Heart | N.H.

eighteen - mrs. randolph's dragon

From Niall: HARRY

From Niall: HARRY GUESS WHAT?

From Niall: MIRACLE FORGAVE ME

From Niall: actually she apologized to me but

From Niall: THE POINT IS SHE DOESN'T HATE ME ANYMORE

From Niall: i feel like i can fucking breathe again what's wrong with me

To Niall: Hey, um, wrong number? :)

From Niall: oh fUCK

From Niall: i'm pathetic. this is awkward...

From Niall: i mean, that was intentional.

From Niall: i knew it was you, kitten

From Niall: i swear

-

"What the hell are you doing on my porch again, Girl Scout?"

I stared into the squinty, accusing, unfriendly glare of Mrs. Randolph and told myself that this was a huge mistake.

But it was a little late to run away now.

Taking a deep breath, I said, "I'm here to apologize. For being rude to you last time."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Is that really why you're here? You aren't here to accuse me of stealing your pet elephant or something?"

I peered past her. "Er, no. Speaking of which, where are the rest of your pets? The house seems sort of empty."

A scowl creased her forehead. "Not that it's any of your business, but I gave them up. They'll be better taken care of at the humane society. I can't care for them. Stupid expensive leeches."

"Oh," I said awkwardly. "That's... lonely."

She let out a snort that was a little too loud to be genuine. "Not really. Never cared for smelly creatures anyhow."

I hesitated. She said in a rather nasty tone, "Do you have an actual purpose in being here?"

"No, just the apology."

She seemed surprised at that. "I see. That's halfway decent of you. It's nice to know that at least one of you impolite teenagers has a grain of manners."

"Um... yeah. I guess I'd better-"

"Well, there's no point in you showing up here for just a minute. And I hate pointless things, they're a waste of time. I suppose you'd better come on in."

When I simply gawked, she snapped, "Don't stand there with your mouth open like that. You'll catch flies. Are you coming in or not?"

So it was that ten minutes later, I was sitting at Rachel Randolph's kitchen table, a mug of hot tea in front of me. She sat across the checkered tablecloth from me, her wrinkled hands curved around her own cup of tea, watching me with that unnerving stare of hers. I cleared my throat. "Thank you for, er, having me."

A grunt. "You sort of invited yourself over."

Well, I hadn't intended to come inside, but I chose not to point this out. "So, Mrs. Randolph, how are you?"

"Rheumatism and most everything hurts these days. Either that or it's numb from the cold," she complained. "But you wouldn't know anything about that. Too young to understand," she grumbled, stirring her tea vigorously.