by G. P McKenna
“I’m sorry, okay? I got flustered. She accused us of being in love.”
“That’s because I wanted her to believe that” Ilya hissed.
My heart clenched painfully, “really?’
“Yes,” he craned his neck to glare at me, “why did you think I kept holding your hand?”
The painful hold became a flood of warmth through my chest. I would’ve been his fake girlfriend had only he asked. Deities, I was a terrible person, “why didn’t you say so?”
“Because I didn’t think I had to.”
“Evidently, you did,” I said, relieved that it wasn’t totally my fault, “why are you so upset? It isn’t as if she reacted poorly.”
The final lock came undone, and Ilya ripped the chain off, pulling the gate open as if it had personally offended him, “how do you know how she reacted? You haven’t the slightest clue what she said to me, but regardless, it wasn’t your place to say anything at all. You need to leave.” Ilya didn’t explicitly finish that sentence with the words before I round kick you, but from his tone, they were definitely implied.
With a heavy sigh, I stepped over the threshold and looked back at him, “I suppose that means you don’t want to meet up after dinner?”
“No,” he said sharply, “I have guard duties tonight, and every other night this week.”
Without another word, Ilya slammed the gate in my face. The sound of the locks clicking back into place was almost deafening as I stared at the cold, hard metal. I guess that I’d deserved that, me and my uncanny ability to destroy everything good in my life. Not only destroy, oh no, I brought the shovel to dig my own grave. Here lies Kilco Escamilla, given an inch and ran a mile.
What a way to go.