Chapter 1 #4
I jerk my hand away violently and shove it under my thigh. "You may have the last one," I whisper, turning my head away so he cannot see the furious blush on my cheeks; being of pale complexion, blushes show readily, and given my state of extreme innocence and na?veté, I blush easily.
"Hey." His voice is gentle. "Cadence?”
I turn to look at him. "Yes?"
"Open your mouth."
My jaw hinges open before I register the fact that my body obeyed his command automatically.
He places the deep-fried cheese stick into my mouth, and I bite down through it.
He pulls it away so the cheese stretches out like the wires of a suspension bridge…
.and then eats the other half. While it is still connected to me.
I freeze, eyes going wide, lungs shuttering closed, as he uses his lips and tongue to draw the string of cheese connecting us to into his mouth—which means his face grows closer and closer, until he is mere inches away, pale eyes wide and big and searching my face.
A small, private smile curves the corners of his lips up.
For a wild, terrifying instant, I think he is going to kiss me. Instead, he bites through the cheese and then taps the tip of his nose to mine. "Boop." He says the sound-word in a falsetto voice.
"Boop?" I echo in a normal tone.
He grins. "Yup. Booped your nose."
"I…but…why?"
He shrugs. "Fuck if I know. To be cute?" He grins at me again. "Dunno if you've noticed, but I'm kind of a goofball."
"It has not escaped my notice."
"You don't know what to do with it, do ya?"
I shake my head solemnly. "No. I do not."
"That's cool. No one really does." He removes the plate and heads into the kitchen; I hear the fridge open and close and then the crack-hiss of another bottle opening.
I have only tried the one sip of mine, and take another.
Just as shocking, but not…bad. I pause to let my taste buds settle, and then try again.
Better. Still a jarring barrage of flavors and textures—the bubbles tickle my mouth and throat, which is why I rarely drink carbonated beverages.
But this is different. Soda is too sweet, and I dislike the artificial flavors of canned, flavored, carbonated water. This, however, has promise.
Riley sits beside me once more. "Whoa, hey, guess you like beer after all, huh?"
"What?" I ask.
He points the mouth of his bottle at mine. "Drank half of it while I was in there."
I realize with no little astonishment that he's right. "Oh. I suppose I am discovering a taste for it, yes." I make eye contact with him. "Thank you for your hospitality, Riley. I should not take up any more of your time."
He does not respond immediately. "I mean, I wasn't doin’ much anyway. You're cool."
Cool. Like the F-word he uses with such variance and frequency, "cool" seems to have many meanings to him. This usage seems to indicate that I am welcome to stay.
I think.
"I would not like to be an imposition."
"You're not. Promise." He takes a sip from his bottle, the liquid glugging quietly. "Honestly, it's nice having the company."
Curiosity burns. "May I ask you a question?"
"Sure. Shoot."
"What is your job?"
"I was expecting something more personal," he says. "I do demolitions."
"As in with explosives? Implosions and things of that nature?” I ask, a conversational tangent already taking over my brain.
"No, I wish. Boring demolitions, unfortunately. Nothing that cool. I told you my brother Felix builds and renovates houses, right?"
I nod. "Yes, you did."
"Well, with the renovations, we buy an old house that needs to be fixed up. I rip out the interior and clean it up so he can do the updates.”
"Oh!" I say. "You flip houses." I sip my beer, finding a certain pleasure in the sourness, now, and the way it commingles with the carbonation and the yeast and the malt. "My former roommate at Harvard flipped houses with her cousin to pay for her degree. Or, rather, to help defray the costs."
Riley coughs, choking. Once he has regained his breath, he gives me a wide-eyed stare, clearing his throat obsessively. "Harvard? You went to Harvard?"
I nod. "Yes. Why?"
"Well…I…" he clears his throat again. "Choking on beer sucks, fuck me. Um, so, you graduated high school at fifteen and got your MD from fucking Harvard? At twenty-two?"
"I am uncertain as to the reason for your shock."
"Because that's fucking insane. You're, like, wicked smart, huh?"
"I…" I consider carefully how to phrase this so as to not seem braggadocious. "I have always been…academically advanced, yes."
Riley shakes his head. "So let me get this straight, Cadence.
You're crazy smart, you're a freaking certified medical doctor at twenty-four, went to Harvard, did medical missions in Africa…
and you're a fuckin' smokeshow?" Another head shake.
"Man, I am way the hell outta my league with you, Gorgeous. "
"I do not know what a smokeshow is, but the rest is accurate, yes. I also do not know what you mean about being out of your league. I do not play sports.” I feel my breath catch in my lungs, as it has every time he refers to me as gorgeous. "Why do you keep calling me that?"
He arches an eyebrow at me. "Calling you what? Gorgeous?"
“Yes."
A laugh—dry, perhaps sarcastic, although sarcasm is often lost on me. "Um, because you are?" He sips. "Smokeshow is just another way of saying you're fine as hell."
"Fine as hell" is not much clearer to me, but I understand his meaning.
I just do not believe him.
I cock my head and look in his direction. "What do you hope to gain from flattery?"
He laughs again—this time it seems laden with discomfort. "Gain? Jesus, babe, it's not flattery. Well, I mean—I guess it is, but not in the sense of buttering you up for a selfish reason. You're beautiful." He shrugs, makes a face. "Just callin' it like I see it."
He says this utterly shocking, devastating statement with such ease, so offhandedly casual, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"I know a good optometrist," I tell him. "I will provide you with his number."
Silence follows this.
And then Riley cackles, laughing as if I had told some great joke.
"Aw, man, Cadence. You're funny. I have perfect vision, I'll have you know.
I also happen to be a connoisseur of beautiful women, so my opinion should hold weight.
" He looks at me expectantly, perhaps waiting for me to join him in laughter.
"Whoa, hold up. You were joking, weren't you? About the optometrist?”
"I am not well-known for my sense of humor."
His entire demeanor changes, then. He seems to soften. To become warm. He leans toward me. "Good fuckin' god, woman, do you really not know how beautiful you are? How on God's green earth is that even possible?"
"I do not know," I whisper. "Perhaps you are mistaken."
"Not a fuckin' chance."
I look at him, searching the planes and angles of his handsome face. I note the way his eyes seem fixed on my mouth, and I wish I were brave enough to ask what that means.
Alas, I am not, so I languish in humiliating ignorance.
He abruptly shoots to his feet, and his hand scrapes through his hair, messing it up even more.
For reasons I cannot begin to fathom, the messier his hair gets, the more attractive I find him.
Some silly, immature, irrational part of my brain wants to bury my hands in his hair and make it messier and messier, just to see if there is a direct, linear relationship between the messiness of his hair and the degree of his attractiveness.
It is the thought of an irrational mind, and I push it away.
It is impossible.
He yanks at the knot of his tie, ripping it off and hurling it onto the couch violently, and then unbuttons his shirt with a deep gasp, as if he has been asphyxiating.
"Fuck," he mutters—I get the impression I am not supposed to hear this. "Get a goddamn grip, asshole."
When he turns back to me, even I, with my limited understanding of how the emotions of others show on their faces, can tell he is…distraught. Perhaps "haunted" is the better word. "Let's get you home, huh?"
I swallow hard. "Well, Chicago is home. I am not sure that it is feasible or responsible to leave for Chicago at this time of night."
"Shit, you said that, didn't you? Um, just out of curiosity, what was your plan? If your friends or whoever, the Crenshaws, did pony up the cash for your trip? Where were you going to go?"
"They are friends of my parents. My original plan was to spend the night in their guest room. It was arranged. But, as I said, I very foolishly allowed my emotions to overrule my better sense, and I walked away."
"Those assholes shouldn't have let you. No way in fuck you shoulda been wandering down the highway alone at night like that."
“It was not night when I left, it was late evening."
"Point stands." He remains some distance away from me, as if suddenly unable to handle being in proximity to me, for reasons which are quite murky, as with everything else to do with this utterly perplexing man.
"So, look. This time of year, the hotels and motels in town are all booked.
I ain't lettin' you wander around by yourself, either.
Three Rivers is safe, but crime happens everywhere.
You're staying here. I'll take the couch—I've passed out on it many a time.
You'll take my bed. Just gimme a minute to change the sheets for you. Sit tight, okay?"
"I am assuredly overstaying my welcome. You have been most hospitable, Riley, but I cannot take your bed."
He comes over to me, drops to his knees in front of me. Rests his hands on my legs, as if he has all the right in the world to touch me, which he does not. Yet, I let him. I cannot breathe when he touches me, yet I let him.
I do not know why.
"Cadence. You assuredly can take my bed. You can lock the door—the lock ain't the kind that can be popped easily, either. It's late. You've had what sounds like a hell of a fuckin' day. You'd be doin' me a favor."
I shake my head. "That is irrational. My staying with you cannot be considered a favor to you.”
"Sure, it can. If you left, I'd be up all night worrying about you.” He squeezes my knees, and I struggle to draw a breath as a chaos of sensations and emotions boils inside me, overwhelming me. "Please stay? You’re safe here, I promise."
I examine myself: worn out and exhausted. Aching, agony-riddled feet. Emotionally depleted. Mentally drained.
"There really isn't anywhere else to go?"
He shakes his head. "Not really. Not close, and not at this time of night.”
"Very well. I accept your invitation, Riley. Thank you. You are much too kind.”
His smile is dazzling. "Baller. Let me get the bed changed for you."
Baller? What on earth does that mean?
I have no chance to ask, however, as he disappears down the hallway, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Which are chaotic, tumultuous, and confused.