Chapter 15 #2
Even if the bread is really, really good and incredibly fresh.
I can’t help sneaking another bite before I put it down, and I look up to see Amir is twirling his own bread in the oil-vinegar mixture.
“It’s very good, right?” he asks without looking up.
“It’s a big part of why I come here, actually. ”
I don’t respond. Complimenting the bread feels too easy. Like a trap he’s waiting to spring shut around me, though I’m not sure how my enjoyment of gluten could be used against me.
“You haven’t been in Still Pines very long.”
It isn’t a question, so I don’t dignify it with an answer. Instead, I push some stray hair back from my face, and I snatch a few quick looks at my dinner partner as I do. Trying to read him, maybe, but that feels impossible.
“You’ve been gone from Still Pines for very long—” I retort, then wince at how that is incredibly incorrect.
“No, that’s not what I meant to say. You’ve been gone for…
” but I trail off. The retort is ruined, and it’s never coming back.
Still, when I look at him again, Amir is looking at me with something that definitely feels a bit like pity.
And really, I deserve that. I was trying too hard to be coy and confident, instead of sticking with disturbed and dismal.
“I grew up in Still Pines with my parents.” I’m momentarily surprised when he’s the one who answers first. “But I moved away when I got into college.”
“Where did you go?”
Why do I care?
“Northwestern.”
“Well, that’s certainly better than my stint in community college.” When Amir glances up at me, a little perplexed, I add without thinking, “My dad was a bit of a college snob. Raised us with Ivy League dreams and a trade school budget.” My mouth hitches in a crooked, dry grin.
“Oh? And what does your father think of you becoming a mortician all the way out here? It’s quite far from Chicago. I’m sure there were jobs like this available—”
“I have no idea what he thinks,” I cut him off before he can finish, then I rest my head on the back of my hand. This is a conversation I’ve had before. Usually with therapists, doctors, or insurance people.
The insurance people are always the worst, and I’m thankful Amir doesn’t react with the same fake pity I get as they scan their memories and their computers for a way to get out of giving me a payout. Amir opens his mouth again, but I beat him to it.
“Dad left after Elaina died. Really, he could be dead for all I know. And before you find either a very blunt or a very creative way of asking, my mother is dead. And no, I didn’t embalm her. That would be creepy. Also, I was sixteen.”
Amir’s head tilts, and a small smile touches his lips. “I was going to be tactful and ask you what you studied at college,” he admits finally with a small chuckle. “But I won’t lie and say I wasn’t curious.”
Oh.
There I go again, aiming for coy and confident and absolutely failing.
“What did you major in?” he asks more formally, nudging me out of my sudden staring contest with the salt shaker.
This time I hesitate. A small, almost grimace twists my lips before I finally say, “Legal and Paralegal studies. My dad was a paralegal. I guess I thought…” I trail off.
“Anyway. Finished my mandatory two years. Didn’t go any farther until mortuary school last year.
What about you? Med? Pre-med? Psychology? ”
When my brain tries to tell me I shouldn’t be so curious about him, I immediately block out any guilt by telling myself that this is research.
I’m researching how to get rid of him.
“Risk Management.”
It’s definitely not what I’m expecting, and I have to take a moment, eyes narrowing. “Seriously?”
Instead of answering, he tears off another piece of bread and spins it in the olive oil, his gaze holding mine. It’s very mature, I think to myself. Way more mature than anything I’ve ever done with my life. And judging by everything I’ve seen about him, he certainly makes more than I’ll ever see.
Before I can get much more in the way of information, our waitress appears again, this time with our food and another glass of wine for Amir. When she notices I’ve barely touched my tea, she looks at me with a frown while setting my plate in front of me. “Do you want something else?”
“Hm? No, I—” I definitely don’t want to say that I’ve just forgotten about it.
When I tunnel vision into something interesting, I really do forget almost everything else.
“No. It’s fine. It’s good,” I promise. Thankfully, that convinces her, as does Amir’s smile as he murmurs an agreement and assures her everything looks good.
The rest of dinner isn’t that exciting. There’s not much else he really gives me in terms of interesting information, but I can’t help thinking that’s because I’m trying to be careful about what I give him.
Our drive home is just as inconsequential. I ask him about the music, and Amir spends a few minutes explaining the merits of whatever it is he’s listening to, while turning his lip up at my mortuary playlist.
Not that I wanted his approval.
But by the time he’s pulling up next to my car in the mortuary parking lot, I’m exhausted. Literally, figuratively, and spiritually exhausted.
Maybe that’s why when I get out, I’m too slow to react to his hand on my arm.
“Not just yet,” Amir tells me, the locks clicking ominously. “You haven’t heard the rules for our next game yet.”
My heart flutters in my chest, and my veins seem to suddenly frost over. “I—no. I don’t want to play anymore,” I say quickly, turning to face him in the suddenly too small car. The black interior with soft blue lights somehow makes the shadows deeper, and I can barely see his face in the darkness.
Yet I know his eyes are on me. Something in me can just tell, and a shiver runs between my shoulder blades as he sits there. Silent.
Watching me.
“Say my name.”
The words fall into the darkness between us, and I’m sure I’ve heard him wrong.
“What?”
“You heard me.” His thumb strokes over my knuckles. “Say my name.”
“That’s not a game,” I whisper, my voice much softer than his.
“Why is that?”
“Because a game has a winner and a loser.”
“And so does this one.” He stops stroking over my knuckles, but doesn’t let go. “Say my name, Nell. That’s all you have to do. Say it like we’re friends.”
Like we’re friends?
“Amir.” It costs me nothing to let his name roll off my tongue, but when I do, his thumb is moving again, rubbing across my skin like I’ve done something right.
“One more time. But this time.” Suddenly, his other hand brushes my face, and he cups my cheek to hold me so I’m facing him in the car. “Say my name and make me believe you don’t hate me, little mortician.”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.
Not even air escapes my lips in the confines of the Range Rover, and my free hand clutches at the door, even though I know the childproof locks are engaged, thanks to the little light I can just barely see over my shoulder.
I take a breath, somehow still so fucking aware that he’s looking at me and only me.
“Amir.” His name is a sigh across my lips, breathed out like the air from my lungs. Not a sigh or a scoff. Barely more than a murmur.
For a moment, I wonder if he’ll tell me to do it again. He doesn’t respond for a few seconds, but then, without warning, his hands are gone.
“Good girl.” The words send something snaking through my insides, and I push it away to examine it never. The child lock disengages, and immediately I have the door open.
“I’ll see you in a few days.” He doesn’t even move when I struggle to unbuckle myself. Doesn’t look concerned as I nearly fall out of his vehicle and onto the old pavement of the parking lot.
“Why?” I snap, finally catching my balance. “I don’t want—”
“To play again, Nell.”