8. Elena
8
ELENA
L orne knocks on my door at 8:22 so we can walk down to dinner together. He said he’d come at 7:00, but as I’m learning, my fiancé gets pulled into his work and forgets to check the time.
Even though my father used to say stealing time from other people is one of the rudest things you can do, because it is the scarcest commodity that any of us have, I’m not that annoyed. It means I can calm down after a somewhat intense day and zone out in front of the mirror, trying to make a zen process out of failing to recreate the makeup Mina can do so effortlessly.
Unfortunately, I do not have her steady hand with eyeliner, nor her ability to blend powders and shadows with DaVinci levels of precision. I end up washing off my first two attempts, the third reasonably successful only because I keep things simple, just a little gloss and blush and mascara because those are harder to fuck up.
When Lorne arrives at last, he’s wearing a fresh button-up shirt, and he’s combed his hair neatly backward, exposing the angles of his face, leaner now than when I met him. That day at the cafe, he was at the end of a two-week vacation, eating and drinking his way across Europe. Now he’s been working out every morning in the hotel gym.
He’s also wearing an expensive-looking pair of black-framed eyeglasses, which makes it all the more difficult to read those cool blue eyes.
I think he’s in a good mood, so I ask, “How did your writing go?” and trust that the answer will be positive.
“Excellent,” Lorne says, slipping his arm around my waist and pulling me closer. “I was feeling extremely inspired after our visit to the house.”
“That’s great.”
I’m not entirely sure what type of inspiration I gave him.
I want to love my future home, but in truth, I found the half-built castle a little creepy. I’m sure it was just how dark and jumbled it was inside and the unexpected and overwhelming size of the place, but the visit didn’t increase my excitement for our move-in date. The only things it increased were my nerves and my growing unease that I don’t deserve any of this.
Now that I’ve seen with my own eyes how wealthy Lorne is, I’m more confused than ever how he happened to pick me out of all the women in the world. He’s got to be Grimstone’s most eligible bachelor, even if he has a kid already.
Apparently, he’s thinking something along the same lines because his eyes move from my face to my body, and he frowns slightly.
“Is that what you’re wearing to dinner?”
I cringe at his tone, shrinking away from him. I put on the second-best dress in my suitcase, the nicest being the one I wore on the plane. Both belonged to Mina originally, and while they’re a little tight on me, I still thought I looked nice.
“Yes,” I venture. “Is it not…quite right?”
“It looks a little cheap.” Lorne tweaks one of the flimsy straps. “Haven’t you bought any new clothes yet?”
“I only went to the bookstore today.” After a moment I add, “I’m sorry.”
“Well, do it tomorrow,” Lorne says. “No offense, but I’d prefer to make it less obvious that you’re not from around here.”
The way he says “not from around here” sounds a lot more like “a dirt-poor refugee,” but that’s probably just my insecurity warping his tone. Lorne doesn’t care that I’m broke; he’s told me a dozen times, “ I’ve got more than enough for both of us.” And he obviously doesn’t care that I’m from Ukraine, since he’s the one who traveled to me.
Still, I don’t feel nearly as pretty as I did ten minutes ago when I surveyed myself in the mirror, pleased with the results of my work. Now I’m uncomfortable in the tight polyester dress, tugging the hem down to cover more of my legs.
“Could you come shopping with me, maybe?” I ask tentatively. “I don’t know much about American fashion…”
Especially not the rustic, woodsy style favored in Grimstone. I never knew so many types of plaid existed, or so many shades of denim. Are there subcultural rules I’m unaware of? Are fringy jackets only for single girls?
“Wish I could,” Lorne says. “But I’m not taking a day off work until this book is done.”
“Okay.” I try to focus on my fiancé’s impressive work ethic and not on my terror of accidentally buying a bunch more clothes Lorne doesn’t like on his credit card. “I’m sure I can figure it out.”
“Take Mrs. Cross, why don’t you?” Lorne offers.
That would be a great idea if Mrs. Cross weren’t the only person in Grimstone with worse style than me. She dresses like an eighteenth-century schoolmarm mixed with a fascist prison warden.
Also, I’m kind of starting to loathe her. The vicious chewing out she gave to Ivy after I found her in the dumbwaiter (I mean, after Atlas found her) had me biting my tongue and wondering again if I should say something to Lorne.
But that didn’t go very well last time. I think I need something a little more concrete than “the woman who watches your daughter kind of seems to hate her.”
And now I’m thinking about Atlas again. Specifically, the thrill that shivered down my spine when he fixed those wicked black eyes on mine and growled, “ Warmer ,” and I realized he was playing with me.
It was irresistible, the urge to creep closer to him, to test the parameters of the game…
Heat flushes my cheeks, and I shove that thought away, hoping that Lorne won’t notice.
“Good idea,” I say without actually committing to ask anything of Mrs. Cross. Style aside, I don’t want to owe her a favor.
“Great.” Lorne nods like it’s settled. “Let’s get down to dinner, I’m starving.”
He takes my hand and leads me down the hallway.
“Is Ivy meeting us?”
“She eats earlier. By the time I’m done working, it’s practically her bedtime.”
Lorne told me he’s not an early riser, and he often works late into the night, which I suppose is the perfect time to write thrillers. But I’m a little surprised that he doesn’t eat dinner with his daughter. She seems to spend more time with Mrs. Cross than with him. Is that normal for a single parent with a demanding job? I don’t have any friends with kids, and everything is so different here that I really can’t judge.
I must look judgmental anyway because Lorne says, “Trust me, she likes it better that way. She hates eating in the restaurant; most of the time she just wants a PB it’s his job. As I learned on our phone calls, he can talk for ten, fifteen minutes without needing much but sounds of assent. Since he’s witty and knowledgeable, it wasn’t boring, and that’s when I most thought I was in love, during those hours of listening to his hypnotic, sweetly funny voice over the phone.
Other times I wasn’t certain. Because love takes time to grow. And this all happened so fast.
The waitress brings the wine back so quickly, it feels like she must have ordered it before she even visited our table. She’s still flirting with Lorne as she pours, laughing and touching his shoulder multiple times. She doesn’t look at me at all, like my side of the table is empty.
I take my glass, saying, “Thank you,” as carefully as I can, like everything happening is normal and meaningless. Even though it all feels spiky and strange.
Lorne clinks his glass against mine. I can feel Atlas watching us. Watching me.
He’s being outrageous, standing there staring. He’s, like, seven feet tall. Why doesn’t Lorne notice?
Lorne looks only at me, studying my face like he can peel down the layers to my thoughts.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” The lie is automatic.
“Okay,” Lorne says. “Then take a drink.”
I lift the wine to my lips mechanically, though the dark and bloody color repulses me. That’s what wine looks like, I guess. Usually, I order vodka. When I’m allowed to give my own order.
I don’t care if it’s petty; I’m a little bit bugged.
I gulp down the wine. It tastes metallic.
“What’s wrong?” Lorne expects an answer this time.
“Nothing. It’s just…” I try to make my laugh self-deprecating instead of accusatory. “I realized the waitress might know you better than me.”
Lorne sits back in the booth, scoffing. “Oh, come on.”
But he’s watching me so carefully that I can’t believe there’s nothing between him and this waitress.
At bare minimum, Olivia has a crush.
At least a crush…
I sit very still, wondering if I have the right to ask him if he ever slept with her. Like…even before we met.
Lorne squints at my face. “I don’t know any of these people!” he says, throwing up his hands. “I spend all day writing. I barely even see Ivy. I told you, I’m on a super tight deadline.”
Yes, your days are packed…but what about your nights?
Lorne leans forward, giving me his full and undivided attention. His expression gentles until he looks much more like the man I met on the ground floor of the Ambassador Hotel.
“Elena,” he says, his eyes soft, his voice melting. “You can’t seriously think I care about any other girl.”
I relax slightly, settling back into the booth. I didn’t realize how tense I’d become, all bunched up in my shoulders.
Breathe, babe, you’re acting ridiculous. What did he do? Smile at the waitress? Give her his order?
Our order, actually. Lorne didn’t ask me what I wanted.
I know he comes here all the time. He knows what’s good.
Still…I kinda wanted a salad. On the side or something.
Aren’t you being a little petty? He’s bringing a castle to the table, and you’re bringing a suitcase half full of books.
I don’t even know how people do things here. Maybe they weren’t flirting at all. Maybe it’s totally cool to giggle and stroke someone’s arm, like just as friends.
But I don’t think so.
When I don’t know what to do, I stare at the other person. That’s probably why I don’t have that many friends.
Mina was cool with it. She always seemed to know what was going on better than me. In life and in my head.
Thinking about Mina brings on what I would classify as my first legitimate bout of homesickness. I’ve called her twice, but she didn’t answer—probably stuck at work. It’s hard to sync up our schedules with the time difference.
I miss her. I miss feeling comfortable.
I blink very hard, because if I cry right now, it’s going to look so over the top and manipulative.
Lorne, as it turns out, is good at staring back. He has not said a word, and continues to say nothing as I continue to tear up despite maximum blinking.
Please don’t let Atlas be watching this…
I close my eyes and take several deep breaths.
When I raise my head, I say smally and softly, “Everything is fine, I’m sorry. I’m very tired. I haven’t adjusted to things here, the time, the food…”
It’s all excuses. I trail off confusedly. I really am tired, waves rolling over me, eyelids droopy. My head hurts.
“Are you okay?” Lorne says. His voice sounds distant and echoey.
All the noise is muffled: the clinking of plates and forks, the conversations of the other diners that seem to blend together into no language I’ve ever known. The lights grow brighter, then darker.
I sag sideways in the booth.
Damn…now I’m not even going to get to try the fondue…
Lorne grabs for me, but I topple over too fast. I fall out of the booth, dropping for a dizzyingly long time, everything gone silly and slow…
Black moths fluttering everywhere…
The sharp stone edge of the elegant molding heads straight for the center of my skull.
Until a pair of arms lifts me out of the air, arms so thick and warm I don’t need to hear his voice or notice how high I’m hoisted to know who caught me.
“Atlas,” I murmur, slipping away.