Conversations In the Storm

Chapter Two - Why Are You Here

Nick Wilkins wryly rubbed his chest where she had slapped him and ruffled his hair with the towel. The dash from his car to her front stoop had felt like a fool's move, the sleeting rain had felt like tiny pins pelting down on him. He had known an umbrella would be useless, he had tried to hitch his jacket over his head as some form of lame protection, but had almost tripped over while distracted and so had simply stumbled along. Even standing under the porch had been useless, the wind had viciously swept the rain against his frame anyway. There may as well not have been any covering at all, the good it had done him.

He had heard her moving around, through the front door he had heard her clatter come to a stop when he had first knocked. Although he had allowed a moment of guilt at knowing she really didn't want to let him in, the cool slap of the wind against his drenched skin felt like he was forming icicles on his face and he'd almost knocked that door down in an attempt to get inside.

Even dressed completely down in grey track pants and a loose white t-shirt, her long straight brown hair twisted into a knot at the back of her head, even when as angry as she was now, she was somewhat spectacular. Her eyes were deep brown, almost black, but when showing intense emotion like now, he swore there were lighter flecks making them appear as though they were sparkling.

Or perhaps that was due to the moisture he could see pooling there.

He swallowed at the ache that had settled in his chest. He had put that pain there, and he had hated himself every day since. He supposed it was too much to hope that she had forgiven their last encounter, much less forgotten it.

It was better that she continue to mask the pain with fury. He could deal with her anger, and besides, he knew her. She couldn't stay angry forever.

"Wilkins, if you don't say something, I'm going to force you back out there again."

"You wouldn't do that, though, would you?"

His mouth tightened, his lips a mere thin line, his stare fixed on hers in a silent challenge until she had to look away.

Where did he get the nerve, she muttered as she took the prescription bottle from her pocket and set it on the table with the other supplies she had gathered.

"No. I guess I'm not that cruel. Take a seat, I'll make you a hot drink."

"You don't have to..."

"I don't want to listen to you sneezing half the night away because you caught a cold. Dry off, sit down, and I will make you a hot drink."

Slowly and with some difficult he pulled off the soaking jacket. His jeans were uncomfortably clinging to his skin, he desperately wanted to remove them but how would it seem if he pulled his pants off in his ex-girlfriend's home?

But she simply shrugged.

"Go ahead. If you die from a sneeze I can't exactly live with myself, can I? You can tie that towel around your waist. It's not like I haven't seen your legs before."

Great, he thought sarcastically. Perfect solution.

She turned her back to give him some privacy, and somehow it angered him to see her do that. But he bit his lip and remained silent as he kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks.

It was an extremely ungraceful manoeuvre to try and wriggle out of the sopping wet jeans, and Nick almost asked her to give him a hand. But the moment he drew in his breath to begin the question, he stopped. What was he thinking? Did he want her to slap him across the face this time? She would be entitled, sure, but it was hardly the way to encourage open dialogue.