20. Seraphina
20
Seraphina
Standing in front of my apartment, I tilt my head, considering my options.
With the music blaring on the other side of the door and the stomping of feet that trickles out, it’s easy to deduce that Bianca has people over. It’s also easy to guess that Olivia probably isn’t home because if she were, Bianca would be dead before she allowed strangers to invade our private space.
Pulling out my phone, I work to figure out my best friend’s location before I even bother entering the fray.
Seraphina : Are you home?
Instinctually, I know she’s not, but I need to make sure.
Livvy : Absolutely not. Bianca said she invited her friends over after their video thing before going out tonight, and I decided to pick up an extra shift at the bar. How was the interview?
Seraphina : You’ve worked every night this week. I would have stayed in or gone out with you. And I got the position. I start next month.
I can’t help but frown at my best friend. In the three weeks we’ve shared the apartment, I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve had any real best-friend time. If I were a paranoid person, I’d assume she was avoiding me. Since I’m a realistic person, I know she’s avoiding me.
I just can’t figure out why.
Seraphina : I can come by the bar tonight and keep you company while you serve drinks? I’ll bring you a coffee and some food. What do you want?
Her reply is instant and confirms my belief.
Livvy : I’m not surprised. They’d be nuts not to hire you. And no, we’re slammed, and I won’t have time to talk. Go out with B or see if Ava is free. We’re going to your parents tomorrow anyway. We’ll hang out then.
Bringing my thumb to my mouth, I bite at the nail, a disgusting habit I’ve had since childhood that seems to be reappearing more and more frequently since moving to West Elm. Part of me dreads dinner at my parents, knowing that I’m going to have to tell them about Chris and also knowing that their reaction won’t be good. But another part of me feels peace because I’ll be able to check on my garden, a hobby I fell into when I needed an elective at Penn and chose an intro to botany course. It was cathartic, playing in the soil, and when I first came back from Penn, Liv and I stayed at my parents’ house before the lease to the apartment was ready. My mother’s little garden transformed into a greenhouse, and for the month we were there, I spent nearly every day tending to the vegetables and flowers, practicing the same habits I learned in my class. I checked on my roses two weeks ago but haven’t had an opportunity to since.
Shaking my head to rid myself of thoughts of my roses and vegetables, I consider Liv’s text, growing more confused by her actions.
Seraphina : And you’re sure you’re going to come tomorrow? You won’t say you have a shift or have to work last minute?
I didn’t want to ask these questions through text, knowing that my best friend could easily ignore them and choose to disengage. I would have preferred a more direct tactic, like cornering her in our kitchen and plying her with wine until she opened up.
To my surprise, Liv texts back immediately, not making me wonder if she’ll ignore my questions.
Livvy : I’ll be there. Now stop distracting me, and let me get back to work.
Biting back a curse at her response, I drop my phone into my bag and step toward the door, wincing as I push down on the handle. Heavy bass bangs into me as I step over the threshold, and part of me wishes that I had called Ava, offered myself up to a night of wedding planning, and avoided the apartment entirely.
Looking around, I’m surprised that only four girls fill our living room and kitchen area, and I offer them a small smile as they turn their heads at my entrance.
“Oh, good, you’re home. How did the interview go?” B runs over, throwing her arms over my neck and squeezing tight.
Coughing at the rough display, I grab her biceps and pull them off me. “It went well. I start at the end of next month. Are you going out tonight?” I look over Bianca’s shoulder and see shot glasses and a bottle of tequila on the counter. The bottle doesn’t look cold, and I shiver at the room-temperature alcohol.
“Yes. And since you’re here, you’re coming with us.”
I immediately shake my head. Even though I offered to hang out with Liv at the bar, venturing out for a night of drinking with my sister is another story. “Oh no. I’m good. I’m going to stay in tonight and read.”
“Seraphina Rose Gregori.” Bianca scowls, using the weight of my full name against me. “We’re leaving at nine; that gives you almost two hours to shower and get ready. I don’t ask you for much, but I’m asking you to go out with me tonight.”
I can’t contain the laugh that rips from my throat. “You asked me for fifty dollars yesterday, to borrow my shirt last week, and for rides to and from work since your car is in the shop. Don’t even play the victim card with me, Bianca Helena. I can promise you you won’t win.”
My sister rolls her eyes, fluttering her hands as though she’s batting my recollection of events away. “Those don’t count. But you’re coming tonight. Go put on something hot.”
“B…” I groan, looking up at my little sister. It’s humbling when even your youngest sibling is taller than you. “I said I’m staying in. Go out with your friends. You’re going to have a great time with them.”
Squeezing on my arm, Bianca drags me to the far corner of the room, away from her guests. “I-I don’t know these girls well, Ser. They’re from my sorority, but they aren’t part of the group I normally”—she pauses, clearing her throat—“used to hang out with. They’re nice and have been nothing but sweet, but I don’t really know them. Please don’t make me go out by myself. I thought Liv would be here and both of you would want to come out with us, but she left as soon as I brought it up.”
My sister’s eyes have unshed tears, and I can’t help the concern that washes over me. “B, what happened with your friends? What’s going on?”
She gnaws on her lower lip, eyes downcast to avoid my gaze. “Most of the girls I was friends with graduated. I still talk to them, but they moved away, started their careers, and grew up. But at the end of last semester, I was seeing someone, and it just got too awkward.”
My eyes widen at her confession. For the entire time Bianca has been at school, she has never once mentioned a guy in a serious way, other than the random hookups she’s had. “What do you mean it got too awkward?”
She blows out a breath, fanning the hair in front of her face with the oxygen leaving her lungs. “He was—is—the brother of one of the other sisters in the sorority. When we ended things, even though it was fine and we were cordial, she started to ignore me. She wasn’t mean or cruel or anything, but for whatever reason, she thinks I broke her brother’s heart.”
“And did you?” Bianca is beautiful, lively, and a bomb of sass; it’s not farfetched for her to break someone’s heart.
She scoffs at the idea. “Hardly. He moved on quickly, and I don’t blame him. We just weren’t right for each other, and that was that. But she—Zoe—won’t speak to me now, even though we were friends before I went on a handful of dates with Liam. I’m trying to venture out of the little bubble I found myself in within the sorority and speak to more of my pledge sisters and more girls from other classes. I know I didn’t do anything wrong and that Zoe is only being protective over her brother, but it still sucks to have most of your friends graduate, and your few remaining friends think you’re some asshole who breaks guys’ hearts left and right.” She looks at my face, eyes flitting from my hair to my eyes to the grim line of my cheeks. “Come out with me tonight, Ser? I promise you’ll have fun.”
Wrinkling my nose, I know I’m the world’s biggest pushover when I say, “Fine.”
—
I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my short life. Admittedly, most of them have been self-imposed. Tonight is no exception.
I should have asked Bianca where we were going.
I should have stood firm against Bianca’s tears when she told me about her friend situation.
And I should have stayed home.
But I did none of those things, and now I’m adding one more mistake to my ever-growing list.
“Bianca, are you kidding me?” I groan as the Uber pulls up to a restaurant and club I know all too well. I feel like I’m having déjà vu as I step out of the three-row truck and wait on the sidewalk for my sister and her friends to exit the car. “Why wouldn’t you tell me we were going here ?”
I wave my hand at the sign behind me, the biggest hotspot in New York and the restaurant where Lincoln works. “You don’t think I should have been told that we were going to Garganello’s for the second weekend in a row?”
Bianca has the decency to look sheepish. “In my defense, I thought you’d say no if I told you.”
“Obviously,” I grumble, following her and her friends to the line outside the restaurant. Unlike last week, we don’t breeze through the VIP entrance and must wait while bouncers check IDs and hand out wristbands to ensure that all patrons are over twenty-one.
When we finally get inside, where it’s already packed, there’s no table like last week, no place to sit and order a drink or have a conversation at normal volume. This week, we’re with the masses, pressed against each other while we figure out which of the two bars to approach and what drink to get.
“I could kill you,” I mumble to Bianca, knowing that she probably won’t hear me, but saying it anyway. I watch as she and this new group of friends come to some understanding, their heads nodding in confirmation, before Bianca grabs my wrists and attempts to pull me toward the dance floor.
“Come on; we’re going to dance first,” she yells over the music, a dance remix of “Pierre” by Ryn Weaver.
Pulling my arm from her grip, I shake my head in refusal. “No, you go out. I’m going to get a drink.” To myself, I add, because I’m going to need it to deal with being here tonight .
Bianca eyes me, keeping her hand outstretched. “You’re sure?”
“Go. You wanted to go out tonight, so dance. I’ll get a drink and hang out.” Not allowing her a moment to respond, I walk to the bar in the far corner of the main room, as far away from the crowd as possible. Just like last week, I’m struck by how beautiful the space is and how the modern décor mixes with old-school charm to create an eclectic, chic space. The exposed pipes in the ceiling mix seamlessly with the brick walls, green velvet couches, and brass pendants and chandeliers.
Even the bar is an eclectic mix of new and old; mismatched stools line the heavy mahogany bar, and the back bar looks like a perfect match to the front. The glasses lining the shelves are all mismatched: some are colorful coups, others are patterned martini glasses, and no beer mug matches. I notice dishes set in front of some of the patrons, all are mismatched china and contrasting patterns. In a place like New York, where everything is refined and cultivated, Garganello’s is this otherworldly rustic modern chic that shouldn’t work but somehow does.
I’m so lost in my appraisal that I don’t realize the bartender is standing in front of me, waiting for my attention with an amused look on his face. He clears his throat, calling my attention away from the silly-looking glass collection. “Can I get you something?”
“A tequila club, extra lime.” He nods, quickly reaching down to begin making the drink. I watch him scoop ice into the glass, squeezing lime onto the ice chips before adding the tequila and club soda. I shoot my eyes up in surprise at his sequence and can’t help but ask him about it.
“You put lime over the ice? I thought you squeeze lime at the end of the drink?”
The bartender pushes my drink toward me, and I reach into my bag, searching for my wallet. Pulling out the small billfold, I snap it open and freeze at the hand on my arm. “Put the lady’s on my tab, J.R. I’ll take a Peroni.” My eyes close at the familiar, deep voice beside me.
Shaking my head, I deny the offer. “No, it’s fine. I have money; I don’t need you to put it on his tab.”
J.R. smirks, lifting a shoulder as he reaches into a fridge below the bar to grab the beer. “It’s covered, doll.” I wince at the pejorative term, not at all pleased to be reduced to a “doll.”
“Careful with this one, man. She has thorns. Isn’t that right, cierń?”
I close my eyes at the nickname, though being called a thorn is marginally better than being referred to as a doll.
“Here you go, man. You staying late tonight?” J.R. laughs as he pushes Lincoln’s beer and my cocktail toward us, resting his elbows on the bar as though he’s settling in for a long conversation. If it wasn’t rude, and if I didn’t need to thank Lincoln for buying me a drink, I’d leave while they strike up a conversation.
As if reading my mind, Lincoln’s hand snaps out, moving to my elbow and keeping me in place. I look down at where we’re connected, swallowing thickly at the intimacy of the gesture. Reaching forward, I grab my drink and take a healthy sip, savoring the coolness of the liquid and the punch of tequila.
I look up at the owner of the arm, not at all surprised to find his attention on me.
His face lights up with a rueful smile as soon as our eyes meet, and my heart flutters, beating wildly against my chest. Clearing my throat, I look down at his arm to gain some composure. His sleeves are rolled up, showcasing the massive amount of ink he has stitched into his skin. “How are you, Seraphina?”
Moving my eyes up to his face, I twist my straw, unable to keep from moving under his perusal. “I’m doing well. How are you doing?”
“Busy, but good.” I nod, accepting his answer.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stares at me like he’s simultaneously looking through me and undressing me. In my too-short dress, the one I thought made me look pretty when we left the house, I feel exposed, as though every inch of my skin is on display, every secret highlighted. The corset-style scarlet dress shows off what little curves I have while giving the illusion that I have a semblance of cleavage.
Whatever curves were hereditary in the family seemed to have skipped me because both Ava and Bianca had above-average boobs, while I was gifted a perky yet small chest.
Clearing my throat, I fill the charged silence. “The semester starts in a couple of weeks. I’ll be a graduate assistant in the library.” He doesn’t need this information, but I offer it anyway.
“I know.”
“I—”
“Do—”
We speak at the same time, both of us stopping mid-sentence. Biting down on my lip, I tilt my head, silently begging him to continue. I expect him to bring up our encounter last week, either the one at this very restaurant or in Ava and Grey’s kitchen. I want to ask him what he was going to say, what was so important that regardless of how many times I stopped him from talking, he kept trying to interject.
But, to my surprise, he doesn’t bring either instance up.
“Do you want to dance?”
“With you?” I blurt out, and I’m instantly mortified. I feel my cheeks heat, surely turning an unattractive, splotchy red. Dancing with Lincoln would be a terrible idea, not the least because the pull I feel toward him is undeniable, and I have to constantly remind myself that he has a girlfriend.
An image of Gemma’s beautiful face assaults my mind, and I look away, unable to rid the memory of how well-suited Gemma and Lincoln are together. Shaking my head, I refocus on Lincoln.
His smirk is devastating, and it’s all I can do not to squirm under his gaze. “Yeah, with me, cierń. Come on.” Extending a hand, I look between his roughened palm and angelic face. The dichotomy between the two parts of his body is funny. His hand shows how hard he works, with scars and scrapes and callouses telling the story of his time in the kitchen. But his face? His face is almost too handsome to be real.
“I think it’s best that we don’t dance, Lincoln.”
“Why?”
Looking down at my drink, I study the pulp remnants from the lime J.R. squeezed. They float and sink, then swirl and twirl in the alcohol. “You know why.” My voice is soft, barely discernible over the loud beat of the music. “I should go find my sister. I came with her and her friends. I-it was great seeing you again.”
I chance a look at him, one last hit, raise my glass in a salute, and turn to walk away. His hand shoots out before I can move one step, stilling my body. Glancing over my shoulder, I suck in a breath at the expression painted across his features.
His face is a mosaic, a sculpture, a painting—every art medium captured and molded into one insanely beautiful display. He’s a living David , and it almost hurts to look at him.
“Come on, Seraphina, what are you so scared of?”
So many things. But I don’t voice that thought. Instead, I look from Lincoln to my hand, not making any moves to dislodge his touch. He senses my grudging acceptance and closes his fingers, capturing me and making sure there is no escape.
As he tugs, gently guiding me up, I can’t help but wonder what events I just set into motion.