Page 68 of The Bone Witch
“I’m really sorry,” I start, a wide disarming smile on my face. “I promise I’m not trying to be a creeper or to interrupt your alone time, but I just got the distinct impression that you might need someone to talk to,” I start, trying not to look overeager.
A thrill works its way through me, and I can’t wait to find out how the bones and I can help this woman.
She turns to me, taking me in, and I notice that her eyes are more dark olive-green than the brown I thought they were from afar.
“I like men,” she replies simply.
My brow dips with uncertainty. Well, I didn’t see that coming, but I know the bones and I can handle anything. “Is that a problem for you, is that what you want to talk about?” I question, and she looks at me like I’m a little off my rocker.
“No, I’m just telling you that I’m not interested. You’re barking up the wrong tree,” she explains, and understanding flares through me.
I laugh and shake my head. “I’m not hitting on you, I swear. I legitimately felt like you needed someone to talk to,” I defend kindly, but she doesn’t seem as amused or disarmed by my declaration as I thought she would be.
I clear my throat and try again. Maybe I need to be more direct.
“Sorry, it’s just a thing that happens to me sometimes. I get impressions about people and feel the need to try to help if I can. I usually do a reading, one that costs you nothing other than a little bit of time and a listening ear,” I explain tenderly, internally fist bumping myself, because who could say no to that?
“If you’d like a reading, I would be happy to do one,” I add when she just stares at me blankly.
“I don’t,” she answers tersely, her olive green stare returning to the black smooth surface floating inside her mug.
I stare at her for a moment, taken aback by the refusal. I’m about to open my mouth to try and approach this a different way, but the urgent buzzing crawling under my skin stops. One minute it’s driving me hard to take action, and the next all that’s left of the summoning is the echo of it, and even that’s fading with each passing millisecond.
I reach for my phone to grab a card so I can leave it with her in case she changes her mind, but when I only feel ass cheek filling my back pocket, I remember that I lost my phone in the accident. I debate for a moment whether or not I should write my number on a napkin, but doing so makes myI’m not hitting on youclaim seem like it’s pure crap.
So instead, I shrug and turn to step off the stool. Before I can, the woman huffs and turns to me with a glare. The vitriol in her eyes makes me stop in my tracks.
“I just wanted a little quiet,” she snaps, getting up and yanking a coat and scarf off the stool on her other side. “I have three boys getting out of school in twenty minutes, and two more waiting for me at homewithmy mother-in-law, who moved in two months ago. Two. Months. Ago!” she barks as she shoves her hands angrily into the arms of her coat before continuing.
“The thirty minutes I sit here to drink two cups of coffee is the only peace I get these days, and now I can’t even have that, because some beautiful woman with too much time on her hands and skin that is too smooth to be real can’t mind her own business or pick up on the social cues screaming that I just want to be left alone!”
She wraps the scarf around her neck and shakes her head at me furiously. “How do you keep your curls from getting frizzy?” she shouts at me drill-sergeant-style, and I jump and stammer, shocked and a little afraid.
“I use a mousse called Cork My Screw and a little bit of coconut oil on my ends,” I answer hurriedly, but she just glares at me.
“Thank you,” she yells angrily back and then storms out of the diner.
I watch her leave, completely dumbfounded and floundering. I look over to find the two waitresses staring out after the poor, clearly exhausted mother, with sympathy in their eyes.
“Don’t take that personal, hon, she’s got a lot on her plate.”
I nod and close my open, flabbergasted mouth. “Well, on that note, I think I’ll just go,” I announce sheepishly, and then I tuck tail and practically speed walk to the door. The sleigh bells sound oddly more ominous when they jingle as I leave, and I swear it sounds like they’re laughing at me. I hurry to Rogan’s car and practically dive in.
“Omg, go, go, go!” I shout out, ducking my head like I’m some celebrity who’s trying not to get their picture taken. I’m completely mortified and feel so bad about setting a tired mom off.
“What? Why, did you just rob the place?” he asks as he slowly puts his car in gear and pulls out at a safe and calm rate of speed.
“No, worse! I poked a mama bear on accident, and I’m lucky I got out of there alive. Now go before she changes her mind and makes the bear attack in that Leonardo DiCaprio movie look like the Care Bear cuddles,” I yell, officially hitting the freak the fuck out stage of my flight response.
A low rumbling fills the interior of the car, and at first I think it’s some kind of attack—until I look over at Rogan.
“This isnotfunny!” I yell as I try to duck down lower in the front seat.
Rogan pulls out onto the road and stops at the red light, the car now shaking from the force of his laughter. I punch him in the shoulder, hard, implementing every lesson Tad ever taught me growing up about how to give the deadest of dead arms, but that just makes him laugh harder.
The light turns green, but before we start moving again, a charcoal gray minivan lays on its horn as it drives by. I look over in time to see the lady from the diner flipping me off as she streaks by.
“Oh fuck, she’s found us! Evasive maneuvers! Evasive maneuvers!” I order, pointing in the opposite direction of the van.
