Chapter Eight Julia
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Eating on a park bench is far superior to dining anywhere else in the city. Give me birds at my feet, a sandwich in my hand, and the sun on my face. The only five-star spot I need.”
—Remington
Julia
The new school sucked, but I didn’t hate everything about our new life.
For starters, we had money.
A ridiculous gift, that, and something we were still getting used to.
My parents remained on-brand Shawna and Clint, making Liam and me ask before we could buy anything and then lecturing us about the importance of fiscal responsibility, but it didn’t suck having a debit card that was connected to an account with guaranteed flow.
And our neighborhood was a dream.
Like, I was obsessed with it.
There was just something about the Upper West Side that I adored, the way you could get lost in the crowd and somehow be seen and not seen, all at the same time.
I felt strong and independent as I walked the streets like a character in a Nora Ephron movie, popping in here and there with my tote bag over my shoulder as if my own personal theme music were playing in the background.
Side note: My theme music would obviously be “Julia” by Mt. Joy.
Duh.
And my love of our new city was accentuated by the season, because New York in the fall was as lovely as every song and movie had ever purported it to be.
The air was cool, the trees tipped with gold and ruby hues, and the crunching noise of the leaves under my shoes sounded like heaven as I sampled bodega foods, loitered at coffee shops, and wasted far too much time in the bookstores.
I loved everything about it.
Especially my two parks.
Central Park was as magical as I’d always known it would be, with the bonus of it being a quick golden-leaf-strewn walk from our house. Huge and beautiful, with the reservoir and the castle and the tiered Bethesda Fountain that I wished upon every time I visited.
Please, no school drama.
But Riverside Park was my favorite. It felt smaller and like a secret (compared to Central Park), like it was my neighborhood park.
I liked walking Clank (yes, I walked my cat) in the mornings before school because I felt like I could breathe when I was there. No uniformed classmates were judging me; there was only Mother Nature doing her thing, along with the other early risers.
And this morning was no different.
It was the kind of morning that still had summer warmth in the rise of the sun, even though the temperature had cooled.
The leaves were early-peak in the park, where every single color was mixed into the fray.
Some trees were still green, some yellow, but others were blooming with brown and red and orange.
Every color was on display and it was stunning.
I was strolling leisurely, letting Clank lead me, and we were almost to the row of benches that faced the Hudson River when I saw a guy my age sitting on one of them.
Actually, he was on the best bench, my favorite bench.
The bench I most enjoyed reading upon, the bench where I liked to sit and watch the barges float up and down the river.
But the guy… wow, the guy was… curious. And familiar.
I kept out of his sight line as I walked slightly behind him, ready to pounce on the bench the moment the dude left. I was about to claim it when he finally hopped up, but instead of leaving, he lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes and turned his head to the left.
I couldn’t tell if he was looking up in a tree, or at one of the people walking around.
Hmm. Is this guy a bird-watcher or a pervert?
Almost as if hearing my thoughts, he lowered the binoculars and—
Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy SHIT!
Damion?
It couldn’t be, right? For starters, no rich prep-school guy would be out and about this early in the morning. Surely boys like him had Scotch-fueled hangovers to sleep off from the night before that kept them in their luxurious beds until the very last minute.
And guys like him definitely didn’t write in leather-bound journals. I didn’t know Damion at all, but he didn’t strike me as someone who’d be into jotting down his innermost thoughts while communing at the park.
No, he seemed like someone who’d be into kicking a journaler’s journal around the park.
My heart leapt as I quickly started heading in the other direction, accidentally jerking Clank a little too hard and causing her to meow at me.
“Sorry,” I murmured—quietly, because for some reason, I felt like I would be murdered if he knew I’d seen him.
Doing what, exactly?
What in the hell was he up to?
I swear to God it looked like he was bird-watching, but no. Impossible. Bird-watching? Damion the Evil?
It just couldn’t be.
Was he some sort of Harriet the Spy member of the neighborhood watch? Did New York City even have a neighborhood watch? I wondered as I speed-walked through the park.
And why did I care?
And why was I still thinking about it later, when Liam and I were walking into school?
I was just as confused as I’d been in the park, because no way would someone like Damion the Evil watch birds.
No freaking way.
My phone buzzed, and when I pulled it out of my pocket, it was my cousin texting our three-way group chat.
Lauren: I just got a weird call at the store.
Liam: Heavy breathing?
Lauren: Yeah because I’d for sure text YOU if I got that call.
Me: BTW did you order pumpkins for the window display?
I squinted as we walked up to the entrance, dreading another day of school at Gardenwood.
Lauren: Your dad already asked me that and YES
Me: But he never orders enough. Get another case.
“Focus, Jules,” Liam said, then texted: The weird call??
Lauren: Yeah, It was a guy with a LOT of questions about the owners of Lowell’s Market.
I glanced over at my brother, who ignored me to text: What kinds of questions? Who was it?
So far things had gone smoothly with the inheritance, with no one—aside from my tutor—questioning our arrival or my dad’s “business.”
Lauren: He didn’t say, but he wanted to know where you guys went, are you coming back, did you sell your house…
“Oh shit,” I said to Liam, my stomach clenching as he looked back at me with a worried expression that probably matched my own. “Do you think this is what Bernard warned us about?”
“Probably,” he said, “But relax. Asking isn’t getting.”
I texted: What’d you tell him?
Lauren: I put him on hold for an hour and he was gone when I came back.
Liam: NICE. Thank you.
Liam was good at not worrying, but I was stressed all morning because someone was actually asking about us.
Who was it?
Bernard had been very vague with his warnings before the move, saying something about how vast fortunes bring all creatures scuttling to the surface, but it was killing me, wondering who specifically was scuttling to get at Lou’s estate.
I wished Bernard were there with me, at school, because I needed his calm demeanor to reassure me that everything was going to be okay.
Maybe Liam and I needed to create a group chat with him.
Although, I’m not sure he’d give me his number.
Bernard was funny that way. Close enough to know all our secrets, but formal enough to discourage oversharing.
I was still thinking about the mysterious call when I stopped by my locker after fourth period, and I nearly jumped out of my skin when someone yelled my name.
“Julia!”
I turned around, and the cool blonde who lived across the street from me was standing there with a few friends behind her. One, two, three, four… four of them. They were all four watching me, none of them smiling, and I just knew I was staring directly at the Skins.
There was no one else they could be.
Unease rippled through me, and I felt like I was under attack.
By an impossibly gorgeous girl band or something.
The tallest of the group, a size-zero redhead with a lot of cleavage exposed since her collar-popped button-down was way buttoned-down, eyeballed me like I’d just said something insane (even though I hadn’t spoken at all).
Her tie was tied in a loopy bow instead of like an actual tie, her legs were covered in over-the-knee brown boots, a demure pearl headband held back her long bangs from her shoulder-length hair, and she was wearing a backpack that was bright red patent leather.
If I’d been wearing any of those things, I would look ridiculous. But she was wearing all of them, together, and on her, it was money.
“What exactly is the deal with you and Damion Rutledge?” she asked, her tone and expression telling me she had zero interest in becoming my friend.
“I’m sorry—what?” I said, feeling attacked even though they were just standing there, looking at me.
“There’s a rumor that you and Damion are seeing each other, which simply cannot be true,” the blonde said, her tone accenting the utter impossibility of the notion.
Her eyes were almost aqua, they were so light, and it was jarring how beautiful she was.
Almost disturbing, really, like she was a robot or an alien.
Are you AI? Because your perfect face doesn’t make sense to my imperfect brain.
And as she waited for me to answer, I just knew this was Coco. Something about her energy just screamed that she was the leader of this group.
“Oh. Um, no,” I said, hating how my voice sounded. It came out breathy and high-pitched, like I was lying or scared of my own shadow. I cleared my throat and used my best not a wimp voice when I clarified, “I barely know him.”
Which, coincidentally, made “I Wish I Knew How to Quit You,” my favorite Sombr song, pop into my head, since it was from the I Barely Know Her album.
I felt like a liar as they stared at me, my heart rate skyrocketing while my cheeks got hot enough for me to know that anyone could see I was lying just by the bright red pops on my face.
But I wasn’t about to cop to the tutoring, not to these specimens of human perfection.
I somehow just knew that these four girls were accomplished speakers of multiple languages and probably all had Ivy League possibilities; no way could I tell them about my… problem.
“If you barely know him,” the girl beside Coco asked, the girl who had curly black hair that went down all the way down to her waist, a waist that I might be able to wrap my hands around, it was so tiny, dear God, “then why was he at your house?”
“Why was he…,” I murmured like an idiot, blinking and trying to formulate thoughts when I knew I was screwed. That was, in fact, a really good question. Why would he stop by if I barely knew him?
It didn’t make logical sense, dammit.
For a split second I wondered if Donovan had said something, but as Coco’s pale blue eyes bore into me, I remembered where she lived.
She could’ve seen him at my house.
I stared at the girls with my mouth open, probably looking like a fish as I tried recalling how to speak. My phone was in my hand because I’d been staring down at it before they approached, so when the notification sound rang out, I nearly jumped out of my skin.
All five of us glanced down at the display, and in the midst of my panic I saw a text from a number I didn’t know.
I brought you a baguette, Nebraska.
I gasped, because I knew who the message was from, but Damion didn’t have my number and this was impossible so what the hell, what the hell?? I stared at the display and didn’t know what to think or do or say as four sets of long-lashed eyes settled upon me in judgment.
But then it got worse because I saw him coming.
Damion was walking toward us, coming from behind the Skins, grinning, with a loaf of French bread in his hand. He was so tall, impossible to miss with that wide chest and those long legs, somehow managing to look reckless and wild while wearing a blazer and tie.
“How do you know my number?” I blurted without thinking, holding up my phone.
Which made the entire group turn around and look at him—look at him as he gave me a very dirty grin and said, “I know lots of things.”
I know lots of things.
I pushed at my hair, unsure how to even talk to a guy who said things like that.
The girl with the waist-long hair giggled, but I wasn’t amused. “Seriously, though,” I said, working hard at making sure these girls knew I hadn’t given it to this guy I didn’t know. “How did you get my number?”
“It’s Rutledge,” said the Skin who was wearing what appeared to be a choker made out of a hundred strands of pearls.
Her neck wasn’t even visible underneath the cover of so many pearls, yet they somehow accentuated the caramel highlights in her hair and made her green eyes pop. “He can do anything.”
“I’m sure he can’t do anything,” I snapped, my gaze still on the towering boy with the dark hair.
“Anything,” Damion repeated, giving me an eyebrow raise that dared me to argue as he held up his phone.
“I—I don’t, um—” I stammered.
“Your bread, Julia,” he interrupted with a grin, presenting the baguette like a lifeline for me to cling on to.
“Um, thank you, I guess…?” What is with the bread? I grabbed the paper-wrapped loaf from Orwashers and said, “What was your name again?”
That made Coco snort—I wasn’t sure if it was in disbelief or in mockery of Damion—but it didn’t matter.
Because my feigned unawareness of him was received like some sort of a challenge.
He stepped closer, not releasing the baguette, pulling me slightly closer still by the loaf between us.
His eyes were very nearly twinkling behind those stupid-hot glasses as he looked down at me and said, “It’s Damion, honey, and it looks like I’m going to have to make some serious moves to ensure you never forget it again. ”