Icy Pretty Love

by L. A. Rose

  I’m speechless.

  He slips the ball into his pocket and smiles sardonically. “But it doesn’t make any difference, does it? You’re not going to throw a hundred thousand dollars in the trash, so whether you hate me or not, it doesn’t affect your usefulness. A chess player doesn’t worry if his key piece dislikes him or not, as long as it does what it’s supposed to.”

  What. A. Jerk. I wish I’d been the one to pick up the golf ball, so I could peg him in the brain with it. “You’re right,” I spit. “All I have to do is burn a month here with you, and I’ll take my money and never think about you again. And I’ll start my life and find people to love me and I’ll get my happiness, and I still have a heart, so it’s possible for me. But you? You have every reason to be happy and you threw your heart on the fire anyway. I’ll never understand you. No one ever will.”

  I turn and storm back toward the others, leaving him alone under the wide sky.

  He’s having another nightmare.

  I can hear him, crying out hoarsely on the other side of the apartment. I’m in bed, the covers wrapped tight around me. The first time I hear him scream, I decide I imagined it. I’m sure even millionaire apartment buildings have creaky pipes. But the second time, it’s unmistakably him.

  I’m not going to go wake him up, not after everything.

  Maybe…maybe he deserves it.

  But by the sound of it, nobody deserves to have dreams that bad.

  I clamp my pillow around my head, but I can still hear him. It’s like he’s being torn apart. No matter how I feel about him, it still makes my heart twist savagely.

  There’s no rule about getting up and making a cup of tea, is there?

  And there’s no rule about knocking the kettle over so it clatters noisily to the ground, making such a racket that if there are any dead people nearby, they’re definitely turning in their graves.

  I make it back to my room just in time, because right when I’m about to shut my door, I hear his open. I hastily switch off the light and watch his figure through the crack. He crosses to the kitchen and picks up the kettle. In the moonlight from the enormous window, I see him glance at my door, but only for a moment. He sets the kettle on the kitchen counter. Then he collapses into a chair and puts his head in his hands.

  I feel like I’m watching something intimate, something painful. I want to go back to bed but can’t. Eventually he gets up and goes back to his room, switching on the light. Minutes later, he comes out fully dressed and leaves the apartment, shutting the door softly behind him.

  When he sleeps, he has nightmares.

  So, instead of sleeping, he goes out.

  But where does he go?

  Well, I’m not going to find out tonight. I shut the door and carry my tea to my bed. My phone’s on the bedside table. I haven’t texted Sam in a couple days. I reach for it.

  Now that I don’t have Cohen, he’s the only person I can be myself around.

  RG: HELLOOOOOOOOO

  Sam: Hell-no.

  RG: Wow I just laughed so hard I dumped boiling hot tea all over myself and died of third degree burns, congrats for killing me.

  Sam: Do I get a medal

  Sam: No, don’t answer that. The deed is reward in itself.

  RG: Ha-ha. The police are coming for you.

  Sam: To thank me, I assume.

  RG: You’re in rare form tonight.

  Sam: Sorry. Tough day.

  Sam: Wait, why am I apologizing to you? You’re the undead maniac I’ve never met who keeps texting me for no reason.

  RG: No, I had a very specific reason to text you.

  Sam: To annoy me?

  RG: To annoy you!

  RG: Jeez I sent that text right when I got your text. You must be psychic.

  Sam: Better than undead.

  RG: I disagree, we get more blockbuster movies. Anyway, why was your day bad?

  Sam: There’s something about that actually…it’s on the tip of my tongue…

  RG: You mean the tips of your fingers?

  Sam: Oh, yeah! It’s that it’s none of your business.

  RG: Touchy, touchy. You’re the one who brought it up.

  Sam: To my eternal regret.

  RG: Maybe you are undead, if you have eternal regrets.

  RG: Anyway I need your advice.

  Sam: What a surprise.

  RG: It’s about that guy again.

  Sam: What a surprise x2.

  RG: Your sass is a distinctly unnecessary part of this conversation, mister.

  Sam: I disagree. I think it sends an important message.

  Sam: Namely, “stop texting me.”

  RG: Okay well while you’re saying dumb boring things, I’ll tell you what my problem is.

  RG: I was starting to kind of like this guy. Trust him, even.

  RG: I just had this gut feeling I couldn’t shake that there’s more to him than he lets on.

  RG: That there was something important that all that meanness was protecting, and I wanted to find out what it was.

  RG: But then this woman I know told me that she used to be with him, and that he beat her.

  RG: I have no reason not to believe her.

  RG: But this guy, he says it’s not true, and pointed out that this woman has a good reason to want me to stay away from him.

  RG: And my instincts, which I’ve always trusted, are saying that he’s telling the truth.

  RG: But I know men. I know what they can do.

  RG: And I don’t want to be the kind of person who’d automatically assume she’s lying.

  RG: It’s hard. This is new. If any of my old girlfriends had told me a guy I knew had hit them, I’d believe them in an instant.

  RG: I don’t know what to do.

  Sam: Women don’t usually lie about that kind of thing.

  RG: Believe me, I know.

  Sam: And this guy’s an asshole, right?

  RG: Yeah, I know that too!

  RG: So you’re telling me…I should believe her?

  Sam: Here’s what I’m telling you.

  Sam: If you choose to believe he’s telling you the truth, you better do it for good reasons.

  Sam: It’s a decision you’ll have to stand by. No going halfway.

  RG: Right…ugh, my head hurts!

  Sam: Can I ask what is it about this guy that makes you want to trust him?

  Sam: A jerk that no one likes. I’m curious.

  RG: It’s…this is going to sound dumb.

  RG: It’s his laugh.

  RG: He almost never laughs, but when he does, it’s like this beautiful whole person shining out from behind all these dark clouds.

  RG: It feels so much more…real to me than the clouds do.

  RG: I want to get to know that person. Does that make sense?

  RG: Sam?

  RG: Sammmmmmmm

  RG: Boo :( Fine, then. I’m going to bed.

  RG: …thanks for talking to me.

  ~8~

  The next morning, I wake up to the sun spilling through parted curtains. For a second, when I open my eyes, all I see is white. It blazes me clean. I make a decision.

  I go and sit at the kitchen table, trying to act like someone who isn’t a nervous wreck. I scroll through my phone. Sam never replied to my messages last night. Maybe his phone died.

  Cohen’s not home yet, and I settle in for a long wait, but it’s barely five minutes before the door opens.

  I jump up. “Cohen, I need to talk—Jesus! What happened to your face!”

  “Nothing,” he snaps, shutting the door and turning around, but I’ve already seen his black eye. It’s as if one of his insomniac circles spread to flourish as a bruise in the tender skin between his eyelid and eyebrow. There’s a scrape just under his brow too, livid in the purpling skin.

  “That needs ice. Sit down, I’ll get it,” I say.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know I was taking orders from you now.” He glares. The bruise makes it even more intimidating to the average
onlooker, but I look past it, to the exhaustion.

  “Well, now you do,” I say with chilly politeness. “Sit down. I’m getting you ice, and then I’m going to make you a cup of tea and some breakfast. You look like you’re about to keel over.”

  His glare doesn’t abate, but he finally takes a seat. I rush into the kitchen, wrap a handful of ice in a paper towel, and put the kettle on before going back to the dining room. His lip curls as I lift his hair up to get a better look at the bruise, but he doesn’t swat me away.

  “Looks nasty,” I muse, holding the ice to it. A small hiss escapes his teeth at the pain, but I ignore it. “So who was brave and/or stupid enough to take a swing at you after one of your remarks?”

  “Someone who is almost definitely in the hospital this morning,” he says.

  For a second, my newfound faith in him shakes, but then I remember what Sam said. I have to stand by my decision to believe in him.

  I sigh heavily and push the ice into his hands. “God, you are making this so hard.”

  “What did I do now?” he says indignantly.

  “Besides sneak off in the middle of the night and come back looking like you’ve killed somebody?” I sit down. “I wanted to tell you something.”

  “I’m overjoyed,” he mutters.

  I glower. “I take it back.”

  “No, what were you going to say? I assumed it was something idiotic and now I want to know if I was right. I usually am.”

  “I’m only going to say it to someone who isn’t a complete and total ass,” I fire back.

  “The room happens to be empty of people who aren’t complete and total asses at the moment, so good luck.”

  The only people here are him and…me. Goddamn it. “Do you have a special premonition for when somebody’s going to say something nice to you, so you can cut them off by being even meaner than usual?”

  He adjusts the ice. “That explains why people generally don’t say nice things to me.”

  “Count me as one of them, then.”

  “I already knew what you were going to say.” He’s smirking. I hate him.

  “Is that a fact? Because…because I was about to tell you about…jellyfish. Lots of jellyfish facts. Yeah.”

  “No you weren’t,” he says. “You were about to tell me you’ve decided to believe me about Annabelle.”

  “The box jellyfish can sting up to—”

  “You’re being yourself again. That’s something you only save for people you like and trust.” His smile gets wider.

  “Just because you’re right about the Annabelle thing doesn’t mean I li—”

  “So I was right. As usual.”

  In the kitchen, the kettle’s boiling over, as is my temper. To stop myself from pouring both of those things all over his head, I run in and turn off the stove. Then I toast a baguette and make some scrambled eggs to give myself time to cool down.

  Am I doing the right thing?

  My stomach answers the question for me. For the first time since Annabelle showed up, it’s not doing backflips.

  I slide the food onto two plates and carry them back into the dining room. Cohen’s abandoned his ice, and it’s melting into a puddle in the center of the table. When I pass him a plate, he eyes it suspiciously.

  “You’re welcome,” I say.

  “Did you poison this?”

  “Yes, Cohen. I’m going to murder you because that definitely wouldn’t stop your father from paying me. Not at all.”

  He takes one bite of egg and grunts. High praise, coming from him.

  “Thank you, this is delicious,” I instruct. “That’s what you say.”

  “They’re eggs.”

  “They’re goddamn delicious eggs and you know it. I put cheese in them. Thank me!”

  “Gratitude doesn’t count under duress—”

  I snatch the plate away. He looks at it sadly.

  “Thank me,” I say.

  “Thank you. Now give them back.”

  “Give them back, please.”

  “Does this mean the niceness lessons are back on?”

  “I think you mean, keep giving me niceness lessons, please.”

  “This is moronic—”

  “Your breakfast is getting cold.”

  “Fine. Please will you give it back, and please will you continue to torture me under the guise of making me a better person.”

  “Good!” I say brightly, returning the food. He digs in.

  “What made you change your mind?” he asks after a while.

  “Well.” I hesitate. “Any other time, any other person, and I’d believe her and not you. I want you to know that.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “But there was a voice inside me that kept insisting you were telling the truth. That voice has never led me astray before.”

  “Hearing voices is the second sign of madness,” he says.

  “What’s the first sign?”

  “Trusting me.”

  It’s almost like he wants me to believe Annabelle. Like that would be easier for him, somehow. “I guess I’m full-on crazy, then.”

  “Apparently.”

  We eat in silence for another few minutes. I wonder if this is what it would feel like if I really was engaged. Eating breakfast together in a comfortable quiet…I’ve never known that. The only thing I’m used to is the early-morning escape.

  If Georgette Montgomery was real, she’d be a lucky girl.

  But she’s not. And I have to remember that.

  I finish eating and stand up. “All right. We’re behind on the niceness lessons and we gotta catch up. I’m only here for a month and the clock is ticking.”

  “What’s planned for today? Someone peels my fingernails off one by one and I’m supposed to compliment them on their wardrobe?” But his tone isn’t quite as harsh as usual. If I weren’t an idiot, I’d say he was hiding contentment.

  “Today,” I announce, “we are going to go to the catacombs. Yes another cool Parisian touristy thing I’m sure you haven’t done yet.”

  He leans back. “I’m starting to suspect you’re using these niceness lessons as an excuse to hit all the stereotypical tourist spots.”

  “I am offended. Deeply, deeply offended. I try my hardest to improve your attitude and you repay me by being a jerkface.” I sniff. “Can I help it if you happen to be annoyed by loud people and crowded places and that just so happens to be a description of all the fun places in Paris?”

  “You sure you want to go to the catacombs, of all places? You do realize it’s a dark tunnel full of human skulls.”

  I blink. “Is that what it is?”

  He snorts.

  “What? All I knew about it was that it was a thing lots of people went to see in Paris, so I just assumed it’d be fun.”

  “Things that large crowds of people enjoy doing are very rarely fun.”

  “Now we’re definitely doing it, if only because you’re a giant party pooper.” I grab his plate. “Get dressed. We’re going now.”

  "Now? I was planning on getting some work done—"

  "If you wanted to get work done today, you shouldn't have been out all night. We're going to go stare at some skulls whether you like it or not. Call your mysterious driver."

  "His name is Geoff."

  "Call Geoff. These are valuable minutes that we're not spending looking at creepy-ass skulls."

  "Do you know you do that?" he says later as we're on our way out of the building, Renard nodding at us suspiciously. He always nods at me suspiciously, like I'm carting Cohen off for black-market organ collection or something. To be fair, it'd be interesting to find out if his heart is normal. Maybe it's black and shriveled. Maybe it's located in his toe. That would make anyone grumpy.

  "Do what?" I ask. His heart must be the size of a peanut if it's located in his toe. Or a smallish strawberry, depending on which toe. I should ask.

  "You add ‘ass’ to random words. Creepy-ass. Weird-ass. Stupid-ass. Do these adjecti
ves actually just apply to the asses of the subject, or...?"

  "If you spoke to more young people instead of weird-ass old businessmen, you'd know this is how hip young people talk."

  "You mean hip-ass young people?"

  "The -ass is generally applied to words with a negative connotation. Also, hip-ass sounds weird because hips are a body part. Like someone whose hips are combined with their ass."

  "So you mean hip-ass sounds weird-ass."

  "Shut up. Now it's sounding weird to me."

  "You mean weird-ass—”

  "Shut up!" I scream, pounding his shoulder. The divider rolls down and I get my first glimpse of Geoff, a harried-looking man in his thirties with a mustache probably envied by sea captains all over the world. He stares at me in amazement. He's probably not used to people telling his grouchiest passenger to shut up. Or touching them voluntarily.

  Cohen smirks.

  "You were just trying to annoy me," I accuse.