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Eleven
Arnold
The bell above DNF jangled, interrupting my thoughts. I glanced up from rearranging the fantasy novels, my heart hitching at the sight of her. Agatha. She stormed in with a purpose, her chestnut waves bouncing along with her boobs and belly. There was a fire in those deep brown eyes. I'm not convinced she won't kill me.
"Arnold." Her voice shot across the room, more assertive than I'd ever heard it outside of her professional sphere. The sultry undertones that had first drawn me to her were laced with steel now.
"Can we talk?" She planted her hands on her hips; short stature notwithstanding, she owned the space around her. She looked like a fierce pug.
I swallowed hard, nodding, fingers fumbling with the book in my hands. Could barely manage to place it back on the shelf without dropping it. My mind raced, scrambling for what I might say, how to fix this mess between us.
I fumbled with my glasses, pushing them up the bridge of my nose. The words caught in my throat, a jumble of syllables making a clumsy attempt at escape. I gestured to a secluded corner by the history section, shelves towering with tales of times long past.
"Over here," I managed, voice barely above a whisper.
She followed steps echoing with purpose on the worn floor. Her presence filled the space, a force I couldn't ignore even if I tried. We stood between rows of books, the scent of old paper and binding glue thick in the air.
"Arnold." She locked eyes with me; no room for doubt or evasion in that gaze.
I nodded, an awkward bobble-head motion. My hands found sanctuary in the pockets of my khakis, seeking refuge from the moment's intensity.
"Look, I get you, Arnold," she said, her tone soft yet edged with resolve. "All of you. And I'm okay with it. You're weird, quirky. You've got the whole terrified chihuahua thing going on. I dig it. I dig you."
My heart did this weird somersault. Acceptance from Agatha—Angel—they were the same, weren't they?
"But if you can't do the same for me," she continued, "then we don't have anything. Nothing at all."
Her words stung a raw truth that I couldn't deny. I had to find a way to bridge the gap between us, to meet her halfway, because losing her wasn't an option. Not anymore.
I blinked, my brain scrambling to catch up with the torrent of emotions Agatha's words unleashed. She stood there, fire in her eyes, heart on her sleeve. The reality of what she felt for me hit like a freight train. She could have just dumped me. Guilt knotted my stomach. I'd been such an idiot.
"Arnold?" Her voice yanked me back from the edge of self-reproach. "Are you listening to me?"
"Agatha, I..." Words failed me, lodged in my throat, thick and uncooperative.
She reached out, a tentative hand brushing mine. A silent plea for understanding, for some sign I got it.
I did. God, I did. But could I fix this mess I'd made?
From behind, soft footsteps approached. Lyric and Fable hovered close, their expressions a blend of concern and pity. They didn't need words; their shared glance spoke volumes.
"Hey, Arnold," Lyric's voice was gentle but firm. "We've got this."
"Take the day," Fable chimed in, her smile warm but insistent. "Sort your stuff out."
"Are you sure?" My protest was weak, guilt still holding its grip tight.
"Go." Lyric nudged me, a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye. "We'll handle the fort."
Fable nodded, arms folded, but her stance was all encouragement. "Really, we've got you covered."
"Thanks." The word was a whisper, gratitude mingling with relief.
Agatha's hand found mine again, squeezing tight. Her touch said everything—hope, fear, a chance at something real.
"Let's go." Her voice was steady, guiding us forward.
I followed chest tight with a mix of dread and determination. I had to make this right. For her, for us. It was time to step up, time to be the man she saw in me.
