Page 82 of Change
“Does it matter?” My voice was rougher than I planned, but she didn’t seem bothered.
“No,” she said as she rested her cheek on her knee. “But that was the first time I ever heard you with an accent.”
Damn it. Why did we have to talk aboutthis? “Miles has an accent.”
“I know.” She didn’t seem to get the hint, and the cloud in her eyes began to fade away. “But he’s never tried to hide it before. I like it; it’s cute.”
She wasinterestedin this subject.
Fuck my life.
“What’s cute?” I was being snippy on impulse, but also, there was nothing ‘cute’ about my accent. She had to be talking about Miles.
“Youraccent,” she clarified. “Your mom doesn’t have one.”
Okay, so maybe she wasn’t talking about Miles.
She continued to watch me in that even, unnerving way and her mouth twisted in calculation. If I didn’t clarify or give her something to work with, I knew she’d probably come up with some outlandish theory of her own. While entertaining, being at the mercy of her imagination was not really something I wanted.
There was nothing remotely romantic about my life.
“Yes. I was born, and grew up for a long time, in Texas.” I sighed, turning my focus to the stream. I’d brought her here because the water—and grounds—were purer than most other places in this area. And this stream, in particular, happened to run between the faery realm and ours before it ran into the larger bodies of water. Even the vegetation was touched.
I’d hoped she’d be able to feel something, to draw upon some measure of confidence or feel a connection.
But now it was me who was reaching out with my instincts.
“My mother is from this area but met my father when she went to medical school in Houston,” I told her, making doubly sure to keep my voice even. “We alternated between both places before we finally settled down here.”
“Oh,” was her quiet reply.
And it was probably enough—it wasn’t often she asked questions, so I knew she probably wouldn’t pry further.
But the dam in my chest was threatening to break already, and something needed to give. Otherwise, I’d do something I’d regret.
Then there was this place—one of a few like it in the world—that pulled at me. Past memories ran together in a colorful haze. My skin prickled with conflicting emotions. It was both painful and exhilarating.
There’d only been one person, ever, who I could talk to. I crossed my legs and slumped forward, my hands hanging loosely over my knees.
This was supposed to be about her, and even though it was selfish of me, I couldn’t stop.
“We lived far from the city. My father is a cowboy.” The only good memories I had of the ranch was learning to ride and training the horses. “He’s also an asshole.”
She shifted and rested her head against my arm. There was a hesitance, and I half expected her to ask for clarification. Instead, as always, she acted in the most unexpected way.
“Is he a necromancer too?”
“Yes…” I didn’t see where she was going with this.
A slight pause, then, “Acowboynecromancer?”
I glanced down at her, but she was only looking at me with the utmost sincerity. What was she even imagining now? Still, leave it to her to make a horrible situation less awkward. “Yes…”
Her forehead wrinkled, and she appeared to be seriously contemplating something.
“It’s nothing like you’re imagining,” I warned her, not even needing to know the details. I already knew from experience that she was probably way off base. “Remember, we’ve been born into almosteveryculture.”
“His last name is ‘Reed’, right?”
