11. Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Cedric
I ’ve slept like shite.
Which is to say, I haven’t slept at all.
It’s ridiculous, which is a euphemism for terrifying, the way I’m plagued by Delilah’s smile, her every gentle curve, the streaks of green in her eyes. What’s worse is that I’m letting her clear rejection get to me so much–try as she might, she’s a terrible liar, and I’m ninety percent sure she has no such engagement planned with her friend for tonight. I groan as I roll out of my hotel room’s too-short bed, relieved of breaking contact between the coarse fabric of the sheets and my skin. Sitting up, I glance at the cracked, vintage watch on the nightstand, which tells me it’s six thirty-four. I know I can’t possibly lay in bed with my eyes wide open and stare at the unevenly-painted ceiling until a reasonable time to start working comes around.
I bridge the short distance between me and the small window, and when I open it, a fresh scent of cut grass and clean linen hits me immediately. What I can’t help but notice, though, is the blissful, marvelous quiet. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t feel the need to grab my noise reduction earphones upon waking up. It’s as unsettling as it is freeing.
I suppose I’ll go for a run, then.
Do a bit of exploring.
A half hour later, I’m cleanly shaven and dressed in my running attire, tying up my shoes. They’re these white-blue, holographic monstrosities Marcus gifted me for my birthday last year, and though he got them as a prank more than anything, they’re comfortable enough that I’ll survive the embarrassment. No one greets me at the front desk, as usual, though a hand-written note haphazardly taped to the door says, Be back soon!
I shake my head, and when I wrench the heavy door open, I’m greeted by the warm light of early morning. I start on a slower gait, unhurried. I don’t have to bolt as fast as possible to avoid the deafening sounds and people’s ear-splitting chatter across the fumes of the cars. Reaching the main square, I recognize a few of the vendors of last night, already busy chatting good-naturedly. They smile openly at me, and I’m so perplexed by the gesture, it takes me too long to reciprocate. They likely know who I am by now, but how many know why I’m here ?
I breathe deeper, taking a right turn, and slowing further when I notice the pops of colors painting the slanted roofs of the houses. Fresh flowers cover each and every railing and balcony, and my thoughts inevitably drift to Delilah. Would she be up by now? Is she a morning person, or does she sleep as long as possible before she needs to get ready for work? The urge to know such trivial aspects of her life nags at me, and I can tell it’s going to be a problem. It already is, and not for the sole reason the time we spent together didn’t mean as much to her as it did to me, which she probably wasn’t expecting when she proposed we had dinner. Perhaps all our conversations did was prove to her that I’m not as interesting as she’d hoped. Which should be great, since I wasn’t supposed to ask her out again in the first place.
I quicken my pace, hoping to dispel thoughts of Delilah at least until the run is over, when I notice a familiar figure carrying a brown paper bag.
“Faye,” I say as I approach her, and when she takes me in and realizes who I am, her bored expression turns curious.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the man of the hour,” she says, clutching the paper bag to her chest.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
She gives me a sympathetic look. “Do you know how many people live in Fern Port?”
Four hundred and fourteen, I now know, but opt to be more vague. “Not many.”
“Oh, you are smart.”
I narrow my eyes, utterly confused at what her point is, sarcasm practically pouring off her.
“You’re all people are talking about,” she says then, as if she were delivering terrible news. I’m in doubt whether I should be flattered or worried–though I suppose it matters little, all things considered.
“Do they know my reason for being here?” I ask, though she and I believe those are different things.
Faye cocks her head, a strange look in her eyes. “Delilah didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“She asked Myrta not to tell a soul.”
My mouth opens, though nothing intelligent comes out of it. Was she worried people might take my presence the wrong way? Did she think that would… shelter me from people’s opinion?
“You seem surprised.”
I swallow whatever emotion is threatening to show on my face. “Well, I am. Would people come for me with pitchforks for a mere business transaction?”
“Probably not, but we’re not about to let Fern Port turn into a place where people come for… business,” Faye says, somewhat ominously, the tone not leaving space for further discussion on the subject.
“But that’s Lila for you,” she adds then. “Seeing the good in people, and all that.” Faye scoffs, and I wonder whether it’s me she’s annoyed at that right now, or her friend’s good soul.
It should have been obvious from the start. Delilah doesn’t possess a single bad bone in her entire, lovely body; yet it still strikes me more than I can explain.
“I can see that,” I say simply.
Faye considers me for a moment, fingers tapping on the paper bag against her chest.
“Don’t take advantage of her kindness,” she says as she starts walking away, brown eyes promising revenge should I not heed her warning .
I resume my run dispassionately, pondering over this new knowledge about Delilah.
Surely she would have spared the same kindness to anyone else in my place. Faye said as much.
Then why is my stomach a ball of knots? Imagining her knocking on Myrta’s office’s door, taking place in front of the woman as the fabric of her pink dress swishes on her legs. Hazel eyes wide, asking her to please not let anyone know why I’m here. Trapping her lower lip between her teeth and–
A rapid sequence of water drops tap my nose, my imagination mercifully dispelled. In a matter of seconds, it’s raining heavily, and I was so lost in my ridiculous day dreaming that I’ve run without knowing where I was going and…
That’s Delilah’s house.
I don’t know what it is, exactly, that brings me to take the graveled path even when the rain is pouring down on me. But I’m awfully glad I do when she comes into sight.
Delilah
When Fern Port gets a ton of rain, it’s not fun. Today’s only perk was Myrta’s message this morning, letting me know she wouldn’t need me at work. I get tomorrow off, so that means I have two full days of freedom ahead of me. Or two full days to ruminate on my shortcomings.
I am so absorbed by my thoughts about everything that might have gone wrong last night that it took me a full minute to realize it started full-on pouring, and here I am now, scrambling to save my small collection of baby azaleas from this torrential downpour .
I’m cradling their pots as carefully as possible when my slipper gets stuck on a vine, because I constantly forget to cut those things, and oh damn, I’m about to face plant–pun not intended–and destroy my–
I brace myself for the fall, squeezing my eyes shut, but the wet pavement never meets my face or my butt. I’m pretty sure the bite didn’t come with levitation powers, and when I open my eyes against the persistent droplets, Cedric’s beautiful face, lips parted, thick eyebrows scrunched on his forehead, is staring at me.
And his strong, extremely bare arms are what is keeping me from falling.
“You have terrible balance,” he says.
“And you are half naked in the rain,” I say cheerily as he slowly rights me up.
“I am not–”
“Can we have this discussion inside?” I say hurriedly, holding the azaleas tighter to my chest. I don’t look back to make sure he’s following, because A) my hair and clothes are soaking wet, B) my skin is burning where his fingers brushed and I need to put a semblance of distance between us and C), my poor flowers will wilt faster than Grandma Mona did.
Inside, I carefully put down the pots, a slight shiver from the icy rain running down my spine. I hear the door lock behind me, and when I turn, the sight of Cedric glistening with raindrops, hair mussed, and standing on top of my polka dot mat, has me on the verge of giggling like a schoolgirl.
“Are you going to stand there?” I ask, unable to suppress a smile.
“I’m going to get everything wet,” he says with a grimace.
And because I apparently have no control over my facial expressions whatsoever, I can tell my eyes have gone wide at the words and I quickly turn around to hide it. “I’ll get you a towel!” I say hastily over my shoulder.
On my way to the bathroom, I give a tug to the handle of Grayson’s old room, lest Cedric stumble upon it and ask questions about the punching bag in there. I crouch to open the cupboard where I store towels and cloths and select the least tattered ones–who knows what kind of Egyptian linen this man is used to.
When I get back, as expected, he hasn’t moved an inch from the mat, his arms behind his back, posture rigid.
I roll my eyes dispassionately at his stubbornness and hand him the largest towel of the bunch. “It’s just water. I’ll mop it up. Please sit?”
He eyes my extended hand warily, as if the suggestion was profane, but eventually relents and accepts the towel.
Tiny victories , I think with a small smile.
“Is there a smaller one?” he asks then.
“Sure,” I say, handing it to him. He nods, which I suppose equals a thank you, and unfolds it only to place it on the nearest stool at the kitchen table, before gently sitting atop it.
It’s such a simple gesture, and it wasn’t necessary, but it makes me like him that much more.
He passes the larger towel through his hair absent-mindedly, then pins me with a look. Was I staring again?
“Are you not going to dry yourself?”
“Yes! Yep, I’ll do that.” I let out a breathy laugh, moving to the small mirror beside the door, squeezing my wet locks in the remaining mismatched towel.
I scoff at a lock of hair that insists on getting into my eyes, and I do my best to avoid meeting Cedric’s gaze. I grope for the tote bag hung on the door, rummaging through it in search of my hairbrush .
The only sounds in the room are the rustling of objects in the bag, the relentless pelting on the windows, and the friction of the towel’s fabric against Cedric’s skin. I don’t know why I’m holding my breath, and I release it as I catch onto the shape of the brush, hastily getting back to work on my hair. Am I being rude? Should I offer him something to eat, or should I go do this in the bathroom? Oh gosh, he must think I’m–
“May I?”
My eyes refocus as I nearly jump in surprise, and Cedric is standing right behind me.