Chapter 19 #2
I, of course, don’t say any of that. I remain calm and give him a polite smile instead. “It’s not really my identity, at least not by choice.”
“It’s just what you’re used to?” I can see him studying me out of the corner of my eye, trying to understand me. It makes my skin crawl, even though I know it shouldn’t. I want to be invisible like I’m used to, not under a microscope being analyzed.
I shrug again. “I…yes, it’s what I’m used to.”
“And you don’t like change,” he supplies his guess, and while he’s not far off, I know he’s still not getting the whole picture. But I’d prefer him not to, anyways.
I nod. “More or less, yeah.”
We’re back to walking on the street, weaving our way through the groups of people as we head to the bookstore. He’s quiet for a few moments before he speaks again. “There’s still more I don’t understand, isn’t there? Your mind is a multi-layered and complicated place.”
I can’t help but give a mirthless chuckle at that. You have no idea. “Yes.”
He pauses for another moment before taking a deep breath and continuing. “And if I asked you to share your thoughts, every layer of them, would you?”
That sounds like hell to me. “I suppose it’d depend on the situation.” It’s a lighter answer, better than the harsh and direct no.
“What about this situation? About the shops?” He plays with a thread that had come loose on my cardigan. “Will you share what’s going on in your head now?”
I shift my shoulders, trying to let out my nervous energy about that request. “Um. I mean…” I take a deep breath.
How to tell someone that they only think they want to know something, but they won’t like what’s actually the truth.
People always think they want to understand, but then the reality of the situation unsettles them. “It is complicated.”
I can see him flash a smile at me out of the corner of my eye. “I’m counting on it.” His smile lessens slightly when he sees I’m not looking at him. “Why does that scare you so much? Sharing your thoughts? It’s just shopping. I promise I won’t be mad.”
Lies.
Firstly, it’s never just about the surface-level topic. It’s how you deliver it, it’s all the implications. If it was just the topic, I’d never have any issues. It’s all the silent, invisible things surrounding the topics.
Money is a huge one, and the expectations he may or may not have regarding it. The expectations of the staff in those shops and other clients, the anxiety of how I’ll be perceived and treated, the unknown if they’ll even have anything for me.
The list is endless, and none of it is just about shopping. He’s right, there’s layers upon layers. And most people never see or think about them, because they’re second nature to them.
But not me. I have to consciously think through each and every one of them.
I have to make a plan of how to present myself with every single layer in mind.
That’s why I call it social chess. It’s a game they don’t even know they’re playing.
But they nevertheless demand everyone else to play, too.
It’s exhausting. I’ve tried to play other kinds of games, figuratively speaking, of course.
But when someone expects you to play chess and, instead, you put cute buttons on the board to try to not make it a game at all, they get upset.
Secondly, people promise not to get mad, and then they’re shocked by something I say or do, and then, well…
they get mad. Maybe not in the classic way, but they’re certainly upset.
Disquieted. Confused and disoriented by my social disorientation.
They don’t necessarily yell, but they’re bothered nonetheless.
“You’re overthinking again,” Alasdair says, his voice low and quiet. a subtle undertone of softness that makes me pause. It certainly redirects my attention back to him.
He seems to recognize that, because when I look up at him, his eyes sparkle with a caring awareness that I’m not expecting.
I think he’s figured out that I respond better to softness than harsh demands.
While I’m glad he knows to be soft and gentle with me, I don’t like that he’s figured it out so easily.
I wonder if he does it to manipulate me.
The truth is, I haven’t nailed down where his intentions lie, and that’s dangerous, especially with a man like him.
I tug on my sleeve before realizing what I’m doing and force myself to stop. “Maybe. Or maybe there’s a lot to think through.”
I can see him studying me again out of the corner of my eye.
Another siren wails through the street, a firetruck this time, and I wish that I put in my earplugs.
But it’s too late now. I’d have to ask to stop walking, pull off to the side to get out of people’s way, and rummage through my purse to get it out again. Ugh.
He runs a finger along my upper arm, pulling all my focus to that slight touch.
For a moment, it draws my attention enough to shut out all the noise.
His gray eyes observe this, drinking in every microexpression on my face.
“You don’t trust me enough to share yet.
” It’s not a question, but a statement. I can’t hear any displeasure or anger in his voice.
It’s as if he’s just sharing the solution to the math problem, nothing emotional about it.
I try to swallow the knot that’s suddenly formed in my throat. Yet again, I hope he wants honesty. Because it’s honesty that he’s going to get. “Yes.”
“And how can I earn your trust enough to hear all the layers of thoughts you’re working through?
” He drops his voice to a husky whisper, his finger still lightly tracing up and down my upper arm, from the base of my shoulder to my elbow.
If I was overstimulated, his touch would be a bother.
But in this moment, it’s a welcome distraction and comfort.
The question catches me off guard. I’ve never thought about it before, simply because no one’s ever wanted to hear my thoughts, not really. And honestly, why would they? I wish I didn’t have to know all the thoughts that I think. It’s a pain, really.
“Trust is a complicated thing,” I say quietly, although not even close to the husky tone he was using. “I really don’t know, honestly.”
I manage a glance at him, only to see him smirking.
“Honesty is all that I’m really asking for.
I’m glad you could share something with me, since you hold so much in.
” He leans in closer, his voice getting husky again as his hot breath hits my ear.
“I want to know you, leannán. I want to bathe in your thoughts until I’m so intimately familiar with your mind that I can orchestrate our lives by it. ”
His words feel both poetic and profound, but I can’t help but be a little suspicious of them. “And why do you want that?”
He tilts his head at me, something I notice he does when I say something that’s confusing or that he doesn’t expect. Something that misses the social cue. It’s a mannerism I’m coming to resent, even just a little, because it means I missed the mark. Again. “Why do you think, my leannán?”
As pretty as the Irish word is, knowing that it means my dear somehow feels condescending in this context. It feels like him calling me little girl or something like that.
I sigh. “I don’t know, otherwise I wouldn’t have asked. Do you want to understand my mind so that you can use it to your advantage? To manipulate me to behave how you want?”
He arches a brow. “You really don’t trust me, do you?”
A scoff slips past my lips before I can stop it. I take a moment to temper my reaction. “In all due respect, why should I trust you? You want to see the world through my eyes? Start by putting yourself in my shoes.”
His eyes widen, and I know I’ve either hit the mark I was aiming for or he’s offended. Or maybe both. While I usually avoid hurting people’s feelings, sometimes it happens when I’m trying to tell the truth. I hate having to choose between sparing someone’s feelings or being fully honest.
He looks thoughtful for a moment and stops walking. It makes my heart race with anxiety, before I realize we’re in front of the bookstore, and that’s why he stopped. He opens the door for me, his eyes searching mine for a brief moment before I tear my gaze away to step inside.
The smell of wood and books immediately melts my anxiety away. It unravels the heavy knot in my shoulders that I hadn’t even realized was there.
The space is quiet and gorgeous. The front gallery we just stepped into has tall ceilings, probably three stories high, with intricate dark wood panels lining it.
There’s a cast iron chandelier that’s almost medieval, and large, arched windows letting in light on one side of the room.
It’s a study hall, with rows and rows of tables lining the space, each with old-fashioned lamps on them.
Quite a few are filled with people studying or working on their laptops.
I can see the next room through the glass doors. It’s just as tall as this room, but much wider, and filled with shelves of books. I can’t help but hurry in that direction.
I can hear the footsteps of the men behind me following me, their fancy leather shoes making a different sound on the tile floors than my converses.
Jack and Liam are saying something to Alasdair, but I don’t know what since they’re quiet.
Frankly, I don’t care. I just want to lose myself in the world of books for a bit and put all my worries about arranged marriages, mafia violence, social chess, and loud noises out of my mind for as long as I can.
I just hope the men following me around will let me have some semblance of peace, even for half an hour.