Mirrors (Reflections Book 1)

by A. L. Woods

  There was nothing wrong with what I did for a living. I had provided for my family for years, and no one batted an eye. Now, for whatever reason, Maria had plenty to say about my job. Suddenly, it wasn’t good enough for her. She didn’t need my money anymore, so of course she could afford to provide me unsolicited feedback, preach to me about how I was fulfilling someone else’s legacy. It had nothing to do with that…it was a job. We all made choices when Dad had died, and this had been mine. My decisions kept the lights on in Ma’s house, money in my bank account, kept my two kid sisters’ bellies full, and apparently gave Maria the very platform which she stood upon now, all high and mighty. I knew we would eventually come to an impasse, as we did in the majority of our arguments, but this entire thing had left a piss-poor taste in my mouth.

  I was better than what, exactly? Plenty of people gave up their initial ambitions, countless people before me had gone to college with their eyes set on some incredible career that gained them notoriety, fame, an eclectic menu that acquired them a reputation that preceded them, only to have it fall apart once they graduated. How many would-be chefs did I know right now who were just like me, working a job they needed, forgetting about the career they had wanted? At least I had bowed out before I could even really work in my knives. That was life—sometimes you didn’t get what you wanted.

  I thrusted another stack of folders into a nearly full box with more aggression than necessary, not really thinking about what was going where. I would figure it out when I got the keys to the next project and started the unpacking process again in a makeshift office space. For now, this would all get shoved into the workshop behind Ma’s house until things were more concrete and my plan was solidified. The potential project house I had put an offer on was a three-bedroom, two bath, First Period colonial, with a gambrel roof and three front-facing dormers that looked like they were a sneeze away from falling down. There was a lot of original chamfer that with a little tender finessing could be restored to its former glory.

  As I pulled a book off the shelf, the sound of gravel kicking up in the driveway drew my attention to the window overlooking the front yard. The sun was already setting for the day, the sky a brilliant blend of pink and orange as it descended amongst the barren treetops and houses in the distance. I leaned forward, my breath catching in my chest at the sight of a familiar battered-looking black Toyota Camry rolling into the driveway.

  Of all the places, and all the people—what was Raquel doing here?

  My throat worked at the lump, eyes tracking the car that came to a stop next to my Jeep, which was opposite the silver Range Rover Penelope had left here two days ago when Dougie had to take her home sick. From my concealed vantage point in the darkened office, I watched her sit there, like she was trying to find her metaphorical balls before she could convince herself to get out of the car. It was five more minutes before the rattling engine that caused an ungodly amount of noise pollution finally stopped.

  The car door swung open, an ear-grating creak resounding through the driveway. One lean leg, foot clad in her black Doc Martens, found the ground with overzealous caution, as if she was finally committing to getting out of the car. The other leg followed. She emulated a newborn doe with the way she clambered out, the car door squeaking in protest when she closed it with one arm. Her chin kicked upward, looking up at the house with the expression one might have if the building was on fire and they had left their dog inside.

  For a split second, I thought she would turn back, worry etching into her delicate bone structure as though if she continued her approach, the flames would claim her, too. She debated a moment more before her face stiffened and her shoulders dropped. Plucking her gumption from places unknown, her legs worked across the even gravel, strides long and purposeful. I listened to her boots on the steps of the porch, the soles heavy against the wood, and then there was silence, save for the faint sound of the bare tree branches rustling in the early evening wind.

  A war of listlessness and anticipation set my equilibrium off kilter as the seconds stretched on, my heart a steady thumping in my chest. Turning away from the window, I walked back to the bookshelf, struggling to stabilize my shallow breaths as they left my parted lips. My eyes bounced from the bookshelf to the front door I knew she stood on the other side of. I considered for a moment that there was still a good chance she would change her mind and book it back to her car, but then the front door opened. I chose to not put on an air of covert surprise, instead taking on a deliberate look of indifference as she stepped into the house.

  “Hello?” she called out, shutting the door behind her. “Penelope?” Her head was tilted toward the living room. Her eyes took in the vast emptiness of the space: the mirrorless walls, the lack of furniture. Her shoulders drooped. My heart fluttered over the near proximity, the realization that she was a mere ten feet away from me. The late fall breeze she had let in with the door carried her scent over to me, and my sinuses drew it in with deep breaths that triggered the hippocampus of my brain, a flurry of memories flying at me that almost made me want to reconsider how pissed I was at her.

  Clearing my throat loud enough to draw her attention, she whipped her head in my direction, eyes wide when they met mine, something in her countenance softening upon recognizing me. Her warm appraisal left me unnerved the longer she stared. Why the hell did she have to look at me like I was the best damn thing she’d seen in days when she hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge my text message? Images of her getting into that car had my blood pressure heading north, a stiff breath leaving me as I considered for the briefest moment to tell her to fuck off and get out, simply because I fucking deserved better than whatever table scraps she tossed my way when it suited her.

  “Sean.”

  And there was the sound of my name on her tongue, and I was done. That was all it took to officially abate my anger. One syllable, four letters, and that Southie drawl, and my balls were already holding up the white flag of surrender, ready to propose a truce.

  We stared at each other as if we had forgotten what the other looked like, drinking in the other’s presence until our respective minds were abuzz with something hazy. I broke eye contact first, needing some semblance of self-control, or else I was going to stalk over to her, and there would go what was left of my dignity and self-respect again.

  “You’re the last person I expected to see here, Hemingway,” I sniffed, mustering up artificial annoyance while turning my back to her. I removed another book from the shelf, tossing it carelessly to the desk.

  “You sold the house,” she marveled, voice spilling into the space of the office, ignoring my remark. The glass paneled doors opened wider on a whisper; I listened as her hand found the doorknob. “I saw the sign out front. That’s great! You must be relieved.”

  Glancing at her over my shoulder, I took in the small details that wouldn’t have mattered to anyone else, but they made me feel off-put. Her tight fingers clung to the doorknob as if it was the only thing keeping her upright, the bags under her eyes that had been poorly covered by makeup, the way her full brows were drawn inward, the weak smile that didn’t reach eyes bloodshot from crying—though I suspected that if I asked her, she would deny it.

  A curse rang out through my mind, eyes focusing on the calendar pinned to the wall, gaze honing in on the date. The tears that had resulted in her red-rimmed eyes weren’t for Penelope, though I’m sure the newfound loneliness didn’t help—the anniversary of her sister’s death was tomorrow.

  My molars clenched together tightly, a pain shooting to my temple with each squeeze. It was a clandestine detail I had no business being aware of, but my own sister’s inquisitive and intrusive lawyer instincts had planted the seed of the idea in my mind. As soon as I found myself alone, I scraped the internet for whatever else I could find on Raquel. I read every news report available about her family, cataloging the smallest, most inconsequential details. I devoured the archived columns she had published at The Daily Free Press whe
n she was a student at BU a few years ago, falling in love with the spirit of her words from her days as a student, determined to be heard, fighting for her chance to be seen. The pieces were entirely different from what she now wrote for The Advocate. Her current columns were toned down, sugary and formulaic, as if someone had reined her in and taken her spirit with them. Her stuff from ten years ago had been raw, gritty…beautiful. It made me think that somewhere along the way, she hadn’t just lost her father and her sister, but her passion, too.

  I could certainly empathize with that. I knew what it was like to fall out of love with something that had always been your crutch, the essence of your existence. I knew what it was like to experience something so life-altering that it was a struggle to look at what you had once loved with every essence of your being through the same lens.

  Raquel shifted her weight from foot to foot, her right hand clinging onto the elbow of her left arm, appearing guarded and small. Tomorrow would be another day for anyone else in the world. They would get up, go to work, perhaps go home to their two-point-five kids, loveless marriage, and yappy lap dog, the sun would set in the evening and rise in the morning just like it always had, and life would go on. For Raquel, though, every breath would feel laborious. Every attempted smile would require the strength of a two-ton truck. Every effort would be on borrowed energy for the following day. And when she was finally alone, she would crack. She would succumb to her emotions, the tears would fall freely, and she would silently scream to a higher power, “Why?”

  I hated that our grief was a mirror of one another. It was as interchangeable as our loss of ambition.

  My heart squeezed, but I resisted the urge to round the desk and take her into my arms. Instead, I cleared my throat, not bothering to spare her a look, concentrating on the front door where just a few weeks ago, touching her for the first time had set my whole world aflame.

  “I am,” I managed with a curt nod, turning away from her again.

  “Is, um,” she began, her feet shuffling across the floor as she rounded the desk. I looked down and had to swallow a smile; she had taken off her shoes. Black socks stark against the hardwood, her toes curling against the planks of the floors.

  “Penelope’s not here, no.”

  She blew out a breath. Lifting a thumb to her mouth, she bit her nail, her unusually golden eyes pensive.

  “Okay,” she said, nodding her head. Her eyes flitted to the nearly emptied bookshelf, hesitation filling those tired features. “I saw her car out front, so I thought…” The words sounded like they were dying in her mouth.

  “She’s got a bad spell of morning sickness and has been off the last couple of days.”

  Guilt filled her face, as though realizing this was another detail of her friend’s life she had missed out on in her absence.

  “Oh.” She released her hold on her elbow, both arms now dangling loosely at her side. Raquel’s eyes roamed the room, gaze bouncing between the half-packed box and the emptied bookshelf. “Do you want some help?”

  The out-of-character offer of assistance nearly put me on my ass. I glanced at her, seeing a flash of something indiscernible in her eyes. Was this her attempt at an olive branch?

  The part of me that was still bitter with her about last week wanted to tell her to get the fuck out. The weaker part of me—the one whose teenage wet dream was standing in front of him again, whose heart was thundering at the smell of her shampoo, at the faint trace of cigarettes that were tangled into the fold and had scrambled my logic—nodded in silence.

  I was almost pissed at myself for agreeing until that weak, cold smile of hers grew just a little tepid. I resisted the urge to puff out my chest, as if I had done something worthy. It was a smile, for heaven’s sake, not a cure for cancer. She moved to my side, accepting the books I handed her, stowing them into boxes. We worked in tandem, the room thick with our silence, though neither of us made an effort to speak. She frowned when she peered into one of the other banker’s boxes into which I had carelessly tossed books and files.

  “Can I reorganize these?”

  “Why?” I asked, my tone plain.

  Her eyes met mine, discomfort testing her composure, slender fingers leafing through my things. “You’ll just never find anything this way.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “I promise, if you just let me reorganize this, you’ll thank me,” she reassured. I wasn’t used to this uncertain side of her. Even her voice had become timorous, no sign of that even cadence I had grown fond of with her vitriol and sarcasm.

  “I’ve managed before you just fine,” I pointed out. She stilled, arms dropping to her sides, looking downtrodden.

  “Okay.” She bit her lower lip, the same one I had nibbled a few weeks ago. “I know you’re pissed at me, but it really…” she trailed off, eyes looking at some unknown object above her in a crude attempt to avoid my gaze.

  “It ‘really’ what?”

  A tense breath left her, her lissome shoulders squaring. She found her balls, because she met my eyes dead on. “It wouldn’t have worked between us long term, y’know?”

  “Wow.” I laughed through my nose, shaking my head as she continued to look at me confidently, as if it had been totally within reason for her to up and leave with the shittiest people I’d encountered in a long time.

  “I’m complicated,” she continued. “We had a bit of fun at the bar, but let’s be honest, there was no future between you and I.”

  My jaw rocked back and forth. She couldn’t just relax and just see where things went? Couldn’t she just give me a fair shot at getting to know her first before she ruled me out? What did those scumbags have over me? If she wanted a rap sheet, I could start off with beating all three of those guys within an inch of their lives—would battery and assault charges score me some more of those points she’d spoken of last week when her body had been practically undulating beneath mine?

  Contemplation turned my jaw to granite, the vein in my neck ticking as my temper surged.

  “Are you done?” I said with a sigh of irritation, cocking an eyebrow at her.

  “Excuse me?” she deadpanned, eyes narrowing. “Done what?”

  “Feeding yourself that heaping pile of bullshit.” Damn, it felt good to say that. “’Cause I don’t know about you, but it stinks in here.”

  “You know what?” she huffed, a lick of something familiar and dark flickering in her eyes that had my stomach lurching with hunger for something that was more like her. “Forget I said anything.” She spun around and walked toward the door of the office.

  A bitter laugh escaped me, watching the unintentional sashay of her hips as she approached the office door.

  “That’s right, Raquel. Run away,” I taunted, slamming her with a look of derision when she whipped around to give me an evil eye. “I’m figuring out that’s what you do best.”

  “You don’t know anything about me,” she snapped.

  My mouth curled into a snide smile. “I don’t have to, Hemingway.” I casually rounded the desk, approaching her lithe frame, my blood pumping hard in my veins, my teeth grinding together. “I’ve got you all figured out.” My body crowded her space, but the little shit wouldn’t move. She was rooted in that spot, shooting me a look that was determined to call my bluff. That got my body hot, the predator in me wanting to force her into submission.

  She wanted a fight? I would give her one she would never forget.

  “You don’t want to keep anyone around because you’re terrified of what it means to need someone, anyone.” My eyes searched hers, and if it wasn’t for the tiny twitch in her right nostril, I would have almost thought she was indifferent to my accusation.

  Raquel wasn’t a hardened bitch or a harpy like Dougie believed; she was a battered and bruised animal. She behaved so squirrelly because getting comfortable with the consistency of someone’s presence had gotten her hurt in the past. How did you trust anyone after that much loss? Her father’s crime had dragged her fam
ily’s name through the mud, and just when the fog had started to clear, her sister died, too. I couldn’t fault her for wanting to avoid creating an emotional dependency on anyone, but that didn’t mean I would allow her to bow down to that fear. Whether she and I had a future was irrelevant if she didn’t believe she was deserving of one.

  Life was a careful balancing act of give and take, of fostering emotional connections with people and trusting them to do right by you. That came at a cost, specifically vulnerability, and that was frightening. It had the capacity to be rewarding as well—but Raquel needed to realize that the reward negated the risk.

  “I don’t need anyone.” Her eyes burned a hole in me. I checked the pride I felt at the sight of her derision. Good, this was a start.

  “Then why are you still here?”

  Her head snapped back, mouth popping open as though she hadn’t foreseen that. My Raquel, who was calculated, cunning, and sharp-tongued, hadn’t predicted my statement. She drew in a sharp breath, but it was too late. I had her where I wanted her, and I was about to drive my point home.

  “You say don’t need anyone, but you’re here looking for Penelope because you fucked up. You stayed, even after learning she’s not here, because you like me, and that fucking terrifies you.”

  Her breathing went ragged, as if each pull of oxygen physically pained her, a petrified look in her eyes.

  “I don’t like you,” she denied, her lips pinching together, as if she didn’t like the way those words tasted in her mouth anymore than I had liked hearing them.

  “So, you’re a coward and a liar?” I edged closer to her, a cocky smile lifting my lips. “Good to know.”

  “You—”

  “Don’t know anything about you?” I finished. I took another step toward her, catching the glimmer of panic that sparked in her face, as if she’d just realized that she was about to lose the war within her that she had been fighting. Raquel jerked away when my near proximity became too much for her to bear, her body ripping itself free from the floorboards, taking backward steps into the office.