I dry my hands on a towel, not sure if she's lost in thought or wanting to carry on our discussion. She's hard to read.
"Oh," I say, in an afterthought, "that guy over there was asking for you."
She looks past me to Mr. Suit. He flashes her a charming, pearly smile that she doesn't return.
I laugh inwardly.
Men are pathetic. The way they see a beautiful face and completely miss the blatant disinterest written all over it. I'm almost sure she'll make a point to head off in the opposite direction. But, to my surprise, she heads over to talk to him. It appears the two have met before, which would explain why he asked for her. Yet, he didn't know her name.
Well, that's a first.
I've seen her get hit on more than once in the time I've worked here. But never have I seen her lean into it in any way. That's actually one of the things about her I admire—how she handles male attention. Me, it makes me defensive. But she doesn't let it go to her head or get under her skin. She's indifferent to it and that, I think, is the essence I want to embody.
I try to grab snippets of their conversation, like the shameless eavesdropper I am, but I can't manage to catch a coherent word due to the ambient noise and music playing through the overhead speakers. They talk for over ten minutes, while I tend to a few other customers.
When they finish, he leaves and when Lex passes me again, I hear myself ask, "Who is that guy?" and immediately regret it. My question is too interested and gossipy. She and I are not at that level, I remind myself. We aren't friends.
"Just a guy," she says, straight faced, then turns her attention to a cocktail sitting on the service bar. "No one's picked up this drink yet?"
Before I can respond to her question, she reads the order receipt and whisks the drink away to its table. And I know that later on tonight, one of the servers is going to get an icy scolding for their lapse.
The rest of my shift goes smoothly enough. There's just one obnoxiously drunk guy to deal with, whose drinks I take the liberty of watering down before finally cutting him off. Otherwise, it's a quiet Wednesday night, hours ticking past slower than usual as I look forward to peace and quiet.
Afterward I sit in my car, my face illuminated by my phone screen as I scroll past names on my contact list. I've caught myself doing this over the last few nights, just watching the names go by and feeling a slight pull behind my navel when I reach the names of my sisters.
The emails from friends have dwindled away over the past few months. I'm relieved because I don't need the constant reminder. Nor do I need the disingenuous concern from people who I rarely talked to until they heard what happened. It was as if people wanted me to entertain them, wanted details of my personal life to distract themselves from their own reality. I refused to be an act in someone's circus and that meant alienating myself.
It's funny, really. I used to complain of not having a moment to myself. Living with my two sisters and my very conservative parents felt suffocating. But now, sitting in my car after a long shift, the slow build of nostalgia grows in my chest. The desire to hear a familiar voice, a familiar laugh.
I guess I didn't realize how often I'd unwind by telling my sisters about my day. They're my closest friends and just one simple phone call away. If I just allowed my finger to tap on Cassandra's name, I'd hear my older sister's voice and her loud, infectious energy would fill my car. Calling Lola, on the other hand, would guarantee an update on her love life, which is always eventful.
But I haven't spoken to either of my sisters in a while. We haven't had an easy conversation since the day I was sure everyone was ganging up on me, when I felt my sisters were just mouthpieces for my parents, scolding me in indirect ways.
Looking back, I wonder if maybe I'd been overly defensive and too hurt to see their questions for what they were—concern. Time and distance have a way of putting things in perspective.
And though I'm not upset with them anymore, I still scroll past both of their names, my pride not quite allowing me to press call. Calling either of my sisters carries the load from the weeks of silence, like a physical barrier we would have to climb over in conversation. That climb feels too daunting for me to tackle tonight, so, once again, I make the choice to put my phone away, to avoid facing the music for a little longer.
CHAPTER FOUR
Julia
I'M BATHED IN THE blinding light pouring from overhead, my surroundings reduced to spots of colors from my distorted vision. Blue, tan, black, and gray halos of color.
There's an echo of a tuning microphone still trembling in my eardrum, drowning out what seems to be silence beyond. And as I try to bring something into sharp focus, the sounds of the microphone die out and I realize there are other noises, too. Movements, soft murmurs. The halos of blue and tan sharpen into auditorium seats, the other colors becoming the clothing of the people sitting in them.
I'm standing on a stage and the surrounding air grows a few degrees colder. I'm aware of my arms resting loosely at my sides. At the air pressing against every inch of my skin. Because I'm naked. I'm naked and I can't move.
I'm naked and every eye in the room is looking at me. No, not just looking at me. They're pointing, critiquing, discussing what they see amongst themselves. Anger fills me, because I didn't agree to this, I didn't tell them they could look. But their faces are relaxed and unapologetic as their curious eyes roam freely, never quite locking with my own. It's as if I'm trapped in a painting, reduced to something inanimate, with no right to be upset.
A wave of nausea washes over me, bringing up thick embarrassment at the fact that I'm still standing here, allowing it to happen. Because I'm frozen, trapped in my own skin.
I wake up with a sharp gasp, heart pounding, and eyes shut tight in the relief of knowing I'm awake. With my eyes closed, all I know is that I'm lying face down on soft cotton sheets. As I stir, my fingertips spreading across the linens, a new scent reaches me. A light, citrus smell, not the usual lavender of my aunt's detergent.
I open my eyes, blinking a few times at the light streaming in through the open blinds. This room is unfamiliar and for one wild second, I'm plunged into a panic of not knowing where I am. But just as quickly as it came, the grip over my stomach relaxes when I remember I've just spent my first night in my new room.
I sit up and take in my surroundings as I push the bed covers aside. The small room seems more spacious than it should. Not just because of its light, airy color of pale tan, but because there's practically nothing in it. My full-sized bed, courtesy of my uncle, is pushed into the corner of the room, with a single nightstand to its side. The plain, wooden bed frame is the only decorative element in the room.
Making this room feel like home is going to take time. And money. Money I shouldn't spend on frivolous things when I need to continue to save for my living expenses that will come fall quarter.
I sit on my bed for a few minutes, listening for sounds beyond my door. I only saw Ava for a few minutes yesterday as I was bringing my stuff in with my uncle. She was headed out to work. I didn't ask about Giles, but I didn't see him at all. By seven o'clock, I was completely moved in but my roommates were nowhere to be seen. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but living with two other people and not seeing either one of them for the entire night certainly wasn't it.
I wonder if Giles is home. And if he's in bed, I wonder if he's alone. In my mind's eye, I picture the hall outside of my room and, on the other end, the door to his room. Nerves flutter at the base of my stomach.
It's an easy assumption that the guy gets around. I might have guessed it even if Ava hadn't insinuated as much with her small comments about him whoring it up after his breakup. The guy's got the type of looks that lend to not having issues picking up a companion for the night. Living on a college campus, I'm sure the options are plentiful.
It doesn't sound like anyone's out in the living room or kitchen, so it's probably safe for me to go out and grab breakfast. Yet, even that doesn't give me the ur
ge to go into the hall right now. Last night, feeling restless from being in an empty house, I drove to Target and wandered around the aisles for hours, mentally making a long list of the decor I'll buy when I can justify the expense. I did pick up a pair of white curtains that were on sale, along with a cheap curtain rod.
And now, as I spy the tool bag my uncle accidentally left behind, I decide I want to put up the curtains. Kind of a strange thing to want to do first thing in the morning, but somehow I'm convinced a simple pair of curtains will wrap me in a setting of familiarity and comfort.
Ten minutes later, I'm ready to admit that maybe this wasn't a good idea. The tallest thing in my room is my bed so I have to extend my arms over my head, trying to secure the hooks of the curtain rod to the wall. Wouldn't be a problem if this electric screwdriver didn't weigh an extra pound every second. A stray strand of hair loosens and falls across my face, forcing me to blow out a huff of air to get it out of my eyes.
"Damn it," I hiss, arm muscles burning as I try to move the holes of the hook back into the right position. The angle I'm holding the piece of metal is awkward enough and it doesn't help I can barely see what I'm doing.
"That looks like a fun time."
The unexpected sarcastic voice jars me to the point that the hook fumbles from my fingers and falls to the bed, bouncing onto the floor. I turn, slightly frazzled by the interruption, to see Giles standing inside my room.
Inside my room. Not at the doorway, not hesitating with his hands still gripping the door, but a good five steps inside, with the door ajar behind him.
"What are you doing in here?"
"I should ask you. You look like you're struggling."
A sliver of embarrassment runs through me. Putting up a curtain rod isn't freaking rocket science. But I had to go and make it difficult by thinking I could stand on my tiptoes without even being able to see what I'm doing properly.
"You can't just come into my room without asking," I say, firmly.
"I heard power tools and grunting. I was concerned." He holds out a hand. "Give it to me. I'll screw it in for you."
His eyes are always slightly narrowed and slanted in a way that makes him look mischievous even when he's serious. His playful expression is almost disarming. But it leaves a prickle of heat on my cheeks. I didn't miss his innuendo.
The electric screwdriver hangs loosely at my side, my fingers clutched over the handle. Standing on the elevated platform of my bed in my pajama shorts in front of a stranger leaves me feeling exposed. It doesn't help that his sights lower not so briefly to take in my attire.
My stomach sinks at the realization I'm not wearing a bra, a fact that will be very obvious beyond the thin material of my cotton t-shirt.
I had C cups as a twelve-year-old and these suckers didn't stop growing until I was eighteen. It wasn't good for me as a kid, having a woman's figure before I even understood that it changed the way people looked at me, the way they treated me. A lot of my friends were jealous of the attention I got from guys, but I hated it. While other girls were able to wear cute, frilly clothes, I stuck to loose fitting t-shirts in an attempt to hide my frame. But even that didn't keep me from being subjected to unwanted attention from men twice and even three times my age. It didn't keep rumors from spreading around my middle school that I was a whore even while I had been too shy to even kiss a boy. My curves became something I was made to feel self-conscious of. All because men couldn't be bothered not to ogle me like a piece of meat on display.
I push a loose strand of hair behind my ear and say, "I'm fine. You can go."
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm taller than you by at least a foot," he says, gaze dragging over me again as though my height is written on my body. "Come on, let me do it. It'll take me two minutes."
Am I being ridiculous? His words remind me of arguments I used to have with my older sister, where I'd stand my ground on some weak subject and she'd say, Really, Julia, is this the hill you want to fight and die on? Is it really that big of a deal?
The hill I stand on this time is my bed but, yeah, guess I'm just as stubborn as ever. I don't understand why he's insisting, like he's so sure I can't possibly put up these curtains without him.
"I can do it myself," I say, pulling back a fraction.
I'm unprepared when Giles reaches out in an attempt to snatch the tool from my hand. My finger slips, and a sudden drilling sound erupts followed by a sharp groan of pain. I freeze, mortified that I've severed his finger as Giles curses loudly.
When he pulls his hand back, there's an angry red mark on the back of it, right where his thumb meets his wrist. A small section of skin has been scraped off and blood is quickly pooling there. I drop the tool onto the bed, the start of an apology on my parted lips. I grab his hand without thinking.
"Shit, let me see."
"It's just a scratch." He yanks his hand back, already turning away when he throws his other hand in the air and adds, "Good luck putting up your own damn curtains."
My guilt dissipates at his rude tone and the need to call after him as he disappears past the doorframe wins out. "I never asked for your help."
He lets the door slam shut behind him and I turn back to the window. I'm breathing hard, my pulse is quick in my ears, and there's a strange swirl of annoyance and determination growing inside me.
He can go lick his wound somewhere else for all I care. I know he thinks I can't do it, but I'm going to hang this damn curtain rod on my own if it's the last thing I do.
CHAPTER FIVE
Giles
A DOOR CREAKS OPEN and I look up from where I sit at the kitchen table. I can't see further down the hall than the bathroom door, but the hesitant footsteps on the hardwood floor tell me Julia's finally coming out of her room.
I don't know why she's sneaking out so quietly. Maybe she's hoping to make sure she's alone. Maybe the girl's crazy. I like crazy. I'm just not sure about the type of crazy that nearly drills a hole through my hand.
I glance down at the spoonful of cereal halfway to my mouth. There's a bandage covering the space between my thumb and forefinger, but I don't plan to wear it long. The wound really is just a scratch, but it bled like crazy for the first few minutes until I covered it.
I'm still chewing when Julia comes into view, stopping short when she sees me.
"Oh," she says.
It's more of a sound than a word. The remnants of relief drain from her face and I know she didn't expect anyone to be in the kitchen when she left her room.
She's still wearing shorts and a t-shirt. Though, to my disappointment, she took the time to put on a bra.
"Good morning to you, too," I say. "And apology accepted."
"You mean for you barging into my room without permission? Because, no. Apology not received."
I hold up my bandaged hand. "I would apologize, but I think we're even. Though next time I'd appreciate a less violent resolution."
She crosses her arms over her chest. "Yeah, like maybe next time you can get over yourself thinking I need a penis to handle power tools. I put the curtain up just fine, by the way."
"Consider me impressed." Leaning back in my chair, I rub my bare stomach. "But I'm a little disappointed. I can't tell if you're cold or not, anymore."
Her eyes narrow right away, catching my reference. "Wish I could say the same for you. Did you lose your shirt?"
"Maybe," I say with an innocent smile. She holds my gaze a little too intently. I think she's resisting the urge to check me out. I wouldn't mind. I've been hitting the gym more than usual lately. I like appreciative looks. "Or maybe I got blood on it."
"And you don't own any other shirts?"
"I do. Just testing out a theory."
Her mouth half-opens before closing right away, and she resists taking the bait of asking me what my theory is. My shirtless state isn't really meant to prove anything, but I figured it wouldn't hurt.
She walks past me and heads farther into the kitchen. If she's uncomfortable, she hide
s it well. She moves through the kitchen as if she's familiar with the house already. Like she is staking her claim over living here.
Something about Julia makes it hard for me to take my eyes off of her. It's strange. She isn't the type I've been going after. She seems too defensive and not the sort to enjoy fooling around. Anyway, everyone knows that I've acquired a taste for blondes lately.
Julia thinks we met for the first time in the coffee shop, and while it's technically true, I noticed her around campus a few weeks before. She epically shot down one of my friends when he tried to hit on her. I'm not sure what he said to her, I was sitting a few feet away from her table in the library, but the testy way she responded to him was hilarious to watch. It was also pretty damn hot.
When she snapped at me in the coffee shop, I couldn't help but try to push her buttons. Once again, the look on her face was priceless. She gets a rebellious spark in her eyes. A feisty feline, that one, so easily combative.
Ava gave me just one warning about our new roommate. She's not into guys. I assumed she meant the girl coming to live with us was a lesbian. But when I walked in to see Julia standing in the living room that first day, I knew it wasn't true. I'm good at reading women and Julia's definitely into guys.
"Where's Ava?" she asks, out of nowhere. "Does she even really live here?"
Her tone is sarcastic, but there's something about the nervous glance she shoots my way that tells me she's worried it might be true. Worried she was tricked into living alone with me. I could only dream I'd have her to myself like that. She'd be in my bed, spread-eagle every night.
"Ava's working," I say. "She dropped to part-time classes this quarter to take on three jobs."
"Her mom," Julia says, under her breath. It's not a complete thought, but I know what she means. I'm surprised Ava told her about the expenses of my aunt's care.
Julia grabs a bowl from the cabinet, making a point to not look in my direction again as she takes the milk out of the refrigerator.
Enamor (Hearts of Stone #3) Page 3
