Chapter Eighteen Julia
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I want La Masseria’s meatballs in my mouth every minute of my life.”
—Remington
Julia
Damion is holding my hand.
Holy, holy shit, Damion Rutledge is holding my hand.
Sure, I knew it was because I was about to be swallowed up by the massive crowd, but still… Damion Rutledge was holding my hand.
What the…?
He’d pulled me against him and spoken like that, his lips almost touching my ear, his voice deep and low. Warm breath on my skin as he guided me out of the throngs of people, and when we finally got to a stopping point, he asked, “Where to now, Nebraska?”
I don’t know, I’m having trouble thinking right now!
“Umm. Uh… Rockefeller Center,” I said, avoiding eye contact. My cheeks were hot, my voice caught in my throat. I wasn’t ready to meet his gaze just yet.
Maybe ever.
To say I was slightly flustered was an understatement.
He nodded. “Lead the way.”
I appreciated what he was doing. That he wasn’t trying to change my plans or get in my way. But… why?
What is he playing at? I wondered.
I’m sure the lifted eyebrow on my face gave me away when Damion nodded forward. “Shall we? Or would you prefer standing still like this a little longer?”
He lifted his hand, where mine was still securely intertwined in his. Dear Lord.
Have I really not let go yet??
As if reading my mind, he let loose with a devilish grin. I felt his thumb slide over mine—slow, soft—as he stepped closer and said with all the cocky attitude, “I mean, if you’re in the mood to blow off some steam and linger around a little longer, Jules, I know a place—”
“Let’s go,” I said, ripping my hand out of his, annoyed by his smug laughter.
Welcome back, Damion the Evil.
And, okay—fine. It was nice that he was helping me navigate the chaos of New York City, but did he have to look like THAT while doing it?
Those stupid glasses.
That stupid smile.
That stupid deep… deep… absurdly deep voice. Low and gravelly—
Snap out of it, Jules!
“So do you never come down here?” I asked while we walked. “One of those things that you do as a tourist but as a local you avoid at all costs?”
“I mean, yes and no,” he said. “I try to avoid it because for the most part it’s shit, but sometimes you have to head to the shit. The only way to see shows is to come down here.”
“You like Broadway plays?” I asked.
“I do,” he said, which surprised me. He seemed far too… no-nonsense for plays. “I mean, don’t you want to hit some shows, now that you’re here?”
“Uhh…”
“Not at all?” He sounded shocked.
“I’m just not a fan of musicals—too much singing.”
His scoff was louder than the city traffic. “Come on—Hamilton…?”
“I saw it on Disney Plus, and I just couldn’t get over the fact that they sang the whole entire time.”
“You uncultured swine.” He scowled. “Who doesn’t love Hamilton?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t love it, I said it was too much singing.”
“Maybe you just need to see the right musical,” he said.
“Really?” The idea of Damion loving theater was a little bit shocking. But then again, so was the idea of him working at an animal shelter. I still wasn’t sure if I believed it.
“Sure,” he said. “The thing about a musical is that it makes you feel things deeply, because the music heightens the emotions, so it’s worth searching out the ones that might move you. I cried my eyes out the first time I saw Dear Evan Hansen.”
“You did?” I said on a gasp, more surprised he was sharing this piece of vulnerable info than I was by the image of him crying, which was honestly impossible to picture. “And here I thought you were an unemotional robot.”
“I mean, I am, but even robots need their joints oiled every once in a while, right?”
“Wow, so profound… and gross.”
“Seriously, though,” he said, stopping at a red light.
“When it comes to film and books and the arts in general, you’re rewarded when they make you feel, even when they make you feel bad, right?
Some of the best books are the ones that destroy you because they ultimately change the fabric of who you are. ”
What??
The way he said that, so matter-of-factly, was mind-blowing. Absolutely the most surprising thing he’d done since I’d met him. Because I wholeheartedly agreed with what he said and believed it to my core, though I doubt I could’ve communicated it in such an eloquent way.
Who is this guy?
“Yeah,” I said, trying to recover from this new side of Damion. “I totally agree.”
Will hadn’t been a reader. His taste in movies tended to skew toward “sporty,” and I didn’t think he’d ever gone to a play in his life.
He was all about football, football, and more football, which was what made even just discussing the arts with Damion feel monumental.
And not just because he was Damion the Evil, but because he was sincerely interested.
“My mom hates anything sad,” he said, gesturing for me to walk when the light changed.
“Which I get, but I also feel like life is about feeling, right? Like really feeling things deeply to your core, good or bad. You can go along for the easy ride, or you can put yourself in the path of the moving train and let yourself feel every bump, every turn, every horrific crash.”
I wanted to make fun of him, to mock him for being so deep, to give back at him all the Nebraska jabs he’d shoved my way, but I couldn’t.
Was he aware how much he was oversharing with me?
Or did he just not care?
“ ‘Poetry, beauty, romance, love—these are what we stay alive for,’ ” I said, half to myself, remembering the quote from Dead Poets Society.
“Are you seriously quoting Mr. Keating to me?” he asked, looking at me out of the corner of his eyes.
“Are you seriously saying you recognize that quote?” I asked, beaming in his direction. I didn’t mean to do it, but this meant that he’d watched my favorite movie more than once.
Which meant I understood something about him somehow.
Is it possible that there’s more to this Damion than I thought?
Maybe…
We walked around Rockefeller Center, Damion making fun of me for saying “excuse me” too many times, walking too slowly, and making a wish in one of the fountains.
“Locals don’t make wishes in wells, Nebraska.”
“Maybe that explains why they all seem so unhappy, then, New York.”
When we finished at Rockefeller Center, I mentioned wanting to stop somewhere to eat.
“Do you have a particular place in mind?” he asked.
“No, not really. Too many choices.”
Damion shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels and acting as if I’d spoken in Klingon. “How can there be too many options for food, Nebraska? An indecisive princess, are we?”
Ugh. That smirk.
“Fine,” I said with a sigh. “Suggest something, then.”
“You said it, not me,” he replied, and then he winked. “Don’t regret it later.”
A wink. Another wink.
Seriously, did Damion know any other language but flirting?
“Let me call an Italian place real quick. You like Italian?” he asked.
“Love.”
“Perfect.” He took out his phone and raised it to his ear. We took a couple of steps toward a building and out of the way of foot traffic. But I swear to God it sounded like he asked for someone by name, and then it sounded like he was speaking in Italian.
I watched him, watched his lips moving over words I didn’t know, and I was pretty sure I was going to faint. Because what was this? What was my life? Damion Rutledge in all his Damion Rutledge glory was speaking Italian.
And wow, it was a powerful thing.
Weak knees powerful.
Smelling salts, please.
“Ciao, a presto,” Damion said; then he hung up as I regained my balance.
“I’m sorry, were you just speaking in Italian?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said nonchalantly, as if it were normal. “An old family friend can always get me a table at his restaurant, but he speaks way better Italian than English.”
“So you speak Italian,” I said in awe. “Is that it, just the two languages?”
“French, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese,” he said so shockingly nonchalantly. “Although, my French is not very good.”
I don’t know what I expected him to say, but it wasn’t four freaking languages, holy crap. For some reason, this made me feel even worse about my math difficulties, because it was intimidating how smart he was.
Or God, maybe it wasn’t just him.
Did everyone with money speak a billion languages? Was I the only student at Gardenwood who wasn’t multilingual? That would just be fan-freaking-tastic if there was yet another way for me to prove to the world I didn’t belong.
“I’m sure it’s better than mine,” I said dumbly, remembering next to nothing of the language.
“Say something, Jules.”
I cleared my throat, then said, “Où sont les toilettes?”
Instead of judging my pronunciation or my lame choice of phrase, he said with a dirty smirk, “J’aime bien le son du francais parlé par Nebraska.”
Smelling salts, please. ALL the smelling salts.
I opened my mouth to reply, but the combination of his French, mixed with the half smile, rendered me a tiny bit speechless.
Good God, I’ve swallowed my tongue.
And he knew, God help me, because something changed in his face. It was like he turned up the volume, the intensity of his flirt.
Damion leaned in a little closer, lowered his voice, and said, “Tu as perdu ta langue, Jules?”
A shiver ran down my spine, and I was once again reminded of just how dangerous he was. How glad I was that he didn’t like me and I didn’t like him, because he was a million miles out of my league of knowledge.
I mean, I couldn’t even remember how to speak when he turned on the charm.
I cleared my throat. “Are we going to eat or what?” I asked, wanting to sound unfazed, disappointed when my voice came out all breathless.
Totally fazed.
Which made his half smile slide into a full-scale grin of satisfaction. “This way.”
I followed him over to La Masseria, and when he pulled open the door, I was instantly charmed.