11 Chapter 11

Why tenderness, though? It looked as if he wanted to leave Buffy’s side and pull me into his arms, to stroke my hair like he’d been doing to her, only with more gentleness and care, as if being afraid of breaking me. But much more than a wish, it was a need. Suddenly it wasn’t as thin as before. It had thickened. Why? I wondered once more. He’d never shown anything more than contempt, indifference, or boredom when he’d been around me. Yes, there was the occasional banter and taunt spiking between us, which sometimes brought more lightness to the atmosphere and sometimes more tension (fully packed with hatred). Not to mention those studious looks of his were just a way of trying to decipher my psyche for his peace of mind—and ego. Once he could look through the walls enclosing my inner-self, affecting me would be easier, and that was his main goal with me. It was all about power and self-confidence.

Yet, that look of deep kindness seemed genuine. His will to hide it under that stiff analytical face told me so. And I couldn’t stop comparing it to that warm look Dad had given me when he’d found my eight-year-old self crying in the stairs after being grounded for eating a whole bucket of chocolate ice cream, or when Mom had eased herself next to me in our old porch swing after I’d broken up with my first boyfriend. Ian’s look had that same warmth. The only difference was that I wasn’t mourning or crying. Crying. The horror of the realization pounded in my head as with a hammer. He’d seen me crying!

As if someone had pulled a switch on inside of me, I turned and shoved back the leg rest with a loud snap, ending Buffy’s serene sleep. “What…” She jerked up her head in a daze as I stood up. “Where are you going?” she asked with a sleep-slurred voice, her eyes still at half-mast.

“Open your eyes sleeping princess, the movie ended.” I pointed my hand to the credits sliding up in the black background. “I'm free to go now.”

She looked confused at the screen. “Oh, well, I guess—no, wait! Why are you in such a hurry?” she asked before I would storm away. She eased herself up, stumbled a little when she crossed the room, and flipped the light on. “Is there something you’re not…” She trailed off and frowned.

“What?” I said after not getting any sign of follow-up from her part, my muscles itching to scram.

“Were you crying?”

Perfect. Just what I needed. More humiliation. “Puhlease, that was just yawning. The movie was…terrible.”

“Okay, I know for a fact that’s a lie,” Ian suddenly said next to Buffy.

Don’t let the guard down. “Do you?” I said, challenging him with my chin high.

He twitched up the corners of his mouth into a lazy smile, erasing all trace of tenderness from the edges of his face. He had a full smartass stand now. “The cymbal-clapping monkey tore you to pieces.”

“Oh, God, now I'm really mad I slept through the whole movie,” Buffy added with her shoulders down. “It’s my curse with musicals.”

“It did not,” I told Ian. “You know, I just remembered that article on schizophrenia I read last week on some blog. It said artists share several key traits with schizophrenics—and some other thing I definitely won’t tell,” I said, widening my eyes at the memory. Ian pulled up his eyebrows. “Anyway, I thought it was crazy because I’ve never had any kind of bizarre stuff, like hallucinations or delusions happening to me.” I inwardly paused at those words. Something bizarre had, indeed, happened to me, only I couldn’t remember exactly what. “You on the other hand,” I continued without hesitation, “have turned upside down my beliefs. You’re clearly having lame visions.”

“You mean…visions of you crying over a wretched phantom and a clapping monkey?” he said amused.

Had I said something funny? Was my statement supposed to be funny? Suddenly I wanted to erase that stupid smile from his lips with my knee up in his manhood. “No doubt you’re on the edges of sanity,” I said with a scowl that would’ve brought an entire army to its knees. But Ian’s grin only got wider. Bastard.

“First of all, I don’t think it’s lame. I think it’s cute.”

Cute? Ugh, it would’ve been better if he’d said I was Hitler, because that word screamed ‘weak’ all over it.

“And sorry to disappoint you, but my mind is just fine.”

“Which means,” Buffy continued, “that those weren’t crazy visions. Besides, who do you think I am, Dafne? You can't fool me. I'm, like, your other half.”

“Oh, I can fool you fine.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “I’ve done it so many times that it’s embarrassing.”

“Maybe,” she cocked her head. “But the red on your eyelids and nose just killed you. And let’s not talk about how bright the indigo in your eyes is. You cried, admit it.”

“I didn’t! Stop pushing.”

“Don’t her eyes look more surreal, like if she was wearing colored lenses?” she asked Ian, ignoring me.

He paused for a moment, losing some of the amusement on his face. “They always do,” he finally said, locking his eyes with mine.

I didn’t know if I wanted to shoot at him one of my killer scowls once more or…or something.

“Yeah, but they get even more surreal after she cries,” Buffy insisted.

I got the point. This wasn’t my win, better to let it go instead of sinking myself deeper into the humiliation well more than I’d already had. “This conversation is completely useless.” I sighed with a shake of my head, unlocking my eyes from Ian’s. “I’ll leave you two to your love nest. Just keep the R-rated stuff out of the house if you have some dignity—and in case you didn’t catch my telepathic message Ian, the ban goes straight to you. I’m out.” I spun and burst out from the living room before he would start with the smart-ass comments. One more second there and a new intense wordplay would’ve exploded.