Tristan had beautiful eyes. It was a stupid thing to think, in the middle of a row, but as they swam into focus through her tears, intensified by the pressure of his hand around her wrist, she could not help but admire them. Besides their color, they were earnest, and deep – and Tristan was too, she knew. How had this gone so far? Neither of them had really done anything wrong; she was just jealous, and he was just oblivious, and she had triggered this nonsense with her pettiness. She was terrible.
Her lower lip quivered silently.
Alethea didn’t know what she wanted from him. Or rather, she didn’t know what she wanted from him that she could say out loud. Her desires were a confused jumble, made even more tangled by Mordred’s assessment of her and his totally incongruous actions. What a silly, lovesick child she had become! But she could not blame Tristan for that – she’d been totally unfair, and he was too young to understand.
Too young, too young, too young.
She threw her arms around him compulsively, choking back a sob.
“I’m sorry, Tristan. I don’t want to fight with you, either.” Her voice shook, but she managed not to fully cry, despite having transformed into a veritable fountain of tears since the incident on the beach. The beach. “I think...I think I’ve just been a mess, since what happened in the cove. I’m not myself, and I’m so sorry.” A partial truth, to cover up a much harder one, that he surely didn’t want to hear. “Please be patient with me. I just need time.” Time to heal, and time to move on. Her fixation with him was impossible. He’d never want her, never care for her like she cared for him.
But he loved her as a friend, and that was precious, too.
She released him slowly, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, smiled apologetically. “I, um, I’m sorry for grabbing you like that, too. You must think I’m so strange...”
|
|
