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Chapter Three

"KILEY, ARE you hungry?" Jodie asked me as I made my way down the stairs. She was sitting with Dad by the kitchen counter, wiping a few glasses clean with a cloth.
"I'm okay, just going outside." I said and walked past the two. I started my way out the back door but then stopped in my tracks when I heard them speak.
"She's awfully distant," Jodie whispered, softly, but not soft enough for me to not hear.
"I know," I heard Dad whisper, "I try to ask her about herself, but she never opens up."
The two gave a sigh.
"I want to know her," Jodie sighed.
"As do I," Dad agreed, "and it seems that she and Miley don't get along."
"Oh Tim! You're an idiot!" Jodie hissed and I could hear that she had thrown her cloth on the table. "It's your fault for not bonding the two! You can't just tell Miley to stop ranting!"
"It's not like you do anything!"
"I can't! Kiley doesn't trust me as much as she trusts you!" Jodie argued, her voice raised a little too high. She lowered her volume down a bit more, "I'm a stranger. The poor girl."
"Well," Dad sighed, "at least she doesn't hate the both of us. It's clear she doesn't hate anyone of us."
Jodie sighed.
I blinked my eyes a few times, then walked continued to walk out to the garden, silently, to where Hank was patiently waiting for me for another walk.

➰➰➰➰

"WHAT DO you do when I'm not here?" I asked Hank as we walked down the path again. I was thirteen-years-old now, and suddenly the question had occurred to me.
Miley was in her room on her phone, her door closed, acting all "teenagery" and "cool". As always, she was ignoring me and treated my presence like that of a peasant.
"Nothing much really," he said, looking into the distance as we walked down the path, "I spend most of my time outside the house. It's safer. No one comes out here much."
"Oh," I said and looked at his face for a long while as we walked. Half a meters space was between us. Our footsteps grazed the dried soil and stones as we walked on, and that was all we could hear. I stared at his hands, brushing at his hands. I squeezed my own hands tightly, heavily resisting the urge to touch him. He was so close. Right there. My heartbeat was like thunder; loud,and unpredictable. We didn't talk, and Hank must have noticed the sudden silence. He turned his face towards me, his eyes settling on mine.
"You've grown," he said, "your hair's longer too."
My breathe caught up in my lungs, and I looked into his eyes. His dark swirling eyes, filled with mystery. They captivated me, like fireworks and sparklers. For the the first time ever. I felt hot. I felt awkward.
Hormones, a thought whispered in my ear. Suddenly I wished I had not only packed my collection of gypsy skirts-the dull ones and the bright ones too- but then with much debating I decided that I would not let a man influence my fashion and way of dress. Oh look at me, calling Hank and man.
I bit my lip and blushed, looking straightforward.
"I-i, wha-" I started to stutter, not paying attention to where I was going. I saw Hanks eyes light up in alarm.
"Careful!" He shouted and his hand and body started to reach out. His fingers stretches towards me. His arms straining towards me. To stop me. Then they stopped straining towards me.
I walked into a tree.
I felt the tree bark string my face in that instant, hard, tough and rough. It knocked me so hard that I fell to the ground. "Ouch," I started to wince, grabbing at my cheek and rubbing it to soothe the pain. My eyes watered just slightly, blurring my vision t the corners of my eyes. I looked up at Hank, standing there with his hands at his side and an unsure expression. That's when I cried. "Don't," I choked, "don't ever touch me." I started to wail, and I was thankful that a gusty breeze rustled the trees, drowning my wails.
"Please," I whispered between my wails, "please." Petals fell vigorously, and pollen filled my nose. I choked on pollen and tears, gasping. I wasn't crying from the pain in my cheek anymore. Hank stood there, looking at me cry. His dark eyes fixed.
Selfishly, I wished that he could comfort me. Selfishly, I wished that he could hold my hand and guide me as we walked the path, so next time I would not walk into a tree. Selfishly, I wanted to touch Hank, and that meant that I wanted him to die. Selfish. I'm so selfish. "Ever," I cried, "don't you ever."
Selfish. That word hung in the air.