Baz watched as she went through a series of emotions. There was incredulity, and anger, and sadness, and all of it flashed in her field in a dizzying display he could feel in the pit of his stomach. He should have lied to her, he thought, he shouldn’t have told her. Let her think he didn’t know. That would have been better. Then his heart dropped into his shoes as Chrysanthe began to cry. For the second time that day, and the third time since he’d known her. Two of those times, now, were because of him. He hastily began rooting through his pockets for a handkerchief.
“I’m sorry— I don’t— I didn’t,” he stammered, trying to form a coherent sentence as he fumbled through his pockets, ralizing only too late that he had already given her his handkerchief that morning, and hadn’t thought to get another one while they were at the house.
She said she ought to be mad at him. He would have accepted that. It was understandable. He’d kept a secret from her that deeply affected their friendship. Then she shouted. Not at him, or even about him. I hate crying, she said. I hate it!
The statement was so sudden and unexpected that it jarred him back from the panic that had started to creep in on him. He could feel his own eyes pricking now. He did his best to fight it. It wouldn’t make anything better, and in fact would likely make things worse.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to— to make you cry again. I just… I didn’t want to lie to you, Chrys, I...”
He was fighting a losing battle. “I wanted to mention it,” he said, “I’ve known for so long, but I didn’t know how to bring it up. You always seem so happy when we spend time together, I didn’t want to ruin that for you by… by talking about your parents.”
A single tear escaped and slid down his cheek, and he quickly wiped it away with his sleeve, hoping that she hadn’t noticed, and that it would be the only one. “It didn’t seem right,” he said softly.