Chapter Three Milo
Three
Milo
“It doesn’t look open,” Nadia says from the passenger seat, leaning forward to look around me and toward the gas station’s store.
“Maybe they’re closed on Sundays?” I say, flicking the fuel gauge. Sometimes, if I’m lucky and hit it just right, Bertha will tell me I’m low on gas before I run out of fuel. Today, I’m not so lucky. We’ll have to gamble that we’ve got enough to get to Nik’s place.
“Their Facebook page says otherwise.” She shows me her screen, where every item nearly past its sell-by date gets its own dedicated post in screaming all caps. “Open seven days a week,” she reads in her best radio-DJ voice, “Welch’s: We’ve got what you forgot.”
“Here’s a wild idea, you could just get out of the car and go check?” I offer a smile that is anything but sweet.
“Do you have cash on you?”
“No, why?”
“Okay, do you trust me with your PIN number?”
I squint at her, trying to decide.
“And did you or did you not swear in written testimony that you would buy me cigarettes?”
I groan.
“Exactly. Pay up, loser,” she says, shooing me with a flippant wave of her hand as she continues to scroll on her phone.
“You’re a pain in the ass.” I turn off the engine and toss the keys onto the dash.
I slam the van’s door behind me, mostly so the lock mechanism clicks into place, but also out of spite.
Immediately the wind picks up, nearly blowing me sideways.
My hair is tossed to one side and my unbuttoned gray flannel jacket folds up my back, flapping against my shoulders.
“All of this for cigarettes she’s not even going to smoke,” I grumble, trying the shop’s door to no avail.
Cupping my hand to the glass, I check for signs of life.
“We’re closed.” Somewhere upwind, a woman speaks. I look to the other side of the small parking lot in the direction of the breathy voice and—
Whoa.
The wind threatens to carry all five-foot-nothing of her away, blowing chestnut curls loose from the woven braid that rests over her shoulder and pulling the baby-blue dress she’s wearing taut behind her—emphasizing each dip and swell of her silhouette in soft, inviting challenge.
“ Rusalka, ” I whisper in warning to any nearby men who may hear it. Run, something deep inside of me says.
I’ve never listened well to my intuition, or to anyone else’s, really.
And, I’m far too intrigued to leave now.
Intrigued and a bit frightened, which is new.
Men are lured to their death by beautiful creatures time and time again in mythology.
Different legends call them by different names: sirens, nymphs, pixies, faeries, rusalki.
But the result is the same—death at the hands of a beautiful creature, too alluring to deny.
So fucking be it.
“Hello,” I call back, straightening my stance and turning to face her head-on. I walk, closing the distance between us, having to directly command my legs to take each step. “I’m—”
“Yeah, hi,” she replies curtly. “We’re closed.
” She crosses her arms, then immediately unfolds them to deal with some flyaway hair sticking to the corner of her mouth.
Tucking the unruly curl behind her ear, she continues with her unconvincing withering stare, keeping her hand pressed against her neck and ear.
Her eyes dip down to the cuff of my rolled-up sleeves and the tattoos along my forearm.
I watch keenly as her lips tuck inward, in obvious reaction to whatever approving thoughts she’s thinking as her gaze continues down to my wrist toward the hand that’s inside of my jeans pocket. It’s a reaction I’m familiar with.
She wants me.
Which is good, because the feeling’s mutual.
“There’s been a mistake then. Your sign says you’re open ten to four on Sundays,” I taunt lightly, jutting my chin toward the door behind my back. “But I can tell that this ”—I pause to show her my own appreciation—“is probably not your usual workwear.”
Though it’s beginning to die down, the wind is still giving her a hard time, throwing her hair every which way as she grows more and more frustrated and flustered.
My hands itch for a pencil, to put the sight of her to paper.
I love drawing curls like hers. The delicate way they fall, their frizzy nature that evokes a feeling of innocence.
Then, there are her lips. Her lips are so round and full and fuck if I’m not thinking about kissing them when I realize that she’s said something else I’ve completely missed.
“Sorry?” I ask, blinking back to focus.
Her eyes have softened some, a curiosity of her own tucked away behind layers of annoyance. I know that look too. I love that look.
Women like her are always the most fun to win over.
The humility of the chase. The fun in the teasing.
The first smile they grant you. The rush of endorphins when their cheeks flush or pupils dilate.
The satisfaction when you witness the moment they decide they’ll let you take them home.
Girls like that make you work for it in bed too, make you earn every second of their time. And I love to earn it.
Her eyes roll to the back of her head and god damn me I want to see them do that again for a wholly different reason. “I said, if you bought gas, you can pay at the pump.”
Then, the wind breaks. The bottom of her dress pools at her feet, her hair settles into place, and my eager eyes take in every inch of her, the birthmarks and freckles on her arms, the mole above the right corner of her lip, the ring of gray around her blue irises.
And, fuck, she’s even more lethal windswept and irritated.
“I didn’t buy gas, I needed cigarettes,” I tell her. “But I’ll settle for your name instead. I’m Milo.” I take my hand out of my pocket and hold it to my chest, watching her throat tighten at the sight of the tattoos across the back of my hand and knuckles as well. “You are?”
Her mouth twists, lips partially open, and she looks as if she might laugh, but not in the way I’d like her to.
In that what-a-fucking-day way when someone is about to reach their limit.
And why do I want to see her riled up? Why do I want to push the buttons of this woman before I even know her name?
“Busy,” she answers, turning to walk away.
“I can guess your name, if you’d like,” I say, taking a step after her before she turns furiously. I retreat a few steps, fighting the urge to put my hands up in surrender. “Sorry, Killer,” I say with a dry laugh. “I’m only trying to meet my new neighbor.”
She immediately covers her face with both hands, the faintest hint of red visible on the tips of her nose and ears.
“Shit, sorry…” She sighs, curling both arms around her chest. “Are you…um…” She shakes her head softly, as if to jog her memory, and comes up empty.
Her eyes go to the front passenger seat of my van, and then back to me.
“Dad told me he met you and your wife”—she pauses briefly, looking at Nadia once again—“but he—”
“No, you’re thinking of my brother, Nik. He’s the owner. I’m just here to lend a hand. And I’m definitely not married.” I point over my shoulder toward the van. “My sister, Nadia, is here to help too.”
“Oh, okay.” She swallows. “Well, sorry … and, um, good to meet you.” The sound of gravel underfoot brings my eyes downward, to the slit in her dress, and I watch as the tips of her white sneakers twist against the pavement. “I didn’t catch your name…before.”
“Milo,” I remind her, sticking out my hand.
“Milo,” she repeats, nodding slowly, placing her hand inside of mine.
That first brush of skin sends a shock wave through my system.
It’s the same sensation as when liquor hits the back of my throat or I hear the first notes of a favorite song at a bar—each synapse in my brain fires off, signaling that I’m alert and ready to go.
I smirk, bending forward slightly, refusing to let her hand go just yet. “Are you going to tell me yours or does ‘Killer’ suit you fine?”
“Lucy!” another woman calls, cheery in approach but still out of sight. “Luuu-cy, where are you?” The question is punctuated by a lengthened, sung vowel.
Lucy, I take it, pulls her hand back and runs it down the side seam of her dress.
“Lucy,” I repeat, noticing the inkblot stain on her left thumb.
“There’s a store ten minutes down the road. They’ll have cigarettes. Though you should really take this as a sign to quit.” She speaks quietly but slowly in response, as if she’s not convinced I can follow a simple command.
Bossy…I like it. “I think I’ll like this store more,” I say, intensifying my eye contact and waiting for her to squirm. “In fact, I know I do.”
She doesn’t budge, not even when we’re standing in silence, just staring impolitely into each other’s eyes.
She does tilt her head cautiously, as if she’s trying to figure me out.
As if a woman like her doesn’t know what a guy like me would want.
Suddenly, this town may not be as boring as I thought it was an hour ago.
Her lips jut out as she nods, seemingly making up her mind about me. And, if that scowl is anything to go off of, the verdict is not looking good. “I’ll see you around, Milo.”
A dismissal? When we’re just getting started? Over my dead body.
“You can count on that.”
She laughs, but still no smile. A breathy, sarcastic-type laugh that says: Sure.
“What, don’t believe me?”
“Are you always like this?”
“No, I’m not. I think I’m in love with you, Lucy.” Would going down on one knee be too much?
She almost laughs. Nearly smiles. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And?” Yeah, it would be too much. But should I do it anyway?
“And my name’s not Lucy.”
“Okay, well, not-Lucy.” I take a half step closer, and I don’t miss the way her eyes flare momentarily when she lifts her chin up to face me. “I think—”
“There you are!” I see a white dress round the corner first, then the woman wearing it.
I recognize her immediately. “Mrs. Welch?” I step back from who might just be the daughter of my favorite high school teacher as if she’s a plucked grenade. “Mrs. Welch, it is you! H-h-hi,” I stammer, then blink a couple of times before I’m able to refocus. “It’s been so long, how are you?”
“ Don’t, ” not - Lucy whispers, pleading with those large eyes. “Please…” I sense the dynamic between us shift. As if I went from foe to possible ally, without any idea as to why.
Confused, I look between them.
Mrs. Welch, the woman who single-handedly made me want to become an artist, who pleaded with my other teachers for passing grades, who showed up to parent-teacher conferences when my parents forgot, who cheered the loudest when I walked across the stage at graduation, is staring blankly back at me—as if I’m a stranger she can’t quite place.
My heart lurches up my throat, and a type of hurt follows that is both familiar and familiar.
“Do…Do you know this man? Do I know him?” she asks her daughter, tears gathering in her eyes.
“S-s-s-sorry,” I stutter again, shaking myself as I step backward. “Sorry,” I repeat, steadier. “I should—”
“Milo?” Mrs. Welch inquires, still somewhat dazed. “It is Milo, isn’t it? How do I…” Her question trails off. “How are…If you’re…”
I stop, turning to her daughter to ask permission, or seek explanation—I’m not sure. She doesn’t return my stare, her sullen but equally surprised expression stuck on Mrs. Welch.
“Mom?” She reaches out, gently putting her hand on her mother’s arm. “Mom, do you recognize him?”
Mrs. Welch’s bottom lip trembles, quickly glancing toward her daughter and me.
“I don’t understand. I…I don’t understand.
I don’t—” She grows restless, her hands turning to fists at her sides as she begins to cry.
“How? But today is—” She turns her attention fully onto her daughter, visibly heartbroken. “Did you just call me Mom?”
“It’s okay….” Not-Lucy rubs her mother’s arm, bunching up her sleeve. “It’s all right.”
“I was a student of hers,” I say, unsure as to what I’ve done so wrong, but sorry all the same. “I…Is she…Did something—”
“I think you should go,” she says softly, turning toward me. And it’s tragic that this is the first smile this gorgeous stranger bestows on me. An apologetic, sad, thin line. A request and dismissal.
“Right, of course,” I say, continuing to watch them as I begin backing away slowly. Once not-Lucy turns her attention back toward her mother, I break into a jog toward the van.
Throwing myself into the front seat, I close the door behind me and press the side of my head into the wheel, waiting for Nads to look away from her phone and toward me.
“Thank you…” Nadia holds out her left hand, her eyes still glued to the phone. She turns, slowly, lowering the phone into her lap as she realizes I’ve returned empty-handed. “Huh?” Her glare narrows as I sit up, pushing my head back while running both hands through my hair.
“They were closed,” I answer, catching my breath.
She clearly doesn’t believe me, the way she drags her sunglasses down her nose, stares at me over the top of them, and says, “Then what took you so long?”
“I met the neighbors.” A half -truth. I grab the keys off the dash and start the ignition. I close my eyes when I turn the key, then lean down to kiss the steering wheel when Bertha manages to start for me. “Thank you,” I whisper to her.
“You’re so fucking weird.” Nadia drops her feet from the dash as we take off down the road and pushes her sunglasses back up. “And you still owe me.”