Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
She shakes her head and dives on the glass of water the waiter just poured. “Why aren’t you eating?”
I avoid telling her that my appetite was sucked up as a result of the call I took from Lucinda. Not that I had much of an appetite in the first place. “Not hungry.” I accept my coffee and load it with sugar.
“I’ve been thinking.” She takes the straw in her drink and fiddles with the tip.
The stirring of my coffee slows as I look up at her. “About?” I prompt, uncomfortable with her hesitance.
“About how little I know about you.” She glances up at me, gauging my reaction. I don’t disappoint her. I’ve gone rigid in my chair, the reminder that there’s so much more for her to know biting me on the arse.
“Nothing much to tell,” I say quietly and instinctively. It’s not pretty and I’m less than comfortable with sharing it.
Hurt invades her face, and I hate myself for it, but before I can attempt to make it right, however that might be, she goes on. “Your bullet wound.”
I feel my teeth grind. “What about it?” I’m being a dick, but my own mood isn’t great on day three and after Lucinda’s call. Dragging up a past I try to rein in isn’t going to lighten it. My attacks have been minimal these past few days and I’m mad that Camille’s toying with my stability.
“I wondered—”
“No, Camille.” I cut her off harshly, and she snaps her mouth shut.
Silence falls and I stir my coffee until it could disappear, my hand working on autopilot, giving me something to do. It’s awkward, but not as awkward as I’ll be if I have to talk. Voices in my head yell at me, tell me not to be such a spineless coward, but until I can be sure that she won’t be as disgusted as I am with myself, then my mouth shall remain firmly closed on all things concerning me and my history. I have to stop hating myself and my past before I can move forward.
I laugh to myself. That day may never come. I loathe myself today as much as I loathed myself back then, and I’ve had years to try and wrap my mind around what happened. Camille could never be expected to understand. I’m a bastard. Plain and simple. She’ll hate me, and that’s about as painful a thought as any.
“Tuna salad?”
I look up and find the waiter hovering, a plate in his hand. Camille is lost in thought, gazing into the distance. I indicate for him to place it down in front of her and reach over, placing my hand on hers. She snaps from her daydream and smiles a forced smile, trying to convince me that my abruptness hasn’t upset her. That she understands. I should be so lucky. I retract my touch so she can eat, trying to return her strained gesture.
She starts poking at the leaves, still semi-lost in thought. “Do you have any family?” she asks quietly, throwing me a curveball. I thought we were done with questions.
I fight not to shrink in my chair. “No.” I don’t mean to sound so clipped and final. Not that she pays much attention to my obvious need to avert this conversation.
“What about your parents?” Her teeth sink into her lip, nervous.
I sigh, closing my eyes for a brief second. But I bite the bullet and relieve her of her wondering. Give her something. Not everything, just something to pacify her. “They died when I was seven. I was raised by my grandmother. She died when I was sixteen. As soon as I was old enough to sign up for the forces, I did.” I put it out there in a verbal vomit of words and pray she won’t press me further.
My prayers go unanswered. “How did your parents die?” Her quiet question is drenched in sympathy that I can’t bear.
“Lockerbie disaster.” I swallow and look away, hearing her quiet hitch of soft breath. She wasn’t even born in 1988, but she’s obviously aware of the horrific terrorist attack. Who isn’t?
“I’m so sorry.”
“Me too.” I return my eyes to her and read her thoughts, knowing she’s reached the right conclusion. I joined the forces because of my loss. To do my bit. It was my own personal peace mission. Then I fucked it all up with the help of a woman.
“And what about that woman?” she asks tentatively, like she’s heard my thoughts. My discomfort spirals.
“She’s irrelevant.”
“Irrelevant enough for you to carry her picture around?”
I feel my lips straighten, the dormant resentment inside of me showing dangerous signs of surfacing and tipping me. I’d never be able to explain my reasons for keeping that photograph. It’s fucking backward, a sick reminder, a personal torture.
“Eat your salad,” I say, pointing to her fork, telling her without saying so that that’s one thing I’m really not ready to talk about.