There's some hypocrisy inherent in the offer; she knows that. One could argue that it's silly to get hung up on a finer detail of this inevitable disappearance. It could even be selfish -- as if, from Jordan's perspective, what Greta might or might not be going home to would matter more than the fact that she's gone. If sparing the girl the possibility of a painful parting was Greta's only concern, she wouldn't have indulged her in the first place. But she had, because something was better than nothing.
And then nothing had suddenly loomed so large that it's been hard to really see anything else. Rather ironic, really, that she feels so much closer to death for having dodged it. This is all she has, now. Her life in Darrow is the only life she has left. And she can tell herself she's trying to do right by the friends she's made, but maybe she's not doing anyone any favors by withdrawing or isolating herself. As if there's nothing left to do but shop for a coffin and--and wait.
God, she's so sick of waiting.
Sam has his head on straight, at least. This is exactly what she needs: someone to be sensible while she's still reeling. She slumps a little after he speaks, feeling both reassured and lightly chastised, though she knows that wasn't his intent. It's more that the offer seems foolish (or pointless), now that's been refused. "Don't really want to see less of you, either," she admits.
His arms are still around her, his hand warm against her back. She can easily imagine listing back into him, tucking her face against his neck. And there's even less to stop her now than there was the other times she'd been so tempted. It trails through her mind like an afterthought, then doubles back and settles itself: no more marriage to be faithful to, no more Village-specific social mores to observe. None of it matters.
But that's been the problem for long enough that she can't quite bring herself to embrace it as a perk. Not yet. Not while she's like this, tired and grieving and all squashy-feeling from yet another crying jag. No, thank you. Besides, it's not as if they've been singing any bloody duets.
She rubs a hand over her face and lets out a quiet, exasperated groan, not unlike the sound she made after she came back to herself in his apartment (now, of course, the reason she'd panicked over the height is obvious). "I need to put the groceries away." And splash some cold water on herself. "Can I--are you hungry?" She's hungry, a feeling that tends to fade into nausea when she's miserable and then reassert itself when she's feeling a bit better. She's also itching for something to do, some small way to confirm that she, too, can be useful and pragmatic.
She also might be looking for an excuse for him to stay for a while, without having to ask outright, or act so needy that leaving would be cruel. She's had enough of the latter. But she does like having him here, and things are always worse when she's alone.
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And then nothing had suddenly loomed so large that it's been hard to really see anything else. Rather ironic, really, that she feels so much closer to death for having dodged it. This is all she has, now. Her life in Darrow is the only life she has left. And she can tell herself she's trying to do right by the friends she's made, but maybe she's not doing anyone any favors by withdrawing or isolating herself. As if there's nothing left to do but shop for a coffin and--and wait.
God, she's so sick of waiting.
Sam has his head on straight, at least. This is exactly what she needs: someone to be sensible while she's still reeling. She slumps a little after he speaks, feeling both reassured and lightly chastised, though she knows that wasn't his intent. It's more that the offer seems foolish (or pointless), now that's been refused. "Don't really want to see less of you, either," she admits.
His arms are still around her, his hand warm against her back. She can easily imagine listing back into him, tucking her face against his neck. And there's even less to stop her now than there was the other times she'd been so tempted. It trails through her mind like an afterthought, then doubles back and settles itself: no more marriage to be faithful to, no more Village-specific social mores to observe. None of it matters.
But that's been the problem for long enough that she can't quite bring herself to embrace it as a perk. Not yet. Not while she's like this, tired and grieving and all squashy-feeling from yet another crying jag. No, thank you. Besides, it's not as if they've been singing any bloody duets.
She rubs a hand over her face and lets out a quiet, exasperated groan, not unlike the sound she made after she came back to herself in his apartment (now, of course, the reason she'd panicked over the height is obvious). "I need to put the groceries away." And splash some cold water on herself. "Can I--are you hungry?" She's hungry, a feeling that tends to fade into nausea when she's miserable and then reassert itself when she's feeling a bit better. She's also itching for something to do, some small way to confirm that she, too, can be useful and pragmatic.
She also might be looking for an excuse for him to stay for a while, without having to ask outright, or act so needy that leaving would be cruel. She's had enough of the latter. But she does like having him here, and things are always worse when she's alone.