Then he breathes out this big almost sigh.
“Just say it,” Jamison says, watching my face.
I look over at him. “What?”
“Whatever it is yer thinkin’ about. Just say it or ask it or—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, and it’s out of my mouth like a horse at the gate.
It sounds more like a demand than a question.
He stops walking.
I stare over at him and conclude quite quickly that we’re going to have another fight. It feels like a nice place for it—scenic… Every red and orange and yellow on the colour wheel is smeared across where we stand.
It’s raining leaves and smells like smoldering logs and cinnamon, and Jamison Hook blends right in because something about him feels like when you’ve walked inside after being caught in the rain and a fire’s already lit.
“Ye never asked—”
“So?” I shrug, impatient.
He gives me a look. “So for why would I tell ye?”
“Because—”
“’Acause why?” he asks, eyebrows up, and I just glare at him, angry and rearmed, ready to fight him for no reason.
“Do you often buy clothes for wayward souls?” I put my hands on my hips. “Lull them into a false sense of trust?”
“What?” he asks loudly.
“Bathe them.”
“I d?dnae bathe ye. My house fae ran ye a bath, and ye go’ into it, unassisted.”
“And then—”
“And then!” He cuts me off. “Ye left. Went back thonder to yer fucking house in a tree with the wee man and stayed there till he daen the next fucked-up thing to ye.” Jamison shakes his head, angry. “Daen ye think I’m over here waiting for ye?”
My head pulls back, offended. “No.”*
“Good.” He gives me a look. “’Acause I’m no’。”
“Yes, I know. I saw that.”
He scoffs. “Aye, yer head is cut.”
“What?” I blink.
“Yer angry at me for laying with someone else when yer thonner sleeping with him every night.”
“I’m not angry at you,” I tell him, sidestepping the very big hole in the conclusion he just made.
“Aye, y’are. Ye dae this thing with yer eyes when yer angry, where yer nose pinches but yer mouth goes heavy at the bottom, like yer frowning but yer no’。”
I blink at him a few times; my cheeks go hot. “How do you know that?”
“Because I see ye, Daphne!” he yells. “Yer annoying and yer thran? and yer a pain in the fucking arse. Ye think you ken everything, but actually ye d?nnae know a single thing, and yer fucking daft ’acause ye spend all yer heart’s time thinking about some flying man-child who I ken, for a fact, daesnae give a fuck about you.”
I glare at him, shaking my head a bit, worried it’s all true. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Aye, Bow, I do, because I give a fuck about ye.” His eyes settle on me, steady, and his jaw tightens as he says this. “And y’are all-consuming.”
He stares at me for a couple of seconds, then brushes past me, trekking up the steepening mountain.
A couple of minutes pass, and it’s a different kind of silence now. One where I know he’s angry at me, and I don’t know how to fix it, which is a feeling I don’t love.
He’s about twenty paces ahead of me when I jog after him.
“I don’t sleep with him.” I call. “Not that way.”
Jem stops walking for a second, goes still in his tracks, then he keeps going. “How then?” he asks without looking back.
“Just sleeping,” I call, and he pauses. “Asleep. I sleep next to him.” I keep going with a shrug.
Jamison looks back at me, and I give him a look.
“I’m certainly not bending him over tables.”
He squashes a smile and shakes his head. “A’m sorry ye saw that.”
“Why?” I ask, feeling a bit sad about it all over again.
He shrugs. “Just am.”
We walk next to each other now, and the mountain is starting to get snowy, though it’s not cold yet.
Jamison’s mindlessly picking plants as we climb on up, looking over at me every now and then, and I last only a few minutes before I ask the next question.
“Are you together?”
He looks over at me, and my lips are pursed as I wait for the answer, not looking at him.
He looks back straight ahead and shakes his head. “No.”