“Of course not.” He says, looking out at the cornfield, expression almost placid.
I glance around and catch my brother frowning at us.
“What’s your costume for the Wychwood?” Jonas asks, taking a sip from his cup.
“A cat,” I say, trying to sound casual. Jonas chokes on his coffee. To be fair, I ordered the gown and custom ears three months ago. It’s just really inconvenient that he’s picked “Kitten” as the nickname for his little plaything.
“I always did like Kittens.” He smiles down at his cup and my stomach goes cold. Tell him! My mind screams at me over and over again, but I can’t make my mouth move. I can’t say the words. I can’t face the fallout.
Maybe Sutton is right. Maybe I’m a bit of a pussy. But I’m also really pissed off. Jonas had his hands all over his Kitten last night and today he’s outright flirting with me. Does he think he can have us both? I’m disgusted with myself, and disappointed in him, and my heart just hurts.
The tractor is doing a loose figure eight through the corn, crawling along toward the crowd. The internal monologue and all the swirling, fighting emotions swell in my chest until I can’t breathe. Until I snap.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper to Sutton before springing to my feet and heading toward the back of the wagon. Everybody speaks at once.
“Ma’am, you need to remain seated.”
“Can’t do what?”
“Kiddo, sit down.”
“Kenna, are you going?” Jonas’ panicked voice is the only one that sticks with me as I hop down the steps of the wagon. The tractor is barely moving at a jogging pace, but you’d think it was the bus from Speed the way everyone freaks out. Ignoring them, I bolt toward the crowded festival. I just need room to breathe, a chance to collect myself, and, as Sutton so eloquently put it, I need to grow a pair of lady balls. I know I have to fess up. I just don’t know how I’m going to face him long enough to do it.