He’d always come out once he and Steve were done, tease me a little about my obsession with doing slasher fic based on a very popular boy wizard series, and then settle in one of the patio chairs.
He'd lean back with his sweet tiger body, and look up at the sky with this kind of quiet dreamy look that always fascinated me. Way more than figuring out how to get grown-up wizard boy to kiss his trusty sidekick, if I'm being honest.
He’d point out constellations. He had a gift. Just tracing stars from one to the next, and knowing them by name, showing me the patterns and pictures and dreams people have known for ages in the sky.
Once, he told me that no matter where he went in the world, he’d always try to find the stars that made him remember home.
I wonder if he still looks at the stars, now.
And I wonder why – seriously, why? – my heart leaps, at the sound of him coming home. Wonder if it’s more than just sheer relief that he’s back to keep the place safe because I’m apparently not that great at it.
It’s not home, I remind myself, watching the Impala ease around the last turn and pull up to the house, my stomach sinking. Not your home, anyway.
I don’t really know how to tell him about the prowler. Before that it had been an uneventful day, save for the occasional glimpse of Riker letting me know he was around – unfortunately out of reach at just the wrong time.
Besides that, it was just me, my notebook, and the first good writing day I’ve had in a long, long while. Maybe once I report in that I didn’t destroy Landon’s mini-McMansion, he’ll be a little less hostile.
He looks haggard and harried, as he steps out of the Impala with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and slams the car door shut, barely sparing a glance at the third car in the drive. I push myself up with one last scratch behind the cats’ ears and head over to the edge of the balcony, folding my arms on the railing and leaning over.
“How’d it go?” I call down.
He stiffens like I've just slapped him, jerking and looking up. A peevish glare pins me in place.
There’s something about it that just doesn’t have the power to hurt this time. Not now. He looks more like a tired man at the end of his rope than that asshole who hates my guts. I almost want to laugh, but I don’t think he’d give me a chance to explain that it’s affection, not mockery.
He doesn’t give me a chance for anything, really, when all he does is grunt, stalk up the front steps, and then inside, the door slamming in his wake.
I glance at the cats, who tense restlessly, ears perked, and grin. “Come on, boys. Let’s go welcome Daddy home.”
Yeah, I know. I know.
Don’t leave me home alone for a day with a vivid imagination, two on-page sex scenes to write, and an old crush simmering in my veins.
With the cats trying to trip me every step of the way, I head inside and down the stairs. I catch him just as he’s dumping his duffel bag on one of the kitchen barstools.
We always seem to meet in the kitchen, which feels weird. I think of kitchens as places where families come together, but it’s not hard to tell he doesn’t see me as family anymore.
I put on a smile anyway. While he was gone, I decided that no matter how much of an asshole he’s being, I’m going to be as nice as I can.
Kill ‘em with kindness.
That’s what my mom always says, speaking from years of experience overseas, dealing with different people. Then again, my mom’s feisty enough to kill ‘em with a frying pan upside the head, too, but let’s hope I don’t have to resort to measures that drastic to get Landon to actually talk to me.
“So,” I ask, lacing my hands together behind my back. “Rough time? You don’t look happy.”
He shoots me a dark look. His brows are thunderheads. “Why should I be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Big job, great paycheck, and it couldn’t have been a disaster or I’d have seen it on TMZ.”
“So you watch trash,” he grunts sardonically. “Good to know.”
Laconic asshole.
I grit my teeth, just knowing his parents didn’t teach him manners this bad. I don't know where it comes from until I remember, oh, wait, actually, I do.
Okay. Whatever. So the Polly Pocket happy princess act isn’t working on him. Guess I’ll just have to level with him straight.
“Landon.”
He doesn’t answer me, pointedly looking down as he digs in his duffel bag. I sigh, hands on my hips.
“Landon.” This time, it comes out sharper.
His shoulders twitch. His jaw works, and then he grudgingly looks up at me. I stare at him, but staring him down is like trying to win a stare-off with a cat. Those flinty blue eyes give away nothing. I frown.
“How long are we going to do this?” I ask.
“Do what?”
“This. Freezing me out. Why can’t we at least try to be friends? We’re two adults. We’re past age old childhood grudges. Don’t we have it in us to start over? Aren't we better than this?”
I don't know the answer. Part of me wants to yell at him. Part of me wants to plead. Part of me wants to be blunt and say I didn’t tell. I didn’t tell anyone about the journal, no matter what you wrote – but I’m afraid if I do, he’ll confirm it. He’ll confirm murder. The blood on his hands, and I’m not sure I can stand to know without vomiting.
I sigh, long and slow. “Don’t you remember the nights we used to stare at the sky together? Remember telling me about the stars?”
“I remember being a kid. And I’m not anymore. Some of us grew up.” He glowers at me, cold and stern and authoritarian. Just a stupid, dangerously handsome dick. “Maybe you should try it, instead of still being that little girl who never should’ve gotten so attached.”
To me, he means. That part, he leaves off, but it softens nothing.
I can’t say anything. Every time I think he can’t reach a new low, he proves me wrong.
Every time I think he can’t still hate me, he proves that he does.
And every time I think I might get him to crack, he turns around and walks away from me – just like he’s doing now.
Damn it all. I should probably warn him.
“Landon...”
He stops, back stiff, and stands there, ignoring the mewling cats around his ankles, his fists clenched. He’s not going to say anything, I realize. Just dandy.
“Dallas is in the living room,” I say, blurting it out.
“What?” He whirls on me, eyes blazing. “Fuck. Why wasn’t that the first thing you told me?”
“Well you sure didn’t seem that interested in having a conversation,” I shoot back.
“The hell is he doing here?”
I don’t know why I’m so surprised by the volcanic reaction. I guess everyone’s the enemy now, even polite, pleasant men who come running to the rescue.
I fold my arms over my chest. “He said you were expecting him for a meeting. And he chased off someone who’d been skulking around the house. He did us a favor.”
“Favor? That man?” His eyelids flutter, the eyeballs behind them suddenly on fire. If it’s possible for Landon to grow even more intense, he does. “Who? When?”
“This afternoon. I didn’t get a chance to see who. They were just slinking around in the bushes. Some weirdo. When Dallas pulled up and got out of his car, they ran. All I saw was a hoodie. I thought I should talk to you before filing a police report.”
“Fuck!” He drags a hand over his face, then points at me firmly. “Stay here, Kenna.”
“Excuse you? I’m not one of the frigging cats, you know.”
“Yeah?” he bites off. “My mistake. Because they don’t listen, either.”
Then he turns and stalks off.
Not even an are you okay? Or a were you scared? Or a thank God Almighty you're fine.
Just his stiff, tense back, rippling with wild muscle, disappearing into the living room.
Leaving me alone, wondering if maybe I never really did grow up.
And if Landon Strauss has grown completely out of my reach.
*
Confession time: I'm eavesdropping.