11. Sorry Not Sorry #2
I pull down the brim of Jase’s hat so low that all I can see is the sidewalk directly beneath my feet. We haven’t encountered anybody yet, but that’s hardly a consolation. “What if someone sees me?”
I may not be able to look up at Jase, but I can hear the smile in his voice. “ I can’t even see you. And if someone does, it’s not like they’ll be able to recognize you. Anyone asks, I’ll tell them you’re a cousin from out of town.”
This would comfort me…if not for the fact that when I eventually look up, I see that we’re heading up the Rivers’ driveway.
Not only that, but there are several cars in said driveway!
When I begin backpedaling, Jase catches my hand and hauls me the rest of the way until we reach the front porch.
Cool air kisses my skin as we step into the foyer, and all I see is white .
White marble floors, white stairs, white furniture, white curtains, expanding out into the sitting room, dining room, and main hall.
And anything that isn’t white is made up entirely of glass or black accents.
It’s all opulent, but equally…sterile. Cold.
Hell, the literal temperature seems to drop the further we go.
We’re barely past the foyer when we both spot Jase’s father, Congressman Michael Rivers, pacing the inside of what appears to be an office with his cell pressed to his ear. I wouldn’t necessarily say he’s yelling, but it doesn’t sound like he’s having a pleasant conversation, either.
The only time I’ve ever seen him is in passing at the country club or on television during news sound bites.
Looking at the elder Rivers, it isn’t hard to see where Jase gets his looks from.
Though his father has dirty-blonde hair and dark eyes, Jase still inherited his bone structure, nose, and lips.
Mr. Rivers sees his son and holds up his pointer finger, mouthing something I can’t make out. Clearly, he wants us to wait a minute for him, but Jase just rolls his eyes and continues walking. When I don’t initially move, he takes my hand again and pulls me away.
“I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for him. You’ll find yourself out of air long before his ‘minute’ is up,” he says lowly.
We head upstairs, and sure enough, even as we’ve reached the third story, Mr. Rivers is still deep in conversation. Any sounds cut off as Jase shuts the door behind us, and I take in the living space.
The pitched gable roof doesn’t offer enough room for an entire third floor in the house’s layout, but it’s still plenty to make up a healthy living quarters. Hell, if converted, it could be made into a rental. In its current state, however, it clearly serves one purpose.
Entertainment.
A billiards table and mini fridge sit off to the side. Plenty inviting, but the main spectacle is the plush leather sofa and the line of theater-style lounge recliners positioned in front of a massive television.
Jase flips a switch on the wall, and all the shades draw closed on the windows, activating soft blue track lighting along the floor. He pulls out a key from his pocket and heads to the locked door in the corner of the living space. To my surprise, he waves me inside.
The same blue lighting illuminates what I suspect was supposed to be a bedroom, but there’s nothing but a desk and several tables filled with laptops, tablets, desktops, and gadgets I couldn’t begin to name.
Several of the latter appear disassembled, leaving a pasture of nuts and bolts and what look like motherboards.
I gesture to the random sheets of curved metal. “Should I ask?”
Jase laughs, reawakening a computer monitor to reveal a screen filled with coding. “It’s just part of a project I’m working on.”
“Building a killer robot?” I hedge.
He grins. “Making a short animated film, actually. I photograph the textures I want to use so I can create maps with them instead of simulating from scratch.”
Jase grabs one of the tablets and opens a folder with what I realize are 3D characters and landscape mockups.
Holy shit.
“I’d like to become an animator one day, or maybe a video game developer,” he says, talking about some of his inspirations. I must look as confused as I feel, because he cuts himself off mid-sentence. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“My stepmom doesn’t let me watch animated movies or play video games. She says they’re ‘childish,’ so I only watch those movies when I know I’ll have the house to myself, and I can’t play video games to save my life.”
“Seriously?”
“My proficiency in gaming goes about as far as the Super Nintendo my sister and I found at a garage sale when I was six,” I admit.
“Anything new, I have a hard time getting into. With my stepmom always breathing down my neck, I don’t have enough time to really get into it; and you have campaigns that go on for over a day, so it’s impossible for me to participate when I only ever get an hour here and there. ”
I may not play video games or watch much animation, but I can still appreciate Jase’s graphics.
They’re incredible.
I tell him as much, gushing over the steampunk aesthetic added to what he describes what he has planned for the project. “Where did you learn to do this?”
He shrugs, but there’s a stiffness in his shoulders. “Self-taught. I’ve been fiddling with it for a few years.”
Fiddling?
He makes it sound as easy as playing around with some Photoshop filters.
“What do your friends think?” I ask.
Is it just my imagination, or is he blushing ever so slightly?
“I…haven’t shown anybody else,” he admits, “except my mom. But she framed the finger-paint doodles I did when I was three, so she’s a tainted juror as far as my talent goes.”
I can’t help but smile. “Yeah, I know the feeling. My mom did the same thing with the pictures I took after she bought me my first camera when I was four. I photographed anything and everything, so you’d see random pictures all around the house of people’s shoes and squirrels.”
“Were you close with her?”
I nod. “You?”
A little of his self-deprecating humor slides back into his voice as he leans in and whispers, almost conspiratorially, “I’m a bit of a Mama’s Boy.”
“And is animation the only thing this Mama’s Boy is up to?” I ask, unable to ignore a certain handful of gizmos littering his desk. “Because this is kinda looking a little like Mr. Robot in here.”
Jase’s only answer is a grin as he turns to grab a sheet of paper off a corner table. “You know Cold Shoulder?”
“I’m sorry?”
He hands over the paper, and I realize it’s a flyer for some sort of garage band. “They’re playing at a party in C.H.S. territory tonight, and I was wondering if you wanted to go.”
I’m pretty sure my eyebrows are up at my hairline.
When you have social anxiety like I do, you’ll find that parties really aren’t your forte.
And being thrown into a room guaranteed to be filled entirely with strangers?
Yeah, that’s a special kind of hell. Meeting new people generally leaves me with a deer-caught-in-headlights expression and zero function of my vocal cords—not exactly who you’d call “good company.” I explain as much, but Jase doesn’t look convinced.
“You’ve never had any problem talking to me ,” he points out. “And I promise not to leave your side.”
“I’m pretty sure I’d just be cramping your style. Besides, I won’t be able to get away tonight. Everyone is supposed to be home by five. Even if they think I’m just hanging out in my room, my dad will check on me at least once or twice.”
“What if you just ask if you can go out?” He bats his eyelashes in such theatrical fashion I can’t help but laugh. “Your dad told everybody you sprained your ankle two weeks ago. It should be well enough by now that people can expect you to be walking .”
The thought is equal parts terrifying and thrilling.
My only experiences with parties, outside of children’s birthdays when I was little, are the formal social events my family drags me to.
Hell, I don’t even attend any of the football games or school dances.
I’m awkward, and the other people with whom I’m on a semi-friendly basis are my equally awkward classmates who hole up in the library with me.
We can barely bring ourselves to talk to one another, let alone the normal student body.
If it wasn’t for being overwhelmed by the sheer terror and annoyance I experienced during our first two meet-cutes, I don’t think I could have ever brought myself to talk to Jase.
Thankfully, he doesn’t press me on the matter for the time being, instead occupying himself with pulling up the movie menu for Holes on his laptop.
The screen syncs with the television outside, and with a check at the clock, Jase confirms we have enough time to watch it, with forty-five minutes left to spare before Vanessa and Blythe are expected back at my house.
He directs me back downstairs, this time to the kitchen.
“Can’t have a proper screening without the essentials,” he confirms, grabbing two bags of popcorn and placing the first into the microwave.
As we wait, I take in my surroundings. Everything is white like the rest of the downstairs, from the countertops to the appliances.
The only splash of color I see is caught from the corner of my eye, down the back hallway.
Curiosity has the better of me, because I poke my head outside the kitchen, finding the entire wall lined with framed canvases.
Unlike the cold monochrome artwork making up the rest of the house, vibrant watercolors instantly warm the hallway.
Each painting is portraiture yet abstract.
There’s something undeniably effervescent about them, from the bright pinks to even the muted blues.
They convey bliss and sadness and longing, all pouring out from the subjects’ eyes.
“These are beautiful,” I say, hearing footsteps move up behind me. A “thank you” is returned, only it isn’t Jase who answers.