say finally after feeling his eyes on me for the millionth time since we left the the garage. I turn to face him, and sure enough, I find his eyes trained on me. “I’m not going to break down.”
“You watched a man die,” he states like I wasn’t there too. “I’d be an idiot not to keep an eye on you after something like that.”
“I’ve watched a lot of people die. And you’re not just keeping an eye on me, you’re staring,” I point out.
“This is different.” As unnecessary as it is, his concern warms my heart. With the way he’s been looking at me, I can’t tell if it’s just concern he’s feeling. Does he regret leaving the choice up to me? Maybe he thinks I made the wrong decision. Either way, there’s no turning back.
What’s done is done.
“His decisions led him there, he got what he deserved. We have other things to worry about,” I say, quoting his own words back at him. The intensity in his gaze doesn’t relent, and I feel myself softening. “Seriously, Callum. I’m okay, and I’ll tell you if that changes. I promise.” I’m being sincere. Besides, if I do start to have a meltdown he’ll be able to read it all over my face the moment it happens.
He looks like he’s about to say something, but the sound of his phone ringing cuts him off. He’s been on the phone from the moment we stepped out of the garage, coordinating what he refers to as the ‘Harris retrieval’. Answering the call, he walks over to the other side of the kitchen to where his laptop sits on the counter. I can still feel his eyes stray over to me every so often while I preoccupy myself with my sketchbook.
When Roscoe comes in from the garage a while later, he’s changed into different clothes and he looks scrubbed clean. Pulling out the island stool, he quietly takes a seat next to me at the counter. He’s not usually the talkative type to begin with, but this silence is more cautious than usual. He’s worried about me too.
Taking a cracker from the small tray of meats and cheeses Callum placed in front of me the moment I sat down in the kitchen, I pop it into my mouth before sliding the platter over to Roscoe in offering. He reaches over and selects a green olive, making me scrunch my nose in exaggerated disgust when he tosses it in his mouth. He’s not a huge fan of olives, he’s only eating it because he knows I won’t. He makes a show of licking his fingers, making me laugh. I shake my head and turn back to my sketchbook. We sit in a comfortable silence to the sound of Callum’s deep voice carrying across the kitchen.
