Page 42 of A Ruthless Arrangement
We begin walking, and Liam comes jogging back to us with ipods in hand. I notice the quick exchange that happens as Liam hands them to Alasdair. My fiancé pockets them quickly, as if the sight of them would spark another fight. It made my skin itch. I didn’t like being viewed as a problem.
Of course, I hadn’t thought that was a fight. But other people usually viewed any protest or explanation from me as me arguing.
“Are Walmart clothes part of your identity? Your style? I know some people feel that way about name brands. Does it fit you better to be in cheaper clothes, in your mind?”
No, they just actually fit me, as in my body, forget my personality. That doesn’t get a say in this, unfortunately. Beggars can’t be choosers.
I just shrug in response.
Alasdair pokes my arm, and a flash of annoyance fills me. “Just a shrug? You don’t know?”
Oh, I want to snap at him and tell him that he doesn’t understand. He’s ignorant of how the world works, at least for someone like me. Does he realize how spoiled he is, being able to afford nice things and tailoring?
I, of course, don’t say any of that. I remain calm and give him a polite smile instead. “It’s not really my identity, at least not by choice.”
“It’s just what you’re used to?” I can see him studying me out of the corner of my eye, trying to understand me. It makes my skin crawl, even though I know it shouldn’t. I want to be invisible like I’m used to, not under a microscope being analyzed.
I shrug again. “I…yes, it’s what I’m used to.”
“And you don’t like change,” he supplies his guess, and while he’s not far off, I know he’s still not getting the whole picture. But I’d prefer him not to, anyways.
I nod. “More or less, yeah.”
We’re back to walking on the street, weaving our way through the groups of people as we head to the bookstore. He’s quiet for a few moments before he speaks again. “There’s still more I don’t understand, isn’t there? Your mind is a multi-layered and complicated place.”
I can’t help but give a mirthless chuckle at that.You have no idea. “Yes.”
He pauses for another moment before taking a deep breath and continuing. “And if I asked you to share your thoughts, every layer of them, would you?”
That sounds like hell to me.“I suppose it’d depend on the situation.” It’s a lighter answer, better than the harsh and directno.
“What aboutthissituation? About the shops?” He plays with a thread that had come loose on my cardigan. “Will you share what’s going on in your head now?”
I shift my shoulders, trying to let out my nervous energy about that request. “Um. I mean…” I take a deep breath. How to tell someone that they onlythinkthey want to know something, but they won’t like what’s actually the truth. People always think they want to understand, but then the reality of the situation unsettles them. “Itiscomplicated.”
I can see him flash a smile at me out of the corner of my eye. “I’m counting on it.” His smile lessens slightly when he sees I’m not looking at him. “Why does that scare you so much? Sharing your thoughts? It’s just shopping. I promise I won’t be mad.”
Lies.
Firstly, it’s neverjustabout the surface-level topic. It’s how you deliver it, it’s all the implications. If it wasjustthe topic, I’d never have any issues. It’s all the silent, invisible thingssurroundingthe topics.
Money is a huge one, and the expectations he may or may not have regarding it. The expectations of the staff in those shops and other clients, the anxiety of how I’ll be perceived and treated, the unknown if they’ll even have anything for me.
The list is endless, andnoneof it isjustabout shopping. He’s right, there’s layers upon layers. And most people never see or think about them, because they’re second nature to them.
But not me. I have to consciously think through each and every one of them. I have to make a plan of how to present myself with every single layer in mind. That’s why I call it social chess. It’s a game they don’t even know they’re playing. But they nevertheless demand everyone else to play, too. It’s exhausting. I’ve tried to play other kinds of games, figuratively speaking, of course. But when someone expects you to play chess and, instead, you put cute buttons on the board to try to not make it a game at all, they get upset.
Secondly, people promise not to get mad, and then they’re shocked by something I say or do, and then, well…they get mad. Maybe not in the classic way, but they’re certainly upset. Disquieted. Confused and disoriented bymysocial disorientation. They don’t necessarily yell, but they’re bothered nonetheless.
“You’re overthinking again,” Alasdair says, his voice low and quiet. a subtle undertone of softness that makes me pause. It certainly redirects my attention back to him.
He seems to recognize that, because when I look up at him, his eyes sparkle with a caring awareness that I’m not expecting. I think he’s figured out that I respond better to softness than harsh demands. While I’m glad he knows to be soft and gentle with me, I don’t like that he’s figured it out so easily. I wonder if he does it to manipulate me. The truth is, I haven’t nailed down where his intentions lie, and that’s dangerous, especially with a man like him.
I tug on my sleeve before realizing what I’m doing and force myself to stop. “Maybe. Or maybe there’s a lot to think through.”
I can see him studying me again out of the corner of my eye. Another siren wails through the street, a firetruck this time, and I wish that I put in my earplugs. But it’s too late now. I’d have to ask to stop walking, pull off to the side to get out of people’s way, and rummage through my purse to get it out again.Ugh.
He runs a finger along my upper arm, pulling all my focus to that slight touch. For a moment, it draws my attention enough to shut out all the noise. His gray eyes observe this, drinking in every microexpression on my face. “You don’t trust me enough to share yet.” It’s not a question, but a statement. I can’t hear any displeasure or anger in his voice. It’s as if he’s just sharing the solution to the math problem, nothing emotional about it.
