3. Nevaeh
When I walk into my family’s ridiculously big house, I let out a sigh of fear. I have no idea how my family is going to react to my news. Nova, my sister, might be the only one who will be excited for me.
She’s sitting on the couch with her girlfriend, watching a movie I’ve never seen. I would ask what it’s called, but I couldn’t care less. There are more important things on my mind.
My eyes shift from the television back to my sister. Nova is tall, has black hair and brown eyes, light skin, and is covered in tattoos. She loves to wear dark clothes while I always wear light ones. Even now, I’m dressed in a light yellow skirt and a white blouse, and Nova is dressed in black yoga pants and her favorite From Angels to Devils crop top. She’s worn this outfit a hundred times in her twenty-four years of life.
“Hi,” I greet both Nova and Aileen once their heads turn my way so Aileen can see me signing the word with my hands, too. They both smile in response.
“Hey, babes! How did the job interview go?” Nova asks and signs, her accent subtler today than usual. Since she was three years older than me when we lived in Australia, the accent stuck with her. Unfortunately for me, I sound more American.
“It went well. I got a job,” I reply in English as well since Aileen is here and while I’m signing the words, she also sometimes likes to read my lips to understand what I’m saying. Nova and I usually speak German so we don’t lose our mother tongue, but out of respect for Nova’s girlfriend, we always converse in our second language when she’s here as well as using sign language. My whole family and I learned it four years ago when Nova and Aileen first started dating. We wanted Aileen to feel comfortable with us and the least we could do was learn the only language she could communicate in. While we speak, we always use our hands to sign the words, too.
Nova sits up to give me her full attention.
“That’s amazing! Why aren’t you happy?” She sees right through me, not even a fake happy expression could have fooled her.
“You know how I applied for—” I’m interrupted by Mama calling out for me. Aileen furrows her brows at me when I don’t continue my story. Mama is calling me, I sign to my sister’s girlfriend before turning my head to see my mother approaching.
“Nevaeh? Are you home? How was the interview?” My short, curvy Mama runs into the living room in her robe.
After placing a kiss on my cheek, she stands back to look at me. We look a lot alike. Everything from the brown hair with naturally blonde highlights to the round lips and brown eyes is the same.
“I got a job,” I repeat, and she jumps up and down in excitement.
“I knew you would. Oh, I’m so proud of you,” she says and squeezes my arm. Her eyes shift to the couch, and she beams at Nova’s girlfriend. Aileen! I didn’t know you were here, sweetheart. How are you? she signs, moving her hands around with her usual enthusiasm.
They fall into a casual conversation, and I realize no one is going to ask me more about my interview. My sister is too distracted to remember what we were talking about before. I’m about to walk away when Mama grabs my arm.
“By the way, honey, the Nash family is staying for dinner.” Oh, great, just what I needed. Also, staying?
That means they’re already here.
“Is that necessary?” I ask, but it makes her chuckle. She knows that I despise Lincoln, but I never told her why, which might be the reason she thinks whatever happened is merely a childish quarrel. “Do you mind if I eat dinner by myself instead?”
Mama frowns at me then.
“We have dinner as a family every night your father is here. You know the rules,” she scolds, and I nod without further complaint. “You have to tell us all about your job later,” Mama says cheerfully, and I realize there is no way around it unless I want to be disrespectful.
“Sounds great,” I lie before disappearing upstairs and into my room.
The light orange walls are starting to get on my nerves, although I only made them that color two years ago. I must have painted my walls five times since moving here, but it’s the only thing about my room that I get to change.
Mama picked out the dark brown mahogany furniture and the thick beige curtains covering my two large windows that lead to a balcony. But one more thing that’s mine is the artwork. There are paintings of famous tennis players like Serena Williams and Steffi Graf, which I got for inspiration when I was little. I haven’t had the heart to take them down because I was clinging to the hope of having a tennis career.
After my interview today, that hope has vanished.
I walk over to the painting of Steffi Graf first and pull it off my wall. Tears shoot into my eyes as reality hits me. My fingers trace her racket while I swallow the tears.
Aggressive knocking on my bedroom door causes my heart to skip a beat.
“Jesus. Come in,” I say, trying to catch my breath.
Regret and anger soon replace my startled feelings when I see Lincoln Nash opening my door. An easy smile lingers on his wide and full lips. He’s not very tall. His light skin color is complemented by his blue polo shirt, and his hazel eyes look brighter today than usual.
Lincoln has a lean but trained body, perfect for a Formula One driver. His brown hair sits in wide curls on his head, and I almost groan when his hands catch my attention. I’ve thought about what his long fingers could do more often than I would like to admit, especially because I despise him. But that’s all in the past now. Where he belongs.
“Get out,” I say before he can speak. He leans against my door frame, smirking wickedly at me.
“Technically, I’m not in your room, butterfly,” he replies, and I roll my eyes. He’s been calling me butterfly since we were kids, and I hate that the nickname I once thought was sweet has soured over the years.
“What the hell do you want? You know I don’t enjoy your company,” I inform him with the fakest smile I can muster. Lincoln’s eyes leave my face as he traces my door frame with them.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Everybody loves my company.” I bite down on the inside of my cheek to hide my amused chuckle. I can’t let him see that I found that funny. He’d never let it go. “Your mum told me to come and get you. Dinner is ready unless you want to stay up here and pretend you hate me,” he says, completely unbothered by his own words.
“I don’t pretend, Linc, I just hate you.” His eyes grow dark from the way I addressed him. There is nothing he hates more than when I call him “Linc.” I don’t know why he dislikes it, but it’s my secret weapon. He usually leaves once I say it, which is why I’m confused when he steps into my room with a soft expression on his face.
“Why are you taking down your art?” he asks, and I cock an eyebrow.
“That’s none of your business,” I reply before focusing on taking down Roger Federer’s painting.
“Seriously, Nevaeh, you love them. Why would you take them down?” Lincoln is right. I do love them more than any other possession I have, but the reminder of what I’ll never have is too painful to keep looking at.
“Don’t pretend to care,” I spit the words, and he lifts one of the frames I’ve pulled off the wall to inspect it. The thought of ripping it out of his hands occurs to me, but I’d like to think I’m more mature than that when it comes to him.
“I don’t pretend, butterfly, I just care,” he says, using my words from before to confuse me even further. “Haven’t you lost enough from your injury? Don’t let it take more from you.”
This makes my blood boil.
“You, out of all people, have no right to say that to me. Get the fuck out of my room, Lincoln, and leave me alone.”
Anger has overtaken any other emotion I have ever felt toward him as I stand up and hover over the Formula One driver. He raises both of his eyebrows before lowering my artwork and standing up too, making sure to be close enough so I feel his hot breath on my skin. Once upon a time, I’d have shivered from anticipation.
Now, I just want to kick him where it hurts most.
“When will you ever let go of what happened?” he asks, his lips now merely a few centimeters from mine.
“When will you understand that I can’t stand being in the same room as you?” I lift my hair into a ponytail while moving toward my closet.
“Please, Nevs, we both know seeing me is the best part of your day. Gets you all hot and riled up,” he says and gives me one last smirk before leaving my room without speaking again.
Part of me is tempted to grab one of my pillows, follow him down the stairs, and hit him over the head with it. Another part is too busy mourning the loss of my friend to do anything other than stand in my closet, swallowing down the tears of anger.
How could I ever forgive him for what he said to me that night?