Chapter Twelve #2
Once they had disappeared, Oliver made his way to the large cabinet that sat at the back of the room.
Kalila trailed him, watching as he opened the door.
A box of slides fell to the floor. It remained latched shut, the damage betrayed by the sickening, muffled sound of breaking glass emanating from the inside.
Kalila winced, hard. Oliver felt nothing. Just the same emptiness he always felt when his father wreaked havoc. His attention moved to the shelf, where a violin had been haphazardly shoved in place of a microscope.
“Is that meant to be there?” Kalila asked.
“No.”
“A microscope, then?”
“Just an old brass thing. It’s fine.”
It had been his first microscope. He’d loved it, despite having replaced it long ago. It was likely sitting in a shop with other trinkets and oddities now, never to be found again.
“Oliver—”
“It’s fine,” he cut her off, kneeling to pick up the box of slides.
She dropped to her knees before him. “It isn’t fine,” she said. “That was your microscope. And all your hard work is in that box.”
“The box was an accident,” he said. “He probably didn’t put it back properly.” Oliver unlatched the case to see far more shards of glass than he’d have liked. He sighed, slamming the lid shut. “I’ll make more.”
“Is he always like this?”
Oliver’s head snapped up to see pity etched on her lovely features. “Only when he’s been to the pub.”
“Which is often?” she pressed. He noticed she wasn’t bothering to put her voice on, but was speaking to him as Kalila. The Kalila who had thought to insert herself between them, who had tried to placate his wretched father.
The Kalila who made him feel ready to take a risk, despite the fact that his own father often blamed his horrible marriage on his son. Despite the fact that Oliver could end up just like him.
“Often enough.” Oliver stood, placing the box gingerly on a nearby bench top. “At least he didn’t touch the Buron, hmm?”
“Does he usually do things like this?” Kalila’s voice was still riddled with concern.
“Not always,” Oliver said, feeling as if he were in some bubble far away from the rest of the world. “He usually calls me an idiot and goes on his way.”
“You aren’t.”
“Not smart enough to understand your theories, however,” he said in a poor attempt to lighten the mood.
She frowned.
“I’m only teasing,” he said gently.
Her frown melted away as she placed her hand on the slide box. “I can help you remake your broken slides, if you like.”
He’d told her that he wanted to see her again. Her offer was so sincere, so sweet, that he almost forgot how his father had embarrassed him.
But only almost.
“Let me walk you home.”
She snatched her hand away from the box. “Oh. I can walk myself.”
“Rafiq,” he said, already halfway across the room. “Please.”
Understanding flickered in her eyes and she joined his side in a heartbeat. He led them out of Rosewood and down a dark street toward the townhouse. They walked in silence, Kalila fidgeting with her coat.
“Oliver,” she said, breaking the silence, “I’m sorry.”
“Wasn’t I the one meant to be apologizing today?” he asked with a wry grin. “What are you sorry about?”
“Your father,” she said, blurting the words out in a rush. “I cannot imagine—”
“It’s fine,” he interjected. “And not quite something I’d like to discuss.”
Her mouth snapped shut, and he almost felt guilty for it. She went back to fidgeting with her coat.
“What will you do after the lectures are over?” he asked, wanting to change the subject.
She shrugged. “Return to Painswick, I suppose.”
Right. He’d forgotten all about Painswick.
“Perhaps I’ll come visit,” he suggested, fully expecting her to respond with a creative excuse.
“Perhaps,” she said, surprising him. “It’s rather boring, you know.”
“Boring is good sometimes, no?”
He’d take boring over Rosewood any day.
She chuckled, and he felt the sound snake its way beneath his skin. “I thought you enjoyed a good time, Booth.”
“Oliver,” he corrected. “And I’m sure you’ll show me a good time, Rafiq. Won’t you?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’m rather boring myself.”
“Such modesty,” he laughed. He wouldn’t call a woman in her position boring, that was for sure.
As they approached the townhouse, she hesitated. “What will you do now?”
A brilliant question. A valid one, and one he didn’t have the answer to.
“I’ll go find a good time, of course,” he said easily, offering her a crooked smile.
She didn’t bite, stopping to stand at the steps to the house with an incredulous expression on her face. “Oh?”
“I’m quite skilled at hunting them down, you know.”
She glanced at the door to the townhouse. “You could stay here, if you need.”
Here. With her. At night, where vulnerability was more potent, her risk of discovery more likely. He almost agreed, all at once tired of this game they were playing. Willing to allow her to back herself into this corner so they might do away with pretense.
So he could throw himself into whatever grave he’d already dug for himself, family history be damned.
He looked at her, slender and sharp featured. He knew how important her disguise was to her, the lengths she went to make sure it was perfect. He wanted her to tell him herself, if possible.
He wondered if it were possible.
“That’s good of you, Rafiq, but I’ll be just fine,” he said. “Off you go. I’ll see you in 107 tomorrow.”
She bit her lip, and he was tempted to knock her wig right off her head so he could run his fingers through her dark curls and—
“Good night, then,” she said, interrupting his decidedly inappropriate train of thought. She reached out, held herself back as if she didn’t know what to do, and then lay an awkward hand on his arm. “Try not to have too much of a good time.”
Worried. She was worried. About him.
“You have my word,” he said with mock seriousness. “In fact, I shall endeavor to have as little fun as possible.”
She scoffed, walked up the stairs and disappeared into the townhouse. He watched her until the door closed behind her.
You should have followed.