Chapter 11
BPOV
"You think I don't like you?" you asked in sincere shock.
"I'm pretty sure you don't." I replied and tried to go back to my book, clearly annoyed that you had gotten under my skin so much, so soon.
"You don't know anything." you replied exasperated.
"I know a look of disgust when I see one." I snapped and then I was ready to leave all my manners behind and confront your arrogant ass.
Your voice sounded broken, when you replied. "The disgust was not meant for you, but for myself." you said resigned. your façade somehow, seemed to crumble and a more honest, sensitive pair of eyes turned to look at me.
I was sat on a rock, with my paperback of Wuthering Heights, and you stood with plenty of distance between us.
"Why, I know I somehow caused it, but I want to place the rest of the pieces together." I decided that honesty was the best tactic. My anger evaporated when I saw the evident pain in your eyes.
"You like reading tragic love stories?" you asked as you motioned your head at the book in my lap.
"Yes, but I see what you're doing," I said, and I felt like some fever had captured my being.
"What' s that?" your voice was barely audible, just an exhaling whisper.
"Trying to change the subject." I replied getting tired of going around in circles.
"I'm starting to fear that this was a bad idea." You replied. My chest tightened at your words.
"No, it wasn't. Nobody would come in the woods, just to make an apology. Please," I pleaded for something I couldn't pinpoint. Or wouldn't admit. The ancient Greeks called it tragic irony. I called it a sick sense of humour.