his patience with me, I certainly wasn't going to endure his tone.
Of course, he was annoyed by my slow process—even I was irritated with myself! But excuse me for trying to catch up on the last twenty-three years in a few weeks' time.
I gathered my stuff, attempting to suppress some harsh words I sensed brewing. I wasn't about to explode again, so I rushed out of the training room without uttering another word.
As I closed the door behind me, I heard him sigh in disappointment, yet again.
Lyingin bed later that night, I obsessedagainover how I’d gone from being the best to feeling like a failure all the time. Why was I not getting this? It was just conjuring up some emotions, something humans do on a daily basis. Why was I having such a hard time with it?
