CHAPTER 60
Ana
I’M IN HIS room.
I know, creepy. But I promise it’s not.
The door was popped right open, Troy wasn’t home, my energy was too scattered to study for my next midterm, and the diner had to close earlier today, which meant no late-night shift for the evening. It was only reasonable to take a quick peek into his room.
Okay, I guess it is a bit creepy. But I digress.
Before my gaze can focus on any single object, my nose picks up on the same clean and manly scent that the asshole must have been born with.
Because on top of his inherited wealth, perfect genetic lottery, killer game on the ice, Troy Larsson also had to be blessed with a naturally sexy smell.
My legs start throbbing at the memory of our practice today.
It's too damn close, we’re too close, yet it’s not close enough, and the more we’re skating together, the thinner the line is blurring at what’s become of our dynamic.
My palm closes around the picture in a frame bordered with a cheesy hockey graphic on one nightstand. Troy, his brothers, mother, and father are all in the photo, his dad still with that same intimidating, smile-less look on his face.
Everything in the room is clean, in fact.
The giant king size bed hugged in a giant grey comforter.
Ivory curtains are spread open, revealing the enviable top-level view from the balcony.
It almost feels like he’s here, his breath roaming around the air as I brush past his bathroom.
A stronger flush of musk lingers there. When I breathe it in, I catch a glimpse of myself from the mirrored door blocking his closet.
Guilt and nosiness reek from my image. I have no business being here, but before I can change my mind and sprint back to the guest room, my gaze lands on a shelf that rests beside the desk next to his other nightstand.
Shelves and shelves of literature greats along with Greek classics.
Mythology, tales, and poems. I actually huff out a chuckle at the realization that Troy has a secret stash of Greek myths.
Maybe I’m being judgy but the notion just feels pretentious.
My fingers clutched to the tan bundle of paper, I scan the first weighty textbook with a sparkle of intrigue.
Shifting in my seat, I realize at some point of glossing through the pages of sonnets my body has made itself comfortable on his bed. Unknowingly.
“Comfortable?”
My heart shoots up my chest at the sound of Troy’s teasing voice. I barely catch a glimpse of his crossed arms as I spring off his bed, tripping over my feet in the process, shoving the book on his nightstand. “No, I was just,” Spying? Snooping around? Invading your privacy? “I heard a noise.”
Ana, you are a terrible liar.
“And that turned into you lying on my bed, how?”
“I was sitting. Not lying.”
The amusement lifting his cheeks only grows at my weak response.
“You know, we can switch rooms if that’s what all this is about?” He leans against the doorframe, cool. “The other day when you tried to trespass. Right now…” I roll my eyes. “If you want to sleep in my bed that bad, it’s all yours.”
The arrogance coating his words makes me furious at myself for feeling any kind of pleasing sensation to them.
“My bed is much more comfortable. I think I actually might’ve pulled my back just now.” I pretend to stretch my arm to prove my fabricated point, casually wanting to brush this whole conversation off.
Troy’s gaze flickers. “It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. Except, I’m usually also present. I can have that arranged for you next time, Ana,” he chirps, strolling past his closet, dropping off his gym bag.
“Sure, I’ll let you know the next time I’m in the mood to be underwhelmed.”
“Says the girl obsessed with my room.”
I scoff. “Speaking of obsessions…” I divert, lifting the book that was sprawled across my lap seconds ago toward him. “Greek mythology? Really?”
“Those were my mom’s.”
My heart immediately sinks.
“Troy, I—”
“You didn’t know. It’s cool,” he says with a nod, calming the panic he must see flooding my eyes.
He walks toward the bookcase with the kind of caution that leads you to wonder how long he’s avoided this space in his room. Feeling a strong arm brush against mine, I take a step to my right, buzzed with heat, hitting the side of the plush mattress.
“Daphne Larsson was obsessed with Greek mythology,” Troy shares, warmth creasing the edges of his eyes, “you’d have to pry these books from her hands.
” He slides a thick variation painted in olive from the shelf, parting it to the middle, revealing an all Greek text.
It’s The Odyssey, though from the antique printed text, clearly a rare, special edition.
“She saved up for these after two whole summers working at this tiny family bakery in Santorini.”
His face casting down into a somber expression, green orbs that are usually as bright as moonlight fade as he turns to look at me.
“You know, my mom didn’t grow up in a rich family; they pretty much lived off scraps.
She had a rough time adjusting when she first moved in with my dad’s family.
” Heaviness engulfs his words, something deeply gloomy brimming from the memory.
“They didn’t accept her at the beginning.
To be honest, I don’t think they ever really did.
” Anger snaps at his jaw, shutting the book abruptly, forcing it back onto the tidy shelf.
“She tried her best to blend in with his family. Wish I could say he did the same.”
Other than the obvious fact that Troy and I never confide in each other about our personal lives—or anything else—like ever, my own flashbacks of his late mom rush back, sadness and joy battling together, for some odd reason, remembering this one particular tradition of hers.
White rectangular posters would be covered in metallic markers, silver and gold beads glimmering from the rink’s bleachers (and impossible to miss), where Mrs. Larsson would be, the text and design alternating between a hockey stick / puck or a pair of figure skates depending on which son had a competition or game that day, but one thing never changed—Mrs. Larsson radiating the middle of the stands with the proudest smile on her face.
I never, not once, heard a bad whisper about their mother, and to this day, an eerie sickness unsettles me, not knowing what happened to her.
Whatever it was, the sneaking suspicion hasn’t dissolved no matter how hard Troy’s father and grandfather tried to convince the press of the sequence of events.
Searching through the empty pit of my stomach for a response, no words feels appropriate other than my simple opinion of his mother.
“Your mom was really cool,” I say, tapping the outer edge of Troy’s forearm. It’s a gentle, soft touch, but entirely thoughtless, as in, I didn’t think that part through.
“Yeah, she was,” he says, warmth scattering all throughout my body at the sight of bright, punchy green brightening again.
The air thickens, my breathing growing uncomfortably erratic when Troy’s gaze drops to my hand that’s—for some outrageous reason—still holding onto his arm.
I let go.
“I’m sorry,” I cough out. “About what happened to her.”
If there were two sentences I wasn’t supposed to say on the subject—from the sudden paleness of his face—I just said them.
“Me too,” he says dry, distant.
A few, deeply awkward beats of silence pass, Troy picking up on my nerves, adding, “Sorry, I don’t know how to talk about her without—” He shakes his head, trying to find the words.
“Shutting down?” I offer.
“Yeah.” Pain, but also relief calms his voice, making my own body relax.
“I get it,” I say. “I didn’t mean to reopen any wounds.”
“You didn’t,” he insists, now resting a hand over my shoulder, my heartbeat starting to flicker again.
“I haven’t really talked about her in, I don’t even remember how long, but it’s nice to talk about her with someone else who remembers her.
” He smiles for the first time since he showed up all cocky by his doorframe.
“Wanna know a secret?” I say cleverly.
Troy’s eyes tinge with intrigue. “What?”
“She was the only Larsson I ever liked.”
His cheeks lift, bursting into a contagious, gloriously happy laugh. My chest flutters at the warm and unexpected sound.
He shrugs. “Fair enough.” Crossing his arms, he says, “For whatever reason, she liked you too.”
I pinch Troy’s bicep at the comment, earning myself another loud laugh.
“She’d talk about you after practically every competition, saying, ‘how can Anahita skate like that’? And ‘why is she so annoying’?”
The clear, latter joke he threw in there flies away, Troy realizing my first name just slipped from his mouth so casually, spotting the confusion that washes over me.
“Anahita?” I repeat out loud, surprised.
“Uh, yeah,” he says with soft trepidation, “at home, that’s what she would call you by. She loved your name.”
For some reason, an overwhelming kind of sadness fills me at the reveal.
Troy just continues to speak.
“So do I.”
So do I.
“It fits you.” I blink deeply, hoping it will help the sorrow escape my chest. “Why did you stop going by it?”
Sharpening my posture in a single push, despite the cascading pain, I do what I do best, give a sure confidence that deep down I don’t remember the last time having.
“It was too long,” I say with a carefree shrug. “‘Ana’s’ easier to remember.”
He looks at me like he knows that was a lie, baffled by the idea that I’d think he’d buy it, but the way his teeth are biting at the edge of his lower lip, his brows pulled together, I see a trace of something else—disappointment.
And it claws at me, the guilt I continue to carry, the expectations placed on my conscience about my culture that’s supposed to remain hidden, that’s supposed to not be a part of me, even though it is a part of me.
But it’s one less hurdle to worry about, Mom would tell me, one less obstacle to face to reach your dreams, the way we never could. Though standing face-to-face right now with the guy I’ve known almost my whole life, all the hiding that’s been bottled up, makes me feel like a total fraud.
Despite the weight, not wanting to delve into the topic, I say, “I’m going to go run some errands. It’s my one free night since my shift got cancelled. I’ll see you later.”
That wasn’t a lie, but the man by the nightstand knew it was a diversion, and I hated the indifference in his voice when he said see ya as I finally left his room.
_________
That fucking dress.
I half-expected the mannequin would be flashing a different piece by now, with the several months it’s been on display.
But no. The long and fitted strapless gown dipped in rich blue velvet, a high slit bordering along one leg, is still front and center in the glass vitrine of Avenue de Céline, taunting me right in the fucking face.
I am, by no means, the target customer for the posh department store—except for the stockings that go on sale during the holidays—the item responsible for my last-minute visit to Faerieladle’s high-end mall.
Nothing quite beats the soft texture, and they’re dangerously comfortable, even with the discount a well-worth splurge.
Taking advantage of the sale, I browse through the selection of racy undergarments, forced to overhear the very loud gossip spilling from a group of women beside me also shopping.
Arms drowning in crisp paper bags, printed in multiple designer logos, their purchases add to their latest echo of ‘which wife just got shunned from the inner circle of the rest of the wives’.
Must be about some reality show, or maybe it’s entirely about them, wouldn’t come as a surprise.
The way the middle-aged lady with sleek brunette hair, wearing all-chestnut leather and matching knee-high boots tosses a set of ruby red silk into the bin I’m searching through sparks an uncharacteristic desire in me.
How careless she was with the fabric, not giving an absolute shit at where it landed, obvious that a price tag isn’t on her checklist of things to worry about.
So I take the lace in my palms to the register, purchasing it quickly before I ask the redhead sales associate, my heart racing, giddy, “Can I see this one dress?”
She nods enthusiastically, instead of the side-eye I would typically anticipate from an employee at this store, knowing I can’t afford anything other than some of the cosmetics and marked down hosiery.
I sure as hell can’t afford the blue dress that I’m currently zipping up in the giant crystalline champagne dressing room.
And it’s perfect, the dress is painfully as beautiful as I’d expected, probably even more, swiping the curtains aside to show Harper, the name of the cool sales lady I just found out, only to find,
Oh shit, shit, shit!
He didn’t see me. Thank God.
I leapt right back into the dressing room the second I spotted the perfect side profile of a certain skater, who even in horrid department store lighting, looked just as flawless.
By the time I exit the dressing room again, returning to the register, Harper’s back, her smile fading into a frown.
“Sorry, I had to go help out this one client,” she says, her brows lifted at my frantic hand gesturing. “You didn’t like it?”
“Oh, no, I loved it!” I assure. “And no worries, I’m kinda in a hurry.”
I toss the dress nervously, slipping my wrists into the bags holding my purchases to leave, when I hear. That. Deep. Seductive. Voice.
“Ana?” Troy stands, his phone resting on a palm, the other laced through two of Céline’s signature crème-toned bags.
“I was just leaving,” I blurt out. “I’ll see you at home.”
His eyes drift to the blue fabric that’s crumpled into a messy ball on the black swirled marble atop the counter, then back at me, wordlessly puzzled as I escape the premises like I’m the fucking thief out of a Pink Panther movie.