Steelhands - Jaida Jones [45]
“Grinds my guts,” I said.
“I just can’t imagine there being any connection,” Royston said, sounding disappointed. I’d’ve admitted it: I was, too. “I had hoped … Well, never mind. At least you’ve decided to tell the other airmen about the possibility. If you’re sure that won’t make matters worse. Haven’t you even wondered about it?”
“Not for a second,” I said. “It’d be the same as dragging my mother out of the grave, slapping a new arm on her, a new leg maybe, then having her walk and talk and make breakfast for me again, just like when I was a schoolboy.”
“What a horrendous picture that is,” Royston said, “but I do think I see your point. Well, I’m sorry, in any case, for intimating I had some piece of the puzzle when it seems I really did not.”
More information to clog up the necessary stuff I was trying to keep in order, I told myself. And wasn’t that just Royston’s style? “Well, thanks,” I told him. “It’s always so refreshing, talking to you.”
“The same for you,” Roy agreed. “Now, what about dessert?”
FOUR
TOVERRE
I was being most outrageous, but I had followed him out of the classroom all the way down the ’Versity Stretch, and now we were sitting in the same café. Together, but not together, for he had not yet noticed me.
Laure had told me when I suggested it, in no uncertain terms, that she wasn’t going to be a part of this, not even for a second. Following people to gape and gawk at them and indulge in dirty thoughts was wrong, and that was where she drew the line, apparently. She had no idea that my thoughts really were as pure as the driven snow.
I simply wanted him to notice me.
And notice me he would, even if it took me weeks more of following him just this way, mapping out the places he stopped, noting what windows his gaze lingered upon. I would know everything that he liked, would have myself familiar with every shop and bookstore that he preferred. I would make note of and subsequently read the books he carried under his arms, and—at long last—I would gather up the courage and determination to speak with him, armed with the necessary tools to impress him.
That was really all I desired. Laure would understand eventually that there was absolutely nothing dirty about that.
There was, however, something very dirty about the table in front of me. I looked around for the waitress, to inform her she had done a very poor job of cleaning the table after its prior inhabitants, but she was nowhere to be seen. I inched my chair very carefully around the table and away from the coffee stain, then allowed myself another—very daring—look at the object of my affections.
He was waiting for someone, that much was clear. I’d spent enough time watching people that I knew the signs not of impatience but of private longing. Every time the door opened, for example, he cast a casual glance around the café, not anxious—his company was not late, then—but hopeful. He had that air about him, like someone on his birthday, alive and bright with anticipation. I had never seen him like this before though I hadn’t yet had that many opportunities to observe him outside the classroom we shared. Then, he seemed somewhat intimidated by the large crowd, reminded of us only when he had cause to look up from his notes.
It was on one of these moments, the door opening and a gust of cold wind blowing in and his eyes lifting from his book, that I hoped he would catch sight of me—as unlikely a possibility as it might have seemed to anyone else. Being of an amiable nature, he would no doubt strike up a conversation, and perhaps even invite me to sit at his table, whereupon I would do my best to impress him with how well—not to mention how quickly—I was adapting to Thremedon’s crowded streets. That was my ideal,