Winchester Abbey

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

  The walk with James was actually kind of refreshingly fun, thought Charlotte to herself. He had good ideas for books, was interested in her ideas, and made her actually feel like she might be going somewhere with her book. He had offered to read her book that she had brought with her and critique it as best as he could. She doubted if that was acting on his part about the books. He was too intent with being a writer to be pretending. One could usually tell about writers about who was genuine and who was not. Even if his weird emotions were false; she could find a friend with which to discuss writing besides her girls. She swung her beaded bag beside her happily, humming a mixed up melody from a popular Broadway show she had once seen. Her gaze flickered over the pathway leading to Bloodwood (of which, still made her blood run cold) and there her eyes froze. There was Matthew again with that other man. Except this time, they were headed deep for the manor. She wouldn't dare go into the manor again but the mere sight of Matthew made her blood boil. She had to demand why he was still there and why he had done what he had done. Being kissed like that was not adorable to her unless he was actually genuine. And even if he was genuine, she still didn't want to be That girl. The feeling of shivering delight once she had been kissed now felt creepy and slimy. She took off in the direction of the shaded path in the hopes of catching up to Matthew. 

  Due to her athleticism, it wasn't difficult to catch up to the two. Her heart pounded inside her chest from the exertion, her body not used to being active since the skirts made it difficult to work out properly. 

  "Oi! Mr. Thomas!" she yelled in a mock English accent.

  Turning around slightly bewildered, Matthew's eyebrows began to creep up slowly. He looked like a rat caught in the cheese. 

  She strode towards him, breaking the gentle gliding gait that Ms. Binley had a terrible time teaching her earlier in the week but she couldn't have cared less. 

  "I don't believe oi was used in general speech, Ms. Smith," Matthew began, that infuriatingly teasing smirk sliding over his face. 

  "I don't give a flying rat's butt if it was or not," Charlotte replied, her temper reaching a boiling point. "I want to know why you-" here she jabbed her finger accusingly in his face while she glowered at him. "-thought it so cute to lead me on like that and then unceremoniously dump me but not before dragging me into some weird promise and then kissing me."

  "Well?" he began, his eyes flitting around as if he had no reason to apologize then gave a shrug. "I was method acting. You knew that I was an actor, deal with it."

  "Deal. With. It?" she challenged, her brown eyes single-highhandedly made the temperature drop ten degrees. They were burning wildly while she stood as if ready to strike him. 

  He grew uneasy but still acted as if it was not a big deal. Or at least, he was trying to. 

  "I had to be reassigned for the experience of our haunted manor over there." he said, pointing to the deep path snaking its dark way to the manor at the end. 

  "The experience? Were the notes and horror stories and bumps in the night and dying baby cradles not enough to scare the crap out of the rest of us?" she demanded. Her hands were actually shaking slightly, she was so enraged. 

  Here, Matthew looked genuinely disturbed.

  "That wasn't anything we actually put in there from what I've heard. Someone was scheduled to jump out and scare us the night we went to the haunted manor but they never showed up and quit the next day." he explained, scratching his head, his troubled brow giving way to his inner doubts and insecurities. 

  "Wasn't put there by you? What the heck? What is this place running anyway?" demanded Charlotte, throwing up her hands. But there was one thing she couldn't let go. "Why the kiss? Why tell me that you were coming back and act like you weren't pretending about the whole thing?" she demanded. 

  Matthew glanced backwards at his silent companion who had been watching all of this with some amusement. Stupid Brits, Charlotte thought savagely. He looked uneasy and distracted until she grabbed his fluffy cavaret and zeroed his attention solely upon her.

  "Did you hear what I said?" she demanded slowly. "Do I need to repeat myself?"

  "Method acting," he replied vaguely. "I had to leave so I went out with a bang. I figured it would be more dramatic and more fullfilling for you if you thought that I was gallant enough to wait for you until we met again later. I didn't think you would actually take it to heart." he shrugged it off. Something about it didn't seem right with Charlotte. He was too twitchy and embarrassed to fully answer the question, but his reply did enough to cut to her. She swallowed thickly. The feeling of something in the back of her throat was undeniable. She felt as if she was going to throw up. Surprising what men could do to you. Funny how she just kept falling for the same insensitivity. Maybe she had a type, she thought to herself as she backed away slowly and deliberately from him. She must have said something after that, she mused silently in her head. But she knew that she had no words for him that were not spoken in anger. She had nothing good to say or anything that would make the situation better. Even if he apologized, it would be empty. What was he thinking of when he thought up this ploy? He might think he had an excuse, but it really told off on his personality if he had no idea how sensitive a girl could be. She shook her head bitterly and ignored the feeling of wanting to throw up. Maybe if she threw up on him it would make it better, she considered bitterly to herself. She almost laughed at the ridiculousness of her thoughts as she walked away as quickly as her thick, little boots would allow. Her insides were trembling as she entered the house. 

  She just hoped and prayed that she wouldn't run into anyone along the hallway. If anyone asked her to speak or explain herself, she would break down. She just knew it. And she hated people seeing her at her weakest. She hated being judged for what she thought was special to her. It had always bothered her. Deep inside, she wanted someone to not judge her. To just be there for her. But wasn't that what all women wanted? Isn't that why they all bothered with men in the first place? They all wanted someone to see them for them and not judge or scold or torment. They wanted someone to pick up the pieces and hug them back in place. They wanted someone to be their glue. 

  It was ironic that most of the pieces that needed to be put back together often came from those washable types of glue.