The Painting

#46 Long Answer Part 1 - Freagra Fada Cuid 1

"May, darling,"

I flinched slightly as Grace's silky voice wove through the otherwise quiet kitchen. My back was to her as I scoured the griddle, who'd fell victim to multiple baked on splatters after a particularly busy breakfast rush.

I didn't turn to meet Grace as she slide quietly beside me placing a hand on my shoulder. "Are you free to go to the market, we're running low on a few things and I heard the asparagus guy is coming to town today."

She wiggled her eyebrows at the thought of fresh asparagus. Her painted fingers prodded my sides playfully and I flinched away.

"Could you get Dania to do it? I'm busy." I focused on a burnt piece of batter clinging on the curve of the griddle.

"I suppose." Grace gave me a once over. "You know I have some cream for those bags under your eyes. Have you been sleeping alright?"

"Fine."

She huffed at my simple response and placed her hands on her hips. I braced myself knowing that I was about to be treated to a class A Grace scolding. "May," She began in a tight voice, but instead she softened her stance letting her arms fall from her prominent hips and reach out to brush a piece of hair away from my face.

"Is there something going on?"

I managed a laugh. "No."

"Well, you haven't left the B&B or your cabin in.. well in a while." She stumbled over the time as though she hadn't come to the conclusion that my deviant behavior began the minute I returned from my trip with Lyle.

It'd been three weeks since I'd left her on the train and in those three weeks I hadn't received a single phone call, not one letter to let me know she was alright. Even a text would've been good enough.

Did I want her to come back?

Short answer yes, long answer no.

My simple thought was misleadingly selfish. At first I believed I missed her and that she missed me. I convinced myself that I missed the way she ruffled her wavy hair and how the freckles in her eyes seemed to light up as she watched me. For the first week of being back thoughts of her drove me crazy, contributing to my anxiety.

On Monday my mindset changed and it was clear to me that I didn't miss Lyle the independent person, I missed our shared experiences – not that I was intent on reliving them. In my current state getting through the day without shuddering as I passed room # 9 - where Smith and Jones trapped us on what should've been a relaxed night around the bonfire - was a victory.

I needed someone to talk to who understood, someone who was in the same boat – or at least in the same lake. Lyle filled that position, sure she didn't know about my mother, but she'd understood it.

Here I was going through the motions of daily life that had once brought me content, only now I had a weight on me. One that forced me to drag my feet, like a giant boulder I balanced on my back and somehow managed to conceal.

I didn't need to talk necessarily, I just wanted someone around who knew. Someone who could see the surface of the bumpy rock that carved a home between my shoulder blades.

It was selfish.

Maybe it wouldn't be if I felt I still cared for her. I'd disposed of that nonsense a long time ago, chalking it up to endorphins and adrenaline. All that I said to myself and all that I imagined she felt while her freckled eyes captured mine weren't real. I felt silly now, how could I've been so blinded that my body and mind were latching onto her- was it a survival instinct? Subconsciously I sensed her protectiveness and projected that as affection – mixed with my own desperate want of it.