Halftones Apart

CHAPTER TWO | KENNEDY

My legs are fairly long, so it's easy to take swift strides until I'm out of the building and into the open air, inhaling and filling my lungs. I don't really carry a purse when I don't have Annabeth with me, so at least I'm not having to fumble through it to find my keys—they're already in my hand. The alarm sounds as I click to unlock the door. It's stifling today, like too hot to sit in a car without air conditioning for any length of time hot, but I reach out and pull the handle to enclose myself in this space anyway. Maybe it's easier to physically suffocate the feelings than to actually continue to try to deal with them. No, to complicate them, you mean, Kennedy. What was I thinking? Is it even possible to be just friends with Wes? I wasn't at the mall just watching the people. I watched him until his head would turn in my direction, and our eyes would catch for a second until I could focus on something safe. Something other than him because I know he's not safe. And he clearly wants more than to be just friends seeing as soon as he found out that I was married he tried to bail. So, why did I call him back? Why didn't I just let him walk away?

Beads of sweat start to roll off my face like I'm standing in the middle of a rain shower, except instead of being cooled, heat envelops my body, my eyes become droopy, and the weight of the atmosphere, or lack thereof, in this car starts to make my breaths more labored than they already were. I push the key into the ignition, and tap the button to set the air conditioner to the lowest setting. It only takes a moment before air is blasting through the vents, sending tingles over my damp skin. I drape my head across the steering wheel and take a deep breath before pulling a compact from the center console and powdering my nose. Then, I exchange it for the clear lip gloss. Sitting in the car like this wasn't the smartest move I'd ever made, but then again, smart and Kennedy shouldn't be used in the same sentence these days. Or ever, probably.

Putting the car in reverse, I glance over my shoulder to make sure there are no pedestrians in my way as I back out of my parking place. The drive back to the bank doesn't take but a minute. It's just across the street. It's not like I need to work, but I had never planned to be a homemaker. College, a career, family, and then a baby had always been the order of operations on paper, but nothing ever works out in real life like it does when it's written down. In fact, sometimes, I'm tempted to never put anything of importance on paper in an effort to do some kind of reverse psychology on the powers of God, but the thought is some kind of massive oxymoron in and of itself. Damn free will.

After parking, grabbing my phone and keys, I head back into the bank. Mondays are always pretty busy, but Tuesdays even more so. Maybe people think they are avoiding the crowd, or something. I'm thankful that there shouldn't be much down time to ponder what I've gotten myself into with Wes. The sight of him sitting next to me on that bench is like a billboard in my mind, constantly front and center in my thoughts. Those light blue eyes were almost like looking up on a clear day. It only took me a second to realize that I could get lost in them the same way I could when there are no clouds in the sky – when it's a blanket of cerulean. His hair is buzz cut on the sides, but the top's long, and while it's a style I wouldn't typically like, it looks really good on him because he styles those long bangs back, and it's not messy or shaggy, but almost like a classic Sinatra look, and let's be honest. Who in their right mind, no matter the age, doesn't find young Sinatra sexy?

As I pull the door, I shake my head, dismissing the curiosity of whether those dirty blonde, almost brown strands would feel like silk between my fingers, wondering if inhaling them would act like aromatherapy, calming and relaxing me, and if his plush lips are as soft as they seem. These are not things any woman should be thinking about someone that was going to be just a friend. They're definitely not okay for one who's married. Even if she's completely miserable and trapped in said marriage.

Five minutes later, I place my belongings in one of my drawers at my station, sanitize my hands, and turn my name sign from the side that says to go to the next teller to the one with my name, Kennedy Sinclair. Lately, I've wondered more and more what it'd look like with any name other than that at the end. Would it look better, feel better, with my maiden name, Carson?