An abrasive personality aside, Letha is not high maintenance — something it seems Beau have mistaken her for. Suppose you could still be choosy, living in a home that’s housed generations of blue collars. And you could still be difficult to please, despite expectations of people and things snug tight against the ground. But that’s not her.
It’s almost a tag line then, for her life and how she’s lived it. You get what you get, and you don’t get upset… She never did. If only the former. Single exception found with the company she keeps. If her father had asked her to put her best foot forward (He had, instructing she stay polite and out of the Rochester’s hair. And she’d agreed. Of course, back then, she hadn’t known just how god awful their son could be.) she had most certainly failed.
Circumflexed brows, a twinge of amusement trails after Beau’s words. It was almost… nice, and he seemed embarrassed by it. Like being kind to Letha Newman was a particularly challenging hardship, most certainly his only. And while it should act an insult, late nights and early mornings disorients her in the direction of delight.
“ Thanks. ” A murmur of gratitude that was sure to be unexpected, and she reaches into the paper bag; fishing out the sugar and leaving the milk. Old habit, mirroring her father’s — sans the Red Bull to wash it all down. Sugar packet in between teeth, she continues. “ Didn’t take you for an early worm, Rochester. ”
Not that she knew what she took him for. Not someone that would come when she called. Not someone that would bring her coffee in the morning. Yet… Lid opened, sugar poured, and she reaches for another.
“ Before I saw your place, I used to think you slept in a coffin. Or upside down, you know… like a bat. But then I realised, ” She pauses, not for the sake of dramatics but rather a yawn, and a shake of her head follows. “ No moats. ”
