11. Lilah #2
I tucked all my sentimental things aside and searched for clothes for tomorrow. There wasn’t much to choose from. A cardigan over my Hawthorne shirt and skirt was the best I could do.
My alarm vibrated where I’d stuffed it under my pillow so it didn’t wake anyone else up. I squeezed my eyes shut extra hard, still used to bracing myself for dizziness when I sat up. But there was none, and not even a lingering headache from last night.
Stomach grumbling already, I shoved my blankets down and climbed out of bed. When I flattened them back up, there were clothes on top of my comforter.
Had Kelsey tossed her dirty clothes out here after I’d gone to sleep? Irritation bubbled up, but then I looked at them again.
The clothes were on hangers.
Eliza. She’d left these out here for me. Three tops. Two pants. Two skirts. A sweet, bright feeling washed over me.
I looked at their closed door and hugged the shirts to my chest before releasing them, not wanting anything to wrinkle. Taking some time before eating, I picked out what would work best for me and hung the rest in our little laundry closet for her to pick up later.
Coffee brewed in the pot on an auto-timer I’d set up for Dad over the summer. I’d planned on reheating the steak and some potato this morning, but it was all gone, dirty containers in the sink.
Instead, I scrambled the last of the eggs, made toast and microwaved two freezer-burned sausages I’d found in a box stuck to the back of the freezer. I’d have Dad drive me to the grocery store to stock up instead of hoping he remembered.
His throat-clearing cough reached me before he turned the corner.
“Morning, Dad.”
“Morning, kiddo. You’re not at school.” He checked the clock on the oven and poured himself a cup of coffee.
I handed him the last of the milk from the fridge. “It’s Saturday.”
He scrubbed his hands over his face. “Already? I need to hit the road.”
“Hit the road?”
“Alena needs me to pick up new glass panes for the conservatory. She wants it finished before Thanksgiving.”
I pushed my plate toward him. “Did you want some breakfast first?”
His eyes lit up and he picked up my fork. “You’re always ten steps ahead, kiddo.”
“When was the last time you ate?”
He rubbed his scruffy chin while he chewed. “Lunch in my truck, I think.”
“You need to take better care of yourself. You know I’ll be gone after the summer.”
He scooped the last of the eggs into his mouth. “Speaking of that, how are you doing? Sorry I wasn’t around much while you were recovering. I figured I’d only be in the way since you needed quiet.”
I plastered on a paper-thin smile and picked up his empty plate to wash. “You’re right—the quiet was what I needed. And I’m all good now.”
“Good, good,” he said, rubbing his fingers over the leaf of an orchid sitting at the kitchen sink window. “I’ll be gone all day.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got a college interview today.” I’d walk to the store after my interview and see how much I could carry back.
“Wow, it’s that time already.” He squeezed my shoulder and patted my cheek. “I know you’ll do great. Never had to worry about you. I’ll leave some cash for food. I keep forgetting even with your lists and reminders.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said, throat tight, feeling even more alone than I had before he walked in. But he was trying his best. And I couldn’t expect him to be the same kind of comforting and excited to hear about my day that Mom had been.
My stomach reminded me of the breakfast I was supposed to eat. I grabbed a box of cereal and a bowl before looking at the empty milk carton in the trash. I put the bowl back and grabbed a couple of handfuls of cereal and ate it dry.
After my “breakfast,” I went back over my notes about Bellevue, what excited me about Seattle, reviewed the admission requirements and re-reviewed my pitiful extracurriculars and awards so far. Then I changed and left before Kelsey and Eliza woke up.
The brisk, crisp air helped keep me from overheating on the walk to the coffee shop. It wasn’t the leisurely stroll I’d envisioned. I got there a whole thirty minutes early. Better than rushing in sweaty and flustered.
French Press had hand-chalked signs listing the specials suspended in the windows and on little boards out on the sidewalk.
Inside the café, the exposed brick had been painted white.
Plants hung in pots next to oversized exposed lightbulbs.
They’d turned old library card catalog cabinets into their counters, which were lit with a mesmerizing amount of glowing under-counter lighting that drew me in like a moth.
A single cup of coffee cost more than two hours of work in the sewing lab.
I poured a cup of lemon water from the glass carafe near the sugars and stir sticks and found the smallest two-seater table in the front corner, hoping the busy baristas didn’t say anything about me not ordering.
I didn’t want to miss the interviewer, Grace Hall.
At least that was what the email had said.
I wished they’d included a photo of her.
Still avoiding screens when I could, I pulled out my sketchbook and the other papers from my bag.
As I reviewed a short narrative I’d written about my concussion and the impact they might see on my grades, I tried to keep my internal freak-out to a minimum.
There were so many things I could talk about, like a reframe of my summer spent elbow-deep gardening and not at an internship, world travel odyssey or other unpaid work like a lot of my classmates.
Without any real food this morning, the slightest hint of a throb started in my head. I swapped to my sketchbook and used that to look busy and relax me. Two pages of a draped dress later, the pain had subsided.
“Lilah?” A woman in her sixties with kind eyes, a fuzzy cream sweater, cream pants, black heels and a stack of delicate tennis bracelets rested her hands on the back of the chair across from me.
I shot up, heart in my throat, slammed my sketchbook closed, extended my hand and knocked over my cup of water, spilling it across the table.
“Hi, yes, I’m Lilah Byrd. Sorry, Mrs. Hall.” I scooped a stack of napkins from the condiment station and wiped at the water.
She picked up a napkin and tidied up her side of the table. “Call me Grace. And this isn’t a firing squad, only a chat to get to know you better to help the admissions committee make their decision. Did you order already?”
I tapped the side of my now empty cup. “No, I don’t need anything.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“You’ll make a poor woman eat and drink alone? I’m going to get a quiche and a five-name drink. I’ll feel self-conscious if you’re sitting there with only your water.”
The board was a jumble of words I didn’t understand like macchiato, frappuccino, cortado and more. I didn’t want to look like an idiot and I kicked myself for not paying better attention at the Hawthorne Prep coffee cart to know what I was looking at.
“I’ll take whatever you’re having.”
She gave me a wide smile and set her purse down on the chair across from me. “Wonderful.”
I stacked my damp papers together and put them into my bag, then put my sketchbook on the windowsill beside me to air-dry in the sun.
“If they don’t win this year, I swear the school’s getting burned down.” Brooke walked through the coffee shop door, followed by Morgan. The uniform gropers. Now more than ever, I was grateful to Eliza for lending me this outfit.
The idea of another run-in with them, where they spotted me in their hand-me-downs all over again, turned my empty stomach.
Although I’d had plenty of time with a seam ripper and needle and thread during my recovery to remove those little traces, so they were now indistinguishable from my other secondhand uniforms.
The two of them got in line a person behind Grace. I wanted to sink down in my chair or dart into the bathroom, but I had to keep my cool, professional demeanor going for my interview.
Grace paid for our items, and I prayed she’d sit down quickly, hiding me from their view.
They laughed and played with their hair. The move had probably gotten them free coffees every day of the week. Normally, it wouldn’t bother me. But right now, I hated the extra anxiety spike at their presence.
With a swallowed laugh of surprise from one of them, Morgan glanced my way.
No longer as loud as before, they whispered together with their backs to me, glancing not-so-sneakily over their shoulders and conspiring over their phones.
The sinking pit in my stomach turned to a gnawing burn like coals being lit on fire. The back of my neck heated as a horror show of possibilities shot through my head.
Were they texting Mason? I glanced at the door like my thoughts could summon him.
Would he show up here to…to what? I didn’t even know.
There was a current delicate balance where we both treated each other like semi-strangers again, but how long would my concussion reprieve last? Even the thought felt wrong deep inside. Something had changed, but I needed to stop tormenting myself with visions of Summer Mason.
I stood to help Grace with the coffees and food, needing to move my body and tempted to run from the shop. But I squeezed the plates in my hands, half expecting the porcelain to crack, and sat back down.
Brooke and Morgan put in their orders and kept looking at me. I tried to block them out.
“Take a deep breath.” Grace patted the back of my hand, still white-knuckling the edge of my plate.
I did as she suggested. Mason wasn’t going to show up. Everything he’d done to me had been all about convenience, from our nights in the pool house to turning me into a pariah.
He’d never go out of his way to track me down. It was only when I was under his thumb at school that he could send people to do his bidding with a look. Brooke and Morgan weren’t going to dump a hot cup of coffee in my lap.
I reset. Worrying about them or Mason was only going to make these tongue-tied feelings grip me even tighter.