Loving You Differently

Sixteen

Aria Adkins

After disentangling myself from Austin's hold, I usher us to the kitchen. It's a little past noon, and since I haven't eaten yet today, I offer to make us BLT sandwiches.

Rock music from the old radio on the kitchen counter serves as background noise, the heavy strumming of guitars playing at a soft volume.

Grease from the frying pan zaps at my skin and I mutter a string of curses, glaring at the sizzling bacon. Austin chuckles beside me, where he's busy slicing tomatoes.

"You want me to take over?" he asks, smirking.

I shake my head. "I can handle it."

"I don't doubt that one bit," he agrees.

"You sure come to my rescue an awful lot," I sigh playfully.

He finishes cutting the tomato and walks around me to the sink, washing the knife. He looks up at me briefly and grins wryly. "My mom used to tell me that I have a hero complex. Always trying to save people. Funny how that works."

"What do you mean?"

He turns off the faucet and spins around, crossing his arms. I happily take in the view, enjoying how his t-shirt stretches across his broad chest and displays his tattoos.

"I like helping others. Always have. But it's weird, because I hate when others try to help me. Even when I was younger, I wanted to do things for myself, by myself. Hell, on the first day of kindergarten, I refused to let my mom walk me to my classroom. I insisted I'd find the way myself," he recalls.

I picture a young Austin with an oversized backpack and a stubborn frown. I grin. "And did you?"

"Nah, I definitely got lost," he laughs. "But I eventually found it. It just took me a few hours."

"Hours?" I gape.

"I made my grand entrance right before my class left for recess," he admits sheepishly.

"Oh, my god. Did your mom find out?"

He gets a far-away look in his eye. "Yeah. She didn't take it too well. I told you she was really over protective, didn't I?"

I nod, and he continues, his grin fading slightly. "After the first day, she was determined to walk me to class every day. I didn't want her to. So, she called the school and they assigned an older kid, a third grader, to walk me to and from class every day."

A bitter tone coats his words as he finishes his spiel. Reaching forward, I turn the stove top off. I turn towards him and hope for a nonchalant tone when I ask, "Why was she so overprotective?"

Austin's intense gaze meets my own. "I feel like I should put all of my cards on the table. You showed me yours, so it's only fair," he starts.

I stiffen. "Don't turn it into a trade-off," I interrupt sharply. "I didn't show you my skeletons in hopes you'd do the same. You don't have to tell me anything you aren't comfortable with," I finish.

He runs his hands over his face roughly. A part of me wonders how the conversation took such a turn, and then I remember that I'm the one who asked.