Since I took a cab to Marie’s, I didn’t remember until I got on the bus that I forgot my music and noise cancelling earphones at home. It shows how depressed I am that the various pings, and thumps, and tones don’t make me want to squirm inside out like they normally do. The glass of the window is cool against my forehead, and I heave a sigh. My breath stirs the hair of the woman in the seat ahead of mine, and she turns around and glares at me.
While I’d normally mouth an apology, or give a sheepish smile, today has been awful. Wouldn’t want to keep that to myself, so I share the anger by glaring back at her. My lip twitches in a barely suppressed snarl. I catch her bewildered, slightly hurt expression as she turns around again and pulls the cord for the next stop. Her slumped shoulders and defeated posture as she steps off the bus make me feel like a prize asshole. I don’t think I could feel any worse right now.
And then the homeless guy barfs on my shoe. I hate today.
Chapter Seven
I’m not having a great day. Woke up late and had to skip breakfast, missed the first bus so I had to run for the train. Barely made it to work on time, and three hours into my shift, my low blood sugar is turning my inner monologue into a heinous bitch, ready to take offence at anything; What do you mean thank you? I’ve bent a fingernail backwards, been stabbed with a packing staple, and twenty minutes ago, Jan accidentally knocked a stack of books onto my head.
I grab a load of books from the shelving cart and head to the T section in fiction. In no time, I’ve fallen into the rhythm of shelving books and getting more, shelving them and getting more. It’s physical work that hurts my elbows and wrists, but marginally helps my mood. Plus, I don’t have to talk to anyone at the counter, I just get to purposefully stomp around from section to section in silence. The carpet we have, plus my rubber-soled boots, makes it impossible to stomp noisily, which is unfortunate for my grumpiness. I think some noise or destruction would do wonders for me.
It’s been nearly a week since I saw Marie and the homeless guy puked on my shoe. Kennedy and Nick were a bit weird when I got home. Maybe it was just my bad mood and they picked up on it, but I felt like I brought them down by being there and not smoking. Sometimes it feels like I don’t belong anywhere. I’d love to go out more, but it’s miserable with my condition.
I’ve read extensively about Synaesthesia, and most people who have it consider it to be a positive thing. They don’t see it as limiting at all, not like I do. But my type is rarer, or at least the information about my type is harder to find. Most books focus on the visual Synaesthetes, not people like me. I just feel so alone.
I unload the last book in my hand and whirl around to go get more. The sight of the broad chest in front of me makes me pull up so quickly that a muscle in my back twinges painfully, but I avoid a collision. Dominic.
“HA!” Triumph fills me. I lower my voice. “Ha.”
“Ha?”
“Here you are, but my lip is intact.” I shrug. “Feels like a victory to me.”
“I can see how that would get old.”
“Yes, but look how my reflexes are sharpening up!”
“You’re like a ninja.” His face lights up delightedly.
I lean in conspiratorially. “You do have to be part ninja to work here. It’s not explicitly said in the interview, but...” I trail off. The way his lips curl knocks some of the weight from my shoulders. “You need some more books?” Hope rises, brain already frantically thinking of good books he may like. Excellent! This could turn the day around, I’ll—
“No, I was just returning a few.”
“Oh.” Sigh.
“Okay, that...” he gestures to my face. “Is the most heartbreaking expression I’ve ever seen. Give me one more book. But just one!”
I suppress a squeal and pace. “What are you in the mood for?”
“Hmm. I could go for a mystery, maybe some supernatural things, but not like, vampires or anything like that.”
“Follow me.” I rush him to the K section and hand him an Andrew Klavan, Hunting Down Amanda. “Try this one.”
“Done!” He reads the book jacket. “Sounds good.”
“It is good!” I feel better than I have all day.
“I trust you.” Wow, I could listen to that voice all day long. I could listen the shit out of that voice. “Hey.” His tone subtly changes. “Would you—”
“Ellie!” A squeaky voice rips through the moment, almost driving me to my knees after Dominic’s honeyed tones. I recognize that awful sound. The Dean Koontz patron. I turn around. “Hi, Helen, how are you?” Not now, you screechy-toned harpy!
“I need to steal this fabulous woman from you, you don’t mind do you?” she asks Dominic.
He frowns. “Well, actually–”
“Thanks!” She beams at him and hauls me by the arm down the aisle.
I look back at him over my shoulder, feeling disappointed. What was he was going to ask? Was he asking for another book, or was he going to ask me out? Oh my god! Was he going to ask me out? Would I want to go out with him?
A look into his eyes and the memory of his voice seals it. Yes, I would go out with him. He holds the Klavan book up, nods, and walks out of my life.
I try not to take my disappointment out on Helen—if it hadn’t been her that interrupted us, it would have been another patron or a ringing phone. Interruptions are a part of life. It doesn’t help when the interruption’s voice makes me want to bash my head into the book shelves, but I remain as pleasant as I can and get through her questions soon enough. Her voice isn’t her fault. It’s not fair for me to hate people simply because of the quality of their voices. But it doesn’t make it easier for me to like them.
At long last, Helen departs, and I head back behind the desk, and check books in.
“Did Helen find you?” Mary-Margaret asks.
“Yeah, she just wanted to thank me again for finding that book series for her, and wanted me to recommend one she could buy as a gift. Her friend gets offended by curse words and violence in books, but wanted mystery. She didn’t want a Christian book either, as they’re ‘too preachy.’ I suggested the Amelia Peabody mysteries, but you know, I didn’t realize how many modern books have swears in them until I had to recommend one that doesn’t.”
“That’s true. And it can be hard to find books without swears in them that aren’t Christian. I can think of six Christian authors who write mysteries, but yeah, they definitely have that faith-based message, or lighter content. Good job on the Peabody series, that would be a good fit.”
“That’s why I get paid the big bucks.”
“Yeah right!” We roll our eyes at the old joke and spend the next hour and a half checking in and shelving books.
I’m just putting away another armload of books when Jan calls my name and rings the bell. We have a bell for patrons to ring when they can’t see us. We hear it and come running. In theory. We’ve all become a bit immune to the bell, especially since parents will get to the desk and let their child shake the shit out of it while one of us is already helping them at the desk. Sometimes if it gets busy, one of us will ring the bell and call out the other librarian’s name so we know it’s deliberate and not a child shaking it.
I quickly return the last book to its place on the shelf and walk back to the desk. When I get there, Jan and Mary-Margaret are standing there alone, except for a giant bouquet of flowers.
“Ooo, who got flowers?”
Jan and Mary-Margaret smile at each other.
“Looks like you have an admirer,” Jan says.
“What! Me?” What the hell? The only person who has sent me flowers is... Jason. “Is there a card?” Numbness deadens my limbs. Why would Jason buy me flowers? Did he realize that he pocket dialled me and it got him thinking about old times. About how badly he treated me, and how much he misses me and wants me back?
Mary-Margaret hands me the card and I get a closer look at the bouquet. Deep red roses and flawless Asiatic Lilies; my favouri
te flower. I can’t believe Jason remembered; he’d never gotten it right while we were together, always defaulting to yellow roses. Yellow is my least favourite colour, and yellow roses mean jealousy or infidelity, or they did in Victorian times. But he’s nailed it this time. It’s the most beautiful bouquet I’ve seen, and it’s for me. I softly stroke a silky rose petal between my thumb and forefinger, the delicate texture soothes my anxiety.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, open the card!” Mary-Margaret exclaims impatiently, which breaks the tension a bit. I slide a finger underneath a corner of the envelope’s flap and tear it open. Taking a deep breath to steel myself for Jason’s message, I pull out the card and read it.
To my favourite library ninja. It was nice not bumping into you again. Dominic.
The momentary disappointment of the card not being from Jason is quickly overshadowed by Dominic’s message. I feel a grin highlight my face and don’t try to stop it; until I notice Dominic leaning just inside the door with a shy expression. Biting the insides of my cheeks, I clear my throat. “Haven’t you already been helped today, sir?”
He steps forward. “Yes, but there was one more thing I needed help with.”
“And what was that?”
“I need to know how to ask this amazing woman out.” Dominic stops as he reaches the counter. Mary-Margaret and Jan have put two and two together at this point. Jan elbows Mary-Margaret, and Mary-Margaret grabs Jan’s arm in suspense. Filthy voyeurs.
“She’s amazing?” The butterflies move from my stomach to my chest.
He nods.
“Have you tried sending her flowers?” I subdue a smile.
“Yeah, but I’m worried she might think it’s lame, and I’m not sure what to do next. I don’t even know if she’s single—”
“She’s single!” Mary-Margaret exclaims. Jan nods emphatically.
Dominic’s relieved smile says it all. “So, Elle, what do you think I should do? Do you think she’d even be interested in a guy like me?”
“Well.” I swallow. “It couldn’t hurt to give it a shot.”
“For crying out loud, just ask her!” Jan exclaims. I laugh and blush.
“Elle, would you like to go out with me tomorrow night?” Dominic turns a little pink himself. Mary-Margaret and Jan lean toward us, straining to hear my answer, like flowers reaching for the sun. I smell the bouquet and take my time answering, just to torture the girls, then abandon the pretence of nonchalance.
“I’d love to.”
“Great! Pick you up at eight?”
“Sure.” I scribble my number and address on a slip of paper. “Here’s my info.”
He takes the paper and carefully folds it. “See you tomorrow, Elle.” He walks out, and Jan and Mary-Margaret start in with the questions, clucking over me like a couple overwrought hens. I soak it all in. I can’t wait until tomorrow night.
Chapter Eight
Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Why did I agree to go on a date? This is insane. I’m not ready to date yet. I’ll just call him and explain that, what, that I had a mutual split that I was okay with but all of a sudden I’m not ready to date? No. Can I justify an illness? No, he could always stop by my work and witness my miraculous recovery. And what the hell, he’s a nice guy—more than nice. And his voice is epic, and he liked the books I recommended and damn it, I’m going out with him!
I will not sit around waiting for Jason, no matter how many pocket dials I get. Not that I was pining for him to come back to me. I’m waiting for him to come to his senses and come crawling back, wherein I will scoff so loud I hurt my throat and thoroughly reject his pathetic ass. So there.
Dominic doesn’t even really know me and he managed to buy me my favourite flowers. Jason couldn’t even do that when I told him what they were! It’s a sign. Well, I’m taking it as a sign. I’m so nervous. I hate first dates more than most people because of my synaesthesia. It limits the things I can do. Movies and concerts are generally out, I hate clubbing because the music is torturous, dinner’s okay, but can be boring if that’s the entire date. Dominic doesn’t even know about my condition so this should be interesting. Interesting and awkward.
My dating history has been pretty crappy. Most guys tend to throw up their hands in frustration and just decide I’m not worth the hassle after a couple dates. I can’t say that I really blame them all that much. But I’m not the type to say that my boyfriend can’t go somewhere if I can’t.
My reaction to sound can be positive or negative, sometimes benign; a song may just sound and feel mildly swirly. If I don’t like a type of music, country and punk are the worst, I physically can’t listen to the song, I have to get away or it gets worse and worse until the rest of my senses short circuit. Bad music makes me feel physically uncomfortable to the point it effects my emotions and frustrates me until I want to squirm inside out.
Dominic seems like a decent guy but my Synaesthesia is a giant pain. I’ll have to see how he handles it. He may not handle it at all. No sense freaking out about it getting serious if he doesn’t last past the first date. If he even shows up.
Oh my god, what if he stands me up? I don’t think I can take being abandoned again. I need to get high. I need to get high enough to function on our date, but not so high that I’m in a stupor. I’d be smoking to try to be functional, not to obliterate reality. My nerves are shot. What if I’m getting my hopes up for nothing and he doesn’t even show up?
No! I can’t go back to that smoky haze no matter how nervous I am.
Should I get a glass of wine to calm my nerves? No. Replacing one addiction for another isn’t the way to go. And I want to remember this date. These are, or should be, good nerves. A hot guy got me flowers and asked me out! This is a good thing!
Keeping this in mind, I truck along getting ready. Makeup and hair done, I fuss with my outfit and change my shirt for the fourth time tonight. The doorbell rings. A glance at my alarm clock shows that it is indeed Dominic, right on time for our date. I’m in a pair of inky blue jeans that Kennedy made that make my ass look twelve kinds of sexy and a silky dark silver tank top with soft, stretchy, lace trim. I grab a black suede wrap-top to go over it—another of Kennedy’s creations, and I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. There isn’t time for another wardrobe change.
Kennedy answers the front door as I walk out of my room. Damn! It’s not that I don’t want her and Nick to know about Dominic; I didn’t want them to have the opportunity to give him the third degree before I get to know him at all, outside of my face meeting his chest. I didn’t tell Kennedy about my date as I didn’t think she’d be here. Nick’s still at work and Kennedy’s supposed to be having drinks with someone. I hear Dominic ask if I’m home.
“I’m here, just a sec.” I stop to put my sexy stompy boots on. They give me a few inches of height, and are comfortable enough that I am pretty much covered for whatever the date throws at me, while also being stylish. Kennedy murmurs something and giggles, and I hear but can’t make out Dominic’s response. Interesting. Kennedy isn’t generally so friendly with my dates, preferring instead to play bad cop until she gets to know them. Not that I’ve had many. I grab my purse and stride to the front door.
“You look fabulous!” Kennedy’s gaze sweeps me head to toe.
“I think that’s my line,” Dominic replies.
“You two seem friendly,” I comment mildly. “Do you know each other?”
“Not really,” Kennedy says. “But I like this one. Have a great night, Elle. Take care of my girl, Dominic.” She pats him on the shoulder and walks into the kitchen. Strange.
“So, I’m ready to go.”
“You really do look amazing.”
“Thanks. So do you.” He’s wearing some jeans, boots, and a fitted, deep cranberry coloured sweater, almost a turtleneck, but it folds down with a cool asymmetrical button detail down one side from the neck to the collarbone. Very put together and sexy, and I like what I can see of his body.
We make our way to his car
. It’s actually a mid-size SUV, and an expensive one if looks are anything to go by. He opens my door for me and waits until I’m settled before shutting the door and walking around to his side. Jason never used to do that for me. In fact, he stopped even coming to the door—though we were in the apartment then. He’d just park outside and honk or send me a text.
Soft leather seats, spacious interior, this is a seriously expensive car. I gasp at the word above the radio. Maserati. Holy shit. What does Dominic do for a living? It’s not that I haven’t dated wealthy guys before, but this is next level wealth. The clothes, the car, the flowers he sent... what does he do? What if he’s a drug dealer? He’s too young to have amassed a fortune legally. I hope he’s not in the mob. Is there even a mob anymore? Do they call it the mob? He looks European; maybe it’s the Russian Mafia.
“Are you Russian?” I ask him as he opens the door.
Not having been part of my inner dialogue, my question must seem a bit out of left field, but he rolls with it.
“My grandmother on my dad’s side was Russian and French.”
“Ah.” KGB isn’t ruled out then. Kidding. Mostly. I don’t even want to know what he does, just in case it’s a deal breaker.
“And you?”
“Mostly Swedish and Irish. So, about tonight. I should let you know before we get too far into this date that I have a condition, and then you can decide if you still want to date me.” I keep it matter of fact—I’ve had to give this speech a few times, but it doesn’t hurt any less the more I tell it. Best to tear right into it, like removing a bandage.
“I have a condition called—”
“Synaesthesia.” Dominic finishes my sentence. Psychic KGB? What the hell?
“How do you know?”
“Well.” He looks a bit uncomfortable. “I sort of asked one of your coworkers for a couple things you might like to do on a date, and they told me about your condition and gave me Kennedy’s number. So I called her and found out some more specifics.”
Just Breathe Page 6
