Chapter 4 #2
I’m about to type: They just left together, when a new bubble materializes.
CALLIE: I see you’re hitting it off with Cillian.
Eyeroll. Just because I’m making polite conversation does not—at all—mean I’m hitting it off.
CALLIE: He’s a nice guy. You should give him a shot.
CALLIE: Also, I made a bet, which I lost, and now we have a dance lesson with him at the shop tomorrow at noon.
ME: By we, I hope you mean Tarian and yourself.
CALLIE: Tarian. Dance. ????????????
Callie is grinning now. It’s contagious, because, even though my heart feels like trodden shit, the corners of my mouth perk up.
As a waiter arrives with my fresh drink, I hit send on one last message.
ME: Hard pass on the dancing.
And then I place my cell phone face-side down beside my plate and grip my glass just as Cillian asks, “So, what’s your life story?”
I contemplate what parts to tell him. “I was born in the US, but grew up in Atlantis.” I tongue some salt off the rim of my glass, not missing how Cillian’s eyes lock on my mouth.
“My parents are amazing.” When he looks around, I add, “But unfortunately not here tonight. My brother Dorian can be a pain in the ass, but he’s also amazing.
His husband is the best.” I blow Diego a kiss that makes one of his eyebrows hitch high and murmur something into Dorian’s ear that makes the latter turn my way.
His green-gray eyes taper almost menacingly on my neighbor. It’s cute, albeit unnecessary, considering there’s zero chance anything will happen between Cillian and me. Well, any real thing.
Probably no fake one either.
If there was, though, I have no doubt my brother would cross-examine him with the fervor of a homicide detective.
“It’s funny that your people named your island Atlantis.” Cillian’s voice cuts across my hodgepodge of musings.
“What’s funny about it?”
He shrugs. “That they’d borrow the name of a legendary island, instead of coming up with one of their own.”
“What makes you think it isn’t the original isle?”
“Is it?”
“Who knows?” I shrug.
Cillian pushes back his chair and hooks his foot over his knee, giving me an unobstructed view of his high-tops. “Did you enjoy living there?”
“Not particularly. I prefer places that take longer than two hours to explore from end to end.” I squint at the doodles.
One shoe features a four-leaf clover, the word Cash, and the phrase “Happiness is a choice.” The other is decorated with a bleeding heart bracketed by the initials Q.H. and R.R.
“Interesting footwear. Did you have them customized?”
“Found them in a thrift shop. I’m guessing Q.H or R.R. got their hearts broken—thus the discarded shoes.”
“Doesn’t it bother you to wear something so personal?”
He shrugs. “Shoes are shoes.”
“Have you tried to scrub them?”
“I’d worry about damaging the leather. Plus, they’re great conversation starters.” He adds a smile as though his footwear is the reason we’re chatting in the first place. “Have you ever owned something that belonged to another person?”
“Not anymore.” I take a sip of water, trying to drown the memory of the musty clothes my bio mom would bring home in plastic bags. Some were so stained it looked like she’d collected them straight out of a street bin. “And hopefully never again.”
Cillian observes me for a long while, his eyebrows lowering as though I were a problem that required solving.
But then his eyes sharpen on someplace beyond me, and he scrapes his chair back. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” He rushes toward the bathroom at such a clipped pace that I assume he’s having digestive issues.
A minute later, Calanthe leaves Tarian’s side and circles the table to claim Cillian’s freed seat, punching down the crisp satin skirt enveloping her legs. “Managed to drive all your neighbors away before the main course. Impressive.”
As I drain my fourth—or is it my fifth?—cocktail, I flip her the finger.
Calanthe snickers. “A shame you didn’t succeed at it earlier. You would’ve been spared tomorrow’s dance session.”
I set my glass down. “Explain.”
“I bet Fiona you’d send your date running for the hills before the start of supper.” She motions to our favorite meddler, who’s busy arguing with Tarian that a party without some form of theatrical excess is a wasted opportunity. “She was adamant he’d stick around and added the dance-class wager.”
“Which you just had to accept? But more importantly, why did you have to involve me?”
“When do I ever do anything fun without you?”
Her comment gives me a warm, squishy feeling—a bit like the tequila coursing through my system. I make a note of drinking palomas more often.
Once I recover from the thrill of having a friend like Calanthe, having a friend at all, for that matter, I say, “Dancing isn’t fun.”
She flicks my lap. “Kick the grouch out.”
“And be left soulless?”
“Your soul isn’t grouchy.”
“My soul is a massive grouch.”
She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, since we lost the bet, you, Mom, Fi, and I have a private Zumba class with your date tomorrow.”
“Not my date. And I’m busy tomorrow.”
“You’re busy at noon, precisely?”
“Yes. I’m going running with Mal.”
I expect her to say, How convenient. Instead, she just stares at me, unease dimming her expression. When she averts her gaze, my heart begins to thud double-time.
Calanthe drums her fingers on the table. “Look, I don’t know—”
“I’m afraid I must leave early, Miss Bloom.” The Texas drawl comes from right beside us. “Got a work situation I need to contend with. Congratulations on such a wonderful initiative and event.”
I crane my neck, annoyed by the timing of whoever…
My annoyance takes a backseat to my surprise when I meet eyes so pale they appear translucent in the man’s bronzed face. In all my years living among Atlanteans, it’s the first time I see Gael Monta up close.
Ines’s ex-husband is—objectively—rather handsome. If one is into mahogany-haired men with a penchant for pomade, sunbathing, and pungent cologne. My lungs feel saturated after only a minute in his presence.
Gael’s brow ruffles when he notices me. I imagine it’s my odd-hued eyes that mystify him. They mystify most people.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Gael Monta.”
My brother is suddenly out of his chair and shoving between us. I know Dorian really isn’t a fan. Few are.
I once heard my father, who isn’t a man prone to insults, say that Gael oozed enough self-importance to drown in. My mother seconded the statement, but it wasn’t shocking coming from her, since—like me—she has no issues with insults.
“Electra is my younger sister,” Dorian is saying.
“Ah, yes.” Gael peeks around Dorian.
“Weren’t you leaving, Monta?” Tarian asks, from where he sits across the table from me, his hands resting nonchalantly on his bent knee. Though he seems relaxed, his gaze and skin gleam with the strain of his barely contained magic.
Not for the first time, I wonder what Gael did to Ines to warrant such animosity. I suspect that if I ask, I’ll be met with the same unhelpful answer: It’s Ines’s story to tell. In other words, I’ll never know since Ines guards her secrets like my parents guard the mine.
“I just wanted to wish my wife a pleasant night,” Gael peeps up.
Guess that answers my question about their marital status.
“We’ll relay your message,” Tarian says.
“Wonderful.” Gael remains planted in front of my brother for a full minute before he finally pivots and walks away.
“Didn’t realize they were still married,” I muse, hoping it will lead to more answers.
“We’re not.”
My heart skips a beat from the proximity of Ines’s voice. While I tracked Gael’s egress, I missed Ines’s ingress.
Dorian finally shifts away from my chair. I wish he hadn’t, because there she stands, arm in arm with Malachi. I try to reason with myself that arm in arm isn’t hand in hand.
Still, I glare at the place where their bodies connect. When Malachi drops a whisper in her ear, I lurch out of my seat and head toward the bathroom, intent on giving myself a pep talk.
Instead, I run into Cillian and, fueled by jealousy and tequila, do something epically stupid.