Chapter 8 #2
That’s not the point, I say immediately, and he looks at me patiently, like he’s waiting for the point.
There’s almost a smile dancing on his mouth and it’s distracting me.
What is the point? The point is, you’ve heard some things about me, and so you feel like you know me, or you have some big idea of who I am. And you don’t.
It’s not my best retort, but at least I’m getting some words out with him this time.
I think I’m basing my opinion of you on my own interactions more than what I’ve heard, he says.
His tone isn’t defensive, more matter of fact, with a touch of mirth.
He lists out my sins, ticking each one off on a new finger as he goes.
Remember, I’ve seen you being reckless: driving dangerously, fighting with your cousin in the snow.
He raises both of his eyebrows at me and tilts his head down, that ghost of a smile trailing his lips.
Everything he said is, unfortunately, true. Can I help it that this guy is everywhere all the time, and seeing me in what are certainly not my best moments? A thought occurs to me, and it comes out of my mouth before I can think it through.
Aren’t you supposed to have, like, a partner or something?
The look he gives me is borderline mischievous. A partner? He asks slowly, that smile finally blooming in full. He gestures down to himself, to his very broad chest and says, Why, because I’m so ruggedly handsome?
Outwardly, I scoff. Inwardly I’m trying hard not to acknowledge that his face lighting up like that is making me feel butterflies in my stomach. I shove it down.
No, asshole, not a romantic partner, I mean a policing partner. They always have a buddy cop in those TV shows, I gesture towards him with my hands, And yet, you’re always skulking around here by yourself.
You shouldn’t believe everything you see on TV. And I don’t skulk, he chirps back. He takes a moment, running his hand through his thick, dark hair and looking out towards the water. His tone is more thoughtful when he speaks again.
Well, we do sometimes have to go in pairs to certain things we know might have a high risk factor.
And occasionally new recruits get paired off for training.
But mostly I’m by myself. And to be honest, I prefer it that way.
I’ve been paired up before with some really hostile people who pick fights on purpose.
That doesn’t work for me. I prefer to approach situations with curiosity.
I find it’s the best way to de-escalate.
I think about all our interactions up until now.
He always seems so curious about everything.
Again, the question comes out of my mouth before I’ve had time to think about why I’m asking it.
Don’t most cops want to be in the city? What I don’t ask is, Why are you here, in Cape Breton, living in my house?
He shrugs. I like it out here. It’s quiet, I get to spend time in nature, biking through the back trails, swimming in the summer, going out in my canoe.
He has a canoe? At the lake house? I always wanted a canoe growing up. But my mom was worried Alba and I would have either used it to get into trouble (we absolutely would have) or that we would have fought over who got to steer (we absolutely would have.)
Alistair goes on, pulling me from my racing thoughts about the canoe and the house, And I get to make connections in my community, get to know people, be helpful. You’d never get that in the city, not really.
I feel like he’s telling me the truth. God forbid he ever lied, he’d think he was breaking the law or some shit.
It bothers me that he genuinely seems like a good person.
I wonder if the tiredness in his voice is because he really is going above and beyond, trying to help everyone.
I get a flashback of Alba yelling at me in the snow: Admit it—that Alistair is perfectly nice, and you’re just being an asshole.
For some reason this only makes me want to fight with him more.
But before I can pick something to argue with him about, Alistair asks, Why don’t you like me?
There’s no harshness to his tone, but my chest constricts with anxiety at the question. His head is tilted to the side and there’s that curiosity again, shining in his green eyes, which do a quick scan of my face. It’s like he’s trying to figure out if I’m lying before I even open my mouth.
I feel so put on the spot that I blow right past defensiveness and straight into vulnerability. I cross my arms over my chest, subconsciously trying to protect myself.
You can’t just ask somebody that. I’m trying to buy myself time and we both know it.
Sure I can, he nods. Just did. Again, that easy, interested tone. I feel like I could tell him I hated his guts and he wouldn’t care—but he would challenge me on why, exactly, that was the case.
I don’t have an answer for him, so instead I ask, Why don’t you like me?
I never said I didn’t.
You’ve called me reckless—a number of times, I might add, I say, trying not to let my hurt feelings show, but believing I’ve finally turned the tables on him for once. That’s not really a word I would use for someone I liked.
You don’t like being called reckless? He pauses, tilting his head slightly again before stepping a bit closer to me.
I have to force myself to stand my ground.
His voice is lower now, almost gentle, as he ducks his head down to try and get me to meet his gaze.
But you are a bit of a reckless, wild thing. Are you not?
My head is spinning. I try to find a way to spit out why that word bothers me so much.
There’s a difference between reckless and thrill-seeking, I say.
Reckless implies a disregard for other people’s safety.
Like, you don’t care if what you’re doing also negatively impacts other people.
I might not care about my own safety so much, but I do care if my actions hurt someone else in the process.
He stares down at me for a few seconds—god he’s tall—and I hate feeling like he’s filing away all this information for his Official Police Report on Florence MacLeod.
You really don’t like that word, he says, scanning my face again, before nodding slowly, Noted.
A tiny voice in the back of my head says he’s probably noting it so he doesn’t use the word again, even if he thinks it’s true. I try not to have a reaction to that thought. Why would he spare my feelings when he doesn’t even know me?
He pauses for another second before asking, Is it because I bought your house?
Your house. My heart nearly bursts through my chest. I can’t help but wonder how long it’s been since he connected the dots. Did he know when he first pulled me over that day? And is it because he bought the lake house that I find him so irritating?
No, I say, not wanting to talk about the lake house at all, especially not with him. I feel the stubbornness, the agitation, radiating from me. He laughs as if he feels it too.
Ah, he says, smiling at me now and snapping his fingers. I get it. This is just like The MacNeils & The McNeils.
What? I have visions of tackling him in the snow, the same way I did Alba.
He nods sagely at me, Yep, that’s it. You decided that band was shite at some point, and god forbid you open your mind to it now. You made up your mind years ago about them, and you won’t waver from it. And now, you’ve done the same thing with me.
He holds up his right index finger. I gave you one speeding ticket, the lesser ticket, I might add, which you more than deserved for how fast you were driving.
That, coupled with the fact I was the one who bought your house, has made me some kind of villain to you.
And with very little information, you’ve made up your mind, and you’re sticking to your guns.
I don’t say anything, I can only glare up at him, my mind stupidly blank again. That tiny voice in the back of my head pipes up and says, He’s right, before I shut it down.
As if he can see the thoughts warring in my head, Alistair shakes his head and says in that low voice, So stubborn. He watches me for another second. He has no idea how stubborn I can be.
Life’s no fun if you’re stuck in your ways, fire sprite, he says as he flicks a strand of hair off my shoulder.
I screech at him, smacking his hand away.
He sort of chuckles, but it’s not a real laugh.
Maybe someday I’ll change your mind. But you’d have to let me in, even a little bit, ‘Just Florence.’
With that, he walks back to his cop car, leaving me alone and freezing on the beach.