Mirrors (Reflections Book 1)

by A. L. Woods

  My fingers traced all the places my sister had dog-eared the pages. I always hated that she had done that. She retorted that meant the books were well loved. I jested that she was a monster.

  In the end, only one of us had been a monster, and it had never been her.

  My sister and the fictional Jennifer North shared an archetype—being too giving, too kind, and in the end, too fixated on doing whatever they could to make the pain go away.

  “What’s up?”

  Penelope was painfully reticent, despite her thoughts feeling as loud as Batty Betty’s rerun of American Idol in the apartment upstairs.

  Penelope didn’t have to tell me she was worried; I could practically see her quirking brow and pinched lips, despite the seven miles and the stretch of the I-93 between us.

  Finally, she cleared her throat, lifting the air of restraint with it. “O’Malley’s tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” A yawn ripped through me.

  “You okay?” she pressed, her reserve lasting all of thirty seconds—an impressive feat for someone whose favorite pastime for the past decade had been worrying about me, it seemed. “You sound off.”

  “I was asleep,” I reminded her.

  That silence returned, the one that was full of all the things she wanted to say—but wouldn’t. One of my eyebrows quirked upward with suspicion, but I thought better of indulging her right now. I was tired, and she was needlessly worrying, because in typical Penelope fashion, that was just what she did.

  “If you need me, you’ll call, right?”

  “Always.”

  “Okay.” I heard the tight sigh escape her, the soft tuck of her golden hair behind her ear. “’Cause if you did, you know I’d be there in a heartbeat.”

  A smile tilted the corners of my mouth, relief I hadn’t realized I needed seeping into my chest and releasing the shackles that weighed down my heart.

  “I know you would.”

  “Raquel,” she began, her voice trailing off like she wanted to say something else to me. For some reason, my body sat upright, the transient reprieve I felt only seconds ago in a sort of time suspension, the shackles dangling.

  “Try to stop drinking coffee after five, you know it messes with you,” she said.

  The heaviness left my chest, my lungs drawing in a full breath, a laugh escaping me. “I’m starting to think you’re trying to avoid riding Alaska dick in your shower right now.”

  Naturally, she feigned offense, a scoff on par with her pearl-clutching mother leaving her before it was replaced by an easy-natured giggle.

  “Night, Kell.”

  “Night, Pen.”

  I shook my head as I ended the call, pressing my back against the black wrought iron of my headboard. I lived in a terra cotta redbrick five-story building that abutted a nearby public housing project two blocks over in Dorchester. The structure itself had been built in 1890, its age reflective on the exterior with its neoclassical structure, sash windows, various gable roofs and finial point that sat like a misplaced crown on the roof.

  The interior was another story—it lacked the charm the exterior of the building possessed, and was reminiscent of an eighties sitcom. My unit was no more than four hundred square feet and consisted of all of three feet of green Formica countertops glued onto cheap yellow cabinets. My unit had the world’s smallest oven and an exhausted-looking yellow fridge that was the newest appliance in this room with its 1982 purchase date (I was speculating on that salient detail, of course—it could be 1977 but a lady never shares her age.)

  Like my desk at The Advocate, I didn’t keep personal effects in my apartment, either—save for a lone framed photo of Holly Jane when she was five sporting a sundress, her hair parted into pigtails. It was my only remaining photo of her, my most prized possession. It sat proudly displayed on an antique mahogany wood secretary that was laden with gold curlicue that Penelope had given me for my twenty-fifth birthday.

  I was confident that the desk cost more than any other material item I owned. It was also the last time I had allowed myself the opportunity to cry. To the average person, it might have just been a desk. To me, it was the first time someone had bought something with me exclusively in mind. Of course, she had given me plenty of things before, but the sentiment behind the desk hadn’t been wasted on me.

  She believed in me without apology, and yet, I had done nothing but routinely fail her.

  The weight of my failure sat deep inside of the secretary drawer alongside a slew of rejection letters that would never see the light of day again.

  The revered desk was nestled close to the bathroom door. The bathroom was furnished with black-and-white checkered linoleum that was lifting in the corners, an antiquated clawfoot tub that sat flush beneath the only other window in the apartment, and a pedestal sink that was littered with a tiny makeup bag, a toothbrush and a nearly empty tube of toothpaste.

  My eyes bounced around the room, taking in the barrenness that was my space. An oversized, God-ugly Aztec floor rug made of red and various shades of blue fibers covered the weathered honey-oak parquet flooring that I disliked almost as much as the rug itself. In my living room/bedroom/whatever-fuckin-else main room, I had a single dark brown leather loveseat that I inherited from the apartment Penelope and I shared when we moved off campus sophomore year. That one piece of furniture served triple duty: my eating place, reading nook, and the place were I propped up my feet up when I remembered my college therapist’s suggestion that I leave my bed for sleep and…well, sex.

  The latter rarely, if ever, occurred. I didn’t like people in my space. The idea of someone leafing through my things while I was in the bathroom or appraising me based on the location of my apartment or the mismatched furniture it contained, filled me with anxiety.

  Which is perhaps what made the fact that I had done nothing but dream about Sean Tavares for last couple of damn weeks so unbelievably humiliating. Sometimes, he would just sit all brooding on the love seat, an ankle hooked over his knee, head tilted to the left, watching me with his disarming dark stare until one of his infamous cavalier smiles made their appearance. Other times, he emerged from the bathroom, the door swinging open, the steam from the shower shrouding his features as it rushed out from the room behind him, wearing a towel wrapped around his waist, held together by his clamped fist because the material ran short. Droplets of water ran in a rivulet down the plane of chest, settling into the valleys of his abs.

  Abs I was merely speculating he had.

  I blamed Penelope for the urgency and persistence of these…God, I didn’t want to call them fantasies. That word was so clandestine and made me feel like I was doing wrong. It was her fault to begin with.

  Machination. That’s what it was. A machination formed at Penelope’s behest.

  Penelope, in all of her infinite well-meaning wisdom, had planted that stupid seed of a fantasy in my mind that had sprouted into a deep-rooted, unyielding fucking tree—and it would take a damn axe to get it down a la Jack Torrance style in The Shining.

  “Broaden your horizons. You liked looking at Sean.”

  No fucking shit. I had enjoyed his visage and lean frame with biceps that strained against that suit jacket, so much so that I couldn’t get the son of a bitch out of my head even when I was entirely conscious.

  A dissonance erupted within me every time I thought of him, and admittedly—to my horror—I thought of him a lot, and I liked it.

  This was teetering against that dangerous line of what I considered juvenile: an elementary school crush with the childishly scrawled initials “R+S” encircled inside a poorly drawn heart.

  Try as I may to erase the shit out of that heart and draw a jagged fissure through its center, his stupid bedroom eyes and intoxicating smile appeared on the back of my eyelids when I didn’t want them to. My mind was discriminatory for the number of times it would allow itself to focus on Sean, wondering what was he doing, what did he think about certain things, or if there was any substance inside of th
at arrogant, mind of his that made him even marginally interesting? Or was he as I imagined…all muscle and cock and not a whole lot of anything else?

  It felt as if the harder I fought to remove his hold on my thoughts, my brain fought back and my mind did the unthinkable: It fantasized about whether the calluses of his hands would feel as good exploring my body the way they did when my eyes drifted shut and thoughts of his lean body moving in tandem with mine filled my mind. (Kill me, please. Someone. Just. Kill. Me.)

  The thought alone was enough to send a current of electricity that started at my toes and hit my core, inducing my knees to clamp together. My pulse quickened in my neck, breath straining in my chest as another unbidden thought slammed into me.

  His greedy mouth was working against my own, demanding and taking until there was nothing left.

  Stupid. I was being stupid. It was all wistful thinking, the kind that would never go anywhere, yet my roaming mind went everywhere.

  This was a personal hell, my devil being six feet, two inches and two hundred pounds of rippling muscles and sex appeal.

  Huffing out a languid sigh, I reached for the lamp and killed the light. The room immediately darkened with nothing but muted moonlight that teased the gossamer curtains in my room and cast subtle shadows across my body. Peeling away the top sheet, I slithered in, the cool if slightly scratchy polyester a welcome reprieve against my skin.

  My lids dropped shut, and I found myself concentrating on my breathing as I did every night. Cool air filtered through my nasal cavities, my lips parted to expel the hot air out in exchange. I focused on the steady rise and fall of my chest, my lips pursing together, willing sleep to come.

  Yet, it didn’t.

  Fuck.

  I tossed to the right, working my face into the pillow. When that didn’t work, I shifted to the left, my fists beating into the filling of my pillow to create clearance for the crook of my neck. Then I found myself on my back, looking at the popcorn ceiling, my eyes opened in defeat, an exasperated and pained sigh leaving me.

  This was the worst part about trying to sleep at this time of year. Every thought that Sean didn’t consume, my guilt from the past snatched up, ready to chase off any morsel of normality I might have felt for the briefest of moments.

  Pulling the duvet over my head, I buried my face into my pillow. My inhalations felt strangled, the air hot as it filtered through my sinuses, holding a hint of lemon fresh-scented laundry detergent. My lungs expanded as I let out a muffled scream of suppressed anger and everything else that I had been toting around the last couple of weeks, the sound absorbed by the fibers of my bed linen. I screamed until my chest ached, and the unshed tears that I refused to let fall burned the back of my lids. Only when my lungs were emptied and I had nothing left to give did I stop.

  When my throat ached from the frisson of rage that had left me in a state of momentary catharsis, I shifted onto my back once more, staring up at the ceiling, counting out each pebble in the popcorn pattern like sheep, waiting with bated breath for sleep to return—but even if it didn’t, I felt lighter with the emotional release that had been absorbed by polyester and cotton.

  Then my phone buzzed.

  I reached for it out of instinct, flipping it open. My messages icon flashed. Penelope was so damn paranoid, she probably wanted to confirm I had stopped drinking coffee.

  Opening the application, my heart hit the first floor of my building at the single-word text message from a number I didn’t recognize.

  One word.

  That was all it took to speed up my heart rate, pinch together my shoulders, and tighten my core. The release I had obtained only moments earlier from my screaming session dissipated like a blown-out candle, irritation replacing it once more.

  I read the text seven times, closed my phone, and placed it face down next to me, gingerly, as if it was a hand grenade and a sudden movement would cause it to detonate.

  How had he gotten my number?

  Hemingway.

  That stupid nickname.

  Was I angry at his persistence, or enthralled by his tenacity?

  I fought to hold onto my indignation while reaching for the phone I’d just put down. My fingers moved furiously across the smooth edges of the keypad, returning his single-word text message with one of my own.

  Asshole.

  I was going to fucking kill Penelope. I opened up a new message and was thumbing out a haughty text to her when another appeared from the bane of my existence:

  That’s the best you can come up with?

  My cheeks flushed as the sound of his laugh filled my mind. I sent off my disdainful message to Penelope before returning to Sean’s text. My heart rate quickened, my thumbs working across the QWERTY keypad.

  You’re right. Dickhead sounds better.

  Petty should have been my middle name. Penelope’s response dinged off at the same time his came in. I read hers first.

  Yes, I gave him your number. I’m not sorry about it. I meant what I said: broaden your horizons. I *know* what you’re going to do with that Chucklehead otherwise.

  I mentally took back all the nice things I’d ever said about Penelope. She was a meddling pain in the ass right now, and I didn’t give a shit what she thought about my yearly bed partner.

  You had no right to do that!

  Yes, I did. It’s in the fine print of the best friend contract you signed September 1998.

  As I noodled on my response to Penelope, I moved back to Sean’s text, which sent my brow upward as I read his rebuttal:

  You disappoint me, Hemingway.

  I huffed, a strangled laugh crawling out from the back of my throat as an idea bloomed inside of me. I shot back another sarcastic remark, one that actually carried a modicum of both credence and humor:

  You’re not the first to be disappointed by me, Slim.

  A minute passed by, as though he was considering the usage of the word at the end of the message, then an incoming message induced a small buzz from my phone:

  Slim?

  I couldn’t contain the smarmy smile that tilted my mouth while my fingers typed out my next reply:

  Yes. Slim. I’ve decided that’s your nickname.

  His response came within seconds:

  Why?

  My heart was a thunderous snare drum inside me, a sliver of a tremble coursing through me as I prepared to send out a response I wasn’t totally convinced I believed:

  Because you have a slim chance of sleeping with me.

  The seconds stretched into minutes, my heartbeat tapering off into a normal rhythm. I closed the phone, wiping the sweat from my clammy palms on my duvet. I congratulated myself with a triumphant head nod, deciding that my response had been enough to set him straight.

  Just like I wanted. Right?

  My stomach roiled as the disappointment settled that he hadn’t bothered to reply after that. Of course he wouldn’t. Who would? I had done nothing but shoot him down at every attempt he had made. I would have conceded defeat, too. I didn’t have the right to be dismayed by his attempts that I had thwarted.

  I cannot believe you gave him my number.

  Get over it, Raquel. Fuck him.

  A growl burned my throat, her words boring into my mind. I hated her. I hated when she conspired to get me to do what she wanted. The screen of my phone flickered, producing a huff out of me, and my eyes watched as the backlight dimmed and then returned to a state of normality. I punched back another remark:

  I’m not fucking him.

  Not fucking who?

  My teeth ground together as I went to type my response: Sean!

  It made me crazy when she played coy. It was her least attractive feature. That wide blue-eyed stare didn’t have the same effect through texting as it did when she was directly in front of me.

  She was taking too long to reply and that just made me more incorrigible. I squeezed the phone in my fist as I looked up at the ceiling. I should have never gone to that house or done that inte
rview. The fire department would have been happy to have their cover story, and I wouldn’t be engaged in a near argument with my best friend over the violation of my trust and trying to convince a man I wanted to fuck into believing that I didn’t want to fuck him.

  Fuck. Had I actually thought that? No. No. No. My mind buzzed with the realization as another text message from Penelope came in.

  My brows crashed downward as I read it.

  Never say never. I can dream, right?

  What. The. Fuck.

  I shrieked in horror, kicking the bedsheets away, my heart pumping wildly in my chest. I had just done the fucking unthinkable.

  My eyes lifted to the contact details, the unfamiliar 508 number staring back at me.

  That wasn’t Penelope’s number, that was Sean’s.

  And I’d just said that I wasn’t fucking him.

  Humiliation slammed into me, my cheeks burning. How had I done that? I tried to go back to the main window of the messaging app, but the thing glitched, Sean’s message staring back at me. My thumb pressed so hard on the back button of the phone that the skin on it ached. It was useless. Either the phone was frozen, or that drop had done more damage to it then I had realized.

  Another message came in:

  That wasn’t meant for me, was it?

  Well, that was a no-brainer.

  No.

  I moved to put the phone back onto my nightstand when another message palpitated through. I was shocked by how quick my fingers fumbled to open the phone and read his response.

  Up until this point, I had survived life even when the odds had been stacked against me, but this left me certain that my cause of my impending death would be mortification.

  Have you thought about it?

  Heat flushed my cheeks, my jaw working at his wanton lack of care. I understood what it meant perfectly fine.

  Absolutely not.

  I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who has worked so hard to convince themselves that they weren’t interested in sleeping with me before.

  My heart set off on another drum solo, the weight of his text heavy in my heart.