Book 19: Come In, Friends

Ian

Oakley moves from one end of the cottage to the other, tidying little sticks and tossing rocks in a pile near what can be construed as the front door. I’m leaning on the stone wall I imagined I might turn into a hearth one day during my ridiculous day dreams, watching her spiral. “Can we please talk about this, Oakley?”

“There’s nothing new to say. You’ve already made it clear I cannot stay here with you and that you’re going to reject me. Maybe you’re right, and that’s the only way to save the both of us, but I just–” She skirts past me and neatly sets her armful of twigs on the ground just beyond the cottage rubble. “Don’t touch those. I’m going to make a broom.”

“Okay,” I breathe, reaching to catch her arm before she manages to sneak past me again, but I miss, and she goes back to whatever she’s doing.