She makes a movement that you think was intended to be a shrug, but she’s still startled from you moving your hand, and she just ends up bumping her head directly against your shoulderblade. “Ow,” she pouts. You pat her head sympathetically with your free hand. “Yeah, I guess. It was a while ago. I was only eight at the time, so I don’t really remember much, and it was in the middle of winter. Mostly, it was really cold. And Dad wouldn’t let me go ice-skating.” She laughs quietly. “The ice was too thin on the lakes, he said. I thought he was just being a worrywart, but I couldn’t get out of the hotel to go down and test it for myself.”
“Ice-skating is fun.” You nibble at your lip, considering. Maybe you could get away with slipping a finger under Amy’s waistband. But then, your hand is only at the side of her waist, not at the front, where you could actually do something fun enough to justify making her uncomfortable. It’s probably best to leave your hand where it is. You’ve pushed your luck far enough for today anyway, you think. “I used to fall down a lot when I tried, though, back when Pollet’s was still open. I can be really awkward sometimes,” you laugh softly.
Amy nuzzles your neck, the movement dislodging enough of her hair to cause it to cascade down your front. Almost unconsciously, you reach up and begin stroking your hands through it. “I was never very good at it.” She reaches up with the hand not covering your own, a move that looks awkward even from here, and pulls her hair aside quickly to peer around. She doesn’t seem inclined to adjust her posture at all, though, and evidently sees nobody, because she lets her hair fall back and settles back down. When she speaks again, her voice is forcedly casual. “We could go to the rink back in town. There’s a new one there that opened last year. They offer a couples discount, if your other girlfriends wouldn’t mind?”
Huh. You didn’t know another rink had opened. Then again, you’d been avoiding town as much as possible by that point. “Nobody will mind,” you reassure her. She nods, though not very confidently. “If you’d like to go, then we can go. I’m pretty busy, but we can find a time that works.”
“Okay.” Amy manages to shrug properly this time, completely avoiding hitting her head. “Or we can do something else. I don’t mind.” You can’t see her, but you get the impression she’s smiling.
Before you can respond, the loud sound of a cup jangling on a metal platter echoes from outside your little partitioned area. Amy hurriedly pulls herself off your shoulder and straightens, though there’s only so much she can do when you have her pulled against your side—and, to your credit, she doesn’t seem inclined to try and pull away, rather than just make her posture less intimate.
Carol makes her way around the partition a few seconds later, bearing in her arms a large circular platter, atop which is piled three wraps covered in aluminium foil and three large drinks. She doesn’t look at either of you, concentrating on placing her feet appropriately, until she’s standing in front of the table and has placed the platter on the table. Finally, she looks down at the two of you with a hint of a smile on her face.
“Enjoy,” she says neutrally as she pulls out one of the chairs across from the two of you.
Well. Perhaps you can’t enjoy the same intimacy with Amy while her mother is sitting across from you as you were before, but this is still a pleasant way to have lunch. And it’s quite a pleasant lunch. You’ve never had a black bean wrap before, but contrary to what you’d assumed from the name, it’s not literally a pile of boiled beans inside a wrap. It’s actually got quite a few different ingredients in it; you can taste lettuce, carrot and corn immediately, and there’s something mildly spicy in there as well.
Amy makes a face after her first bite of her wrap. You give her the ghost of a smirk around a mouthful of your wrap, then quickly swallow it so you can taunt her with, “Too spicy, Amy?”
She gives you a sullen look, but she doesn’t respond—can’t respond—until she takes a big mouthful of her drink and swallows it. Then she pouts at you. “There was a lot of jalapeno in that,” she protests. “I can hold my spicy food, it was just a lot spicier than I expected!”
You continue to smirk at her. “Sure you can,” you say, raising your eyebrows in what you really hope is a taunting expression. “I’ll have to keep this in mind, I think.” You cackle a little, imagining it.
Amy’s mouth sets into a stubborn, determined line. “You try a bite then,” she says darkly, though there’s a slight smirk to her face as well. Your own smile instantly disappears. Oh dear. “Come on, Taylor. It’s not that spicy, right?”
You eye the wrap with a measure of trepidation. Damn it. Why do you ever open your mouth? “I…” And you can’t back down now, at least not without conceding the argument to Amy. Damn it. You look up at her, as though pleading for mercy, but she just stares back down at you, unyielding. The wrap lies before you, your doom proffered. “Okay,” you whimper.
Across the table, unseen by either of you, Carol just rolls her eyes and lets out an amused sigh.
You take the wrap from Amy, holding it uncertainly in front of your face. Teasing Amy like this was a bad idea. You’re pretty sure she’s talked about enjoying spicy food before, and regardless, despite what you might claim to other people, you’re not very good with spicy foods yourself.
There’s only so long you can delay taking a bite with Amy staring unflinchingly at you, though. You let out a mournful noise, then finally take a bite of it from the same corner Amy had.
It’s spicy enough to make your eyes water, and you immediately hold the wrap out for her to take it back. You struggle to chew it, and by the way Amy’s smirk is growing wider, you’re pretty sure she can tell. But still, you persevere, managing not to spit it out all over the table in an effort to relieve your mouth of the burning sensation. You even manage to delay reaching for your coffee to take deep mouthfuls until after you’ve swallowed the mouthful of the wrap.
Amy leans her arms on the table and rests her chin in her hands, giving you the widest smile you’ve seen her make to date. “Too spicy, Taylor?” she asks, her voice thick with glee. You can only offer her a wide-eyed mournful look as you hold your coffee up, taking sips of it and swishing the liquid around in your mouth in a doomed effort to try and relieve the burning. Across the table, even Carol is giving you an amused look.
That wrap is spicy. You let out a pathetic little whine, the only sound you can make. Amy continues to look proud of herself for a few moments, before finally letting out a quiet giggle and leaning over to give you a hug. “There, there,” she says, still fighting back laughter. “I did tell you it was spicy.”
You nod miserably, still sipping at your coffee. The burning is slowly receding, although you’re not sure if the coffee is actually helping or just spreading the spices over your tongue. Still, either way, you haven’t recovered quickly enough to respond with anything except another aggravated pout, which only draws more soft giggles from Amy.
Not that you mind. Amy’s laugh is really cute.
The next couple of hours pass in a blur. After finishing your lunch—or as much of it as you could; although the burning in your mouth had subsided after a while, they had filled those wraps to the brim, and a guilty glance at the menu had shown that Carol had indeed paid a suitable amount for such an exorbitant amount of food—she bundles the two of you back in the car and drives you to a strip mall, a good eighteen minutes away from the café.
The first three bookstores Carol takes you two are a disappointment, insofar as you’re willing to call any bookstore a disappointment. You can feel her own disappointment at the meagre selection provided, as well, although you’re not sure why she’s feeling so disappointed when she spends most of her time waiting by the counter and perusing each store’s collection of trinkets. She only makes a token attempt at browsing the store’s wares in the second store you go to, and gives that up quickly enough when she finds the store’s selection of self-help books to be quite lacking. You think.
It’s nearing four thirty when the three of you approach the final bookstore in this particular strip mall. You can only note the store’s opening hours glumly; 9:00 a.m. — 5:00 p.m is embossed upon the door in peeling letters, Monday to Saturday, and it closes at noon on Sundays. The same has applied to most of the stores you’ve bothered to look at, of which there have been quite a few.
And sure enough, Carol confirms your thoughts. “This will have to be the last one we visit today,” she says, her voice rich and smooth. She actually does feel a little disappointed, though no traces of the emotion have made their way to her face.
Amy grimaces, but nods. “I’m going to go and see if they have anything in their historical section.” You glance around, grimacing. The historical section is at the far end of the store, far removed from the fiction section. Seeing your grimace, Amy laughs softly, patting you on the arm. “You don’t have to come with me. We’re not going to be here for long, and we can always talk during the car trip.”
“I’ll come,” you protest, but even as you argue you’re not really sure why you’re arguing. You don’t have an overbearing interest in history, and particularly not right now, given how much study you’re going to be doing on the topic for Sophia in the near future.
Amy must have caught on to your reluctance, because she just pats you on the arm again. “No, it’s fine,” she repeats firmly. “I’m not really looking at anything that interesting anyway, I’ve just been a bit curious about some Renaissance scholars since my homework mentioned them.”
You grimace. Now you really just want to go with her, but she’s making such a big deal about it that you can’t argue without making such a big deal of it that her mother might overhear. Instead, you let out a mighty sigh. “Fine,” you grumble. “I’ll just be over here if you need me, okay?”
She raises her eyebrows. “Okay,” she says, though her eyes soften after a moment as she searches your face. “Okay,” she repeats, softer this time. “Thanks.” And with that, she turns and begins moving over to the non-fiction section.
You drag your eyes away after a moment—her jeans aren’t the tightest, but they still do a lot to emphasize her figure, and you never really get much of a chance to enjoy it with her always following you around—and move over to the fiction section, still feeling a little disgruntled. It’s completely irrational, you know. You do know that. It’s just still annoying to not be around her on your date with her.
Still, you have no interest in the Renaissance outside of school assignments, so however unjustly annoyed you feel, it’s not enough to actually drag yourself over to stand by her side for the next half an hour while she browses books on the topic. Instead, you begin looking aimlessly through the books stacked on the shelf in front of you.
Your sulk lasts for a good three and a half minutes before someone coughs by your side, dragging your attention over to them. Carol is standing beside you, a bemused look on her face as she glances between Amy and yourself. She waits for a moment, her mouth tightening as thin strands of curiosity drape themselves over her, before she turns to look at the same shelf as you.
Seconds pass, and you can see—almost physically, though in reality through the edges of your power—Carol gathering herself to try and speak. A spark of worry emerges in your gut—shit; did she see something that would make her notice what’s between you and Amy?—but before it can grow large enough to worry about, she shakes her head with a groan, barbed wires of irritation winding themselves in around the curiosity she’s wearing like a cloak. Then she looks directly at you, trying to affect a casual air. “Have you found anything interesting?”
You give her a small, confused smile. “Um, not really,” you reply, looking back down at the book in your hands. You haven’t even turned to read the blurb on the back, but The Amulet of Samarkand isn’t a title that inspires much confidence in you. It might still surprise you, you guess. “Not in here, at least. That first store we went to had a lot of really interesting books, though.”
She nods, glancing over at Amy. “It did have quite a broad collection,” she says. Irritation tightens around her, making you feel almost uneasy enough to want to take a step backwards. It’s sharp, vicious enough now that you almost do despite how rude it would seem, except that none of the pointed barbs are facing you; they’re all facing inwards, towards herself. Even from here, it doesn’t feel pleasant. A moment passes as she turns back to the shelves in front of the two of you, then she speaks again. “Amy hasn’t told me very much about you.”
Tilting your head, you give her a confused nod. You’re not sure if she’s actually looking at you or not—her emotions are wrapped tightly enough that all you can feel are the strands of her curiosity, and the barbs of irritation choking the air around her—so you try to think of something. “There’s… not really much to say,” you finally say sheepishly.
She flashes you something you think is meant to be a reassuring smile. Honestly, it’s hard to tell. Some of the irritation bled from the air around her at your answer, but there’s still enough of it there that it’s screaming out to your power. It’s hard to concentrate on anything else. “I’m sure that’s not true,” she says quietly. Her eyes are studying you, causing that nervousness to return to your gut, a writhing ball causing you to feel faintly ill. What does she want?
