So, no, what Spencer is doing isn’t a stare, butfeelsmuch more like a glare.
And it isimpossibleto escape.
His eyes are dark, penetrating, and frankly, a little terrifying. He’s military, that much is certain. I’ve met many soldiers in my life, so the man he is, even the body he has, isn’t particularly scary for me. I have five older brothers, and not one of them is short or thin, so it’s not like big people intimidate me. But there’s something in his eyes that speaks of darkness, of pain, possibly of tragedy and the stuff nightmares are made of, and I think part of the reason it terrifies me — and in the same moment, intrigues me — is because there is only one other person in my world that has that same look in their eyes.
And that person is special to me. I love him, and I wish he had someone that would understand him and accept him for whatever he’s done under orders.
I don’t often find the positives in the fact I’m so small. In fact, I blame my size for a lot of my problems, because just maybe, if I had a little more fat on my bones, my life might have worked out differently over the years.
I mean, probably not. But there’s always that small sliver of wondering that is as useless as my efforts to escape Spencer’s glare.
But right now, I embrace my size, because the best part about being one of the shortest people in this church today is that when everyone stands for Jess, when they turn and whip out their phones to film her making her way toward her groom, the bodies between mine and those at the front shield me from Spencer’s glare, and break the hold he’d locked me into.
Don’t look again, Abigail!
I pull in a greedy gulp of air when I’m free and finally remember to breathe, swallowing down the lump of nerves that lodged itself in my throat.
I feel like I’ve run a marathon, which is ludicrous, considering I haven’t run since my sophomore year in compulsory gym class.
I press a hand to my chest, and study the collar of the shirt on the man in front of me. I don’t know who he is. I don’t know who most of the people here are. I know the Checkmate people, because of Jess. I know some of the fighters, because of Bobby Kincaid’s constant business. I know one or two of the first responders, because of Mitch and Nixon. But that only covers a small portion of the people in attendance, which leaves me freely able to keep my eyes down and not have to talk to anyone else sitting in the back.
When the music comes to an end and Jess stops at the top of the aisle, the guests hush and sit. Children squawk, and some of the older people clear their throats.
I smooth out my skirt, then sit and study the program that was waiting on the benches when I arrived, but when I feel a heat burning the top of my head, I look up and find those eyes again.
Dang it.