Almost an hour later, I’m still explaining every tiny thing I have to do to Lachlan Kelly. I feel like a teacher explaining kindergarten concepts to a child whose mind isn’t ready for them yet.
And he’s doing it out of pure whim, trying to “accidentally” bump into my hand, as if I were stupid and couldn’t tell he’s doing it on purpose. I want to kick him in the balls every time he leans his face closer to mine and, if he inhales again trying to catch my scent, I swear I’ll scream.
I feel like I want to crawl out of my own skin and, the longer I stay in his presence, the more my mind drifts back to everything I had to do for my father, until bile starts rising up my throat.
Murmuring an apology, I reach for my glass of water and he stretches with me, trying to grab it too. When I feel hi
