[ Right. The cosmonaut thing. He's some kind of big celebrity back home, she guesses, which tracks with his toothpaste-ad smiles and overall air of prom king ego. ]
And here I thought the popular kids were the ones having all the fun.
[ She arches her eyebrows at him, then pours the other glass, too, before lifting it and clinking the two tumblers together in a sarcastic impression of a toast, lifting one to him. ]
To running the hell away, then.
[ Double-fisting hard liquor; just like the good old days. She keeps hold of both glasses, lifting one for a swallow as she furrows her brows at the Russian, trying to sift through the thoughts vibrating along the string into her head and her own. Many of them are much too similar for her liking, but that's not the only thing leaving her uneasy. There are times when the connection she has with Edward — everything he is, everything he is to her, everything she feels about him — feels like a chain, a shackle, instead of something glowing and fragile and breakable. She hadn't gone out to find Willa again, knowing he'd have followed her. She'd put his life and wellbeing over the prospect of finding her sister — however unlikely success with that attempt might be — and she'd made that call herself. If she is chained down, she's the one who turned the key and threw it away. It's not his fault.
She comes around the table, glasses in hand, and stands before the fire, watching as the flames lick hungrily at the fuel. ]
Even if I ran, he'd find me. And the thing that drives me crazy is that he wouldn't even blame me. He'd get it. He'd be nice about it. He'd probably offer to stay away, just to make things easier.
What am I supposed to do with a guy like that, huh?
no subject
And here I thought the popular kids were the ones having all the fun.
[ She arches her eyebrows at him, then pours the other glass, too, before lifting it and clinking the two tumblers together in a sarcastic impression of a toast, lifting one to him. ]
To running the hell away, then.
[ Double-fisting hard liquor; just like the good old days. She keeps hold of both glasses, lifting one for a swallow as she furrows her brows at the Russian, trying to sift through the thoughts vibrating along the string into her head and her own. Many of them are much too similar for her liking, but that's not the only thing leaving her uneasy. There are times when the connection she has with Edward — everything he is, everything he is to her, everything she feels about him — feels like a chain, a shackle, instead of something glowing and fragile and breakable. She hadn't gone out to find Willa again, knowing he'd have followed her. She'd put his life and wellbeing over the prospect of finding her sister — however unlikely success with that attempt might be — and she'd made that call herself. If she is chained down, she's the one who turned the key and threw it away. It's not his fault.
She comes around the table, glasses in hand, and stands before the fire, watching as the flames lick hungrily at the fuel. ]
Even if I ran, he'd find me. And the thing that drives me crazy is that he wouldn't even blame me. He'd get it. He'd be nice about it. He'd probably offer to stay away, just to make things easier.
What am I supposed to do with a guy like that, huh?