Bed of Lies (ON HOLD)

XIX

His eyes dart from me to Tony, from Tony and back. I smile at him unsurely, a strange feeling clopping around in my stomach as I fight the urge to do a double-take between him and the man who is seated by my side, acting out a self-made-and-directed script.

As usual, the theme of the short movie is him being a man who loves his wife so dearly, a lie he is trying to play out perfectly by holding on too tightly to my right hand.

I'm still ticked off, but even so, I like the feel of his hand in mine, minus the extremely intense tensile strength. His grip is firm and strong, though almost hurting, and it is like my hand has been enclosed in a warm case from an obviously delectable source.

Suddenly, his hand wraps around mine even tighter, making me wince softly in pain. I will myself to meet his gaze and realise then that it is his way of communicating to me what to do. Regardless of his purpose, I hate it. It hurts.

Nevertheless, it is clear my newly assigned task is to make this silence less awkward. "It is great to have you here." My voice does not betray a single hint of my discomfort, and I have to admit that the lessons Ma forced Clara and me to take on etiquette—specifically, how to conduct oneself in an unexpected situation—and those years of keeping countless secrets have done me well.

"Thank you," he replies with a huge grin that appears to be sincere; though, I still find myself being a bit thrown off by how too-genuine it seems.

"I am very thrilled to be here." He adds. I can see that. I reply in my head as his smile grows even wider. Really, I did not think that could be possible. The idea that the man might have the facial nerve controls akin to the grinch's trundles into my mind from nowhere, and it takes the utmost self-control to not, at least, slightly giggle at the dumb analogy.

"Truly, I am glad to hear that." I deftly pull my hand out of Tony's iron grasp. Forget about the pain; my fingers might just get crushed into rubble with the way he is going. Thankfully, his brother does not seem to notice as he is too busy admiring, or rather, inspecting the house.

I don't like it. It slightly irritates me that every bit of the room is now under his scrutiny, and it is even worse as he is not making any effort to disguise his wandering gaze. And hands, apparently. My eyes widen as he reaches for a Victorian-style antique on the glass stool by his side.

It's a pretty item, all fanciful and mostly decorative. I especially like the stamped flowery white prints on the spherical ball, which is a cool cobalt blue. Although it seems like it would be soft from afar, it is actually made from ceramics and can break with a single drop to the floor. I reckon that if it weren't so fragile, I'd have stoned Tony's head with it at least once. Just once to factory-reset his brain. Except I'm not too sure it would do much. He is as stubborn as a mule, after all.

Our guest palms the ball, closing his hand around it like a weapon. Hopefully, he is not thinking of doing what I've been contemplating since. If he is, my fingers are crossed that Tony is the target.

This thought makes me smile a little wider, which is a big mistake as the man sitting opposite me seems to take my delightedness as a push as well as an encouragement to continue with the rubbish he's doing. I turn to Tony, who has a puzzled look on his face, to see if he sees what I'm seeing.

For a reason that I cannot fathom with my normal-sized brain and all the experiences I've garnered in all my twenty-nine years of life, Tony's brother has begun to juggle two glass balls. Where he got the other one, I don't know. And I find this just a bit weird as my eyes have been on him since the beginning, and I only saw him lay hold on the one on the stool by his side.