Chapter Twenty-Two #2
Noah follows me across the hall, where I stash the wine in one of the cupboards, reminding myself to ask Izzy where she found the original.
My mouth is getting dry with nerves, so I zero in on what I hope is my glass and take a swig.
Better. I have a second, smaller sip and then open the fridge, moving things around so Noah can put his bottles into the vegetable drawer at the bottom.
“Got a bottle opener?” Noah asks, keeping a beer out for himself.
“Erm, there should be one here somewhere…” I fumble through the cutlery drawer, finally unearthing an ancient corkscrew. “I think the top of that will work?”
“Perfect.” Noah pries off the cap and a soft hiss escapes as the bubbles race to the top. He takes a swig as he looks around the kitchen, and I finish my drink because I don’t know what else to do. “So this is your dad’s new place?”
“Yeah. It’s kind of small compared to the house we used to live in here,” I say, topping up my glass from the jug on the table. “Clearly hasn’t been decorated since the seventies, though.”
“Are you basing that on the brown tile over the oven or the flocked wallpaper in the hall?” Noah asks.
“Both.” I laugh. “I think Kim will decorate when they get back. She did my room up, and that’s pretty nice.
” I pause, trying to reroute the conversation.
I did not mean to bring up my bedroom, and I don’t need Noah to think I’ve done it for a reason.
“Erm, so yeah. Hopefully it’ll be less brown next time I’m here. ”
Noah pulls out one of the kitchen chairs and sits down, gesturing for me to join him.
The other side of the table is full of Izzy’s crap, so my only choice is to sit next to him, which immediately makes me two degrees warmer.
I put my glass on the table and surreptitiously fan my beaming face as I sit down.
“Do you think you’ll be back much?” he asks.
“Yeah, I guess so. Dad’s position is permanent, and I’m hoping to come to Blackwood for school, so it’ll be nice to get used to the place again before that.”
“I’m starting a business studies degree here next month.” He grins at me as I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “What? You thought I was gearing up to be a penniless artist?”
“Something like that.” I chuckle. “So is photography just a hobby? Are you planning to be some business mogul?”
“No.” He smiles, playing with the label on his bottle.
“I’d like to be an event photographer, set up my own studio, maybe.
I don’t really know yet. I just thought it would be safe to get a business degree in case photography doesn’t work out.
What about you? You still want to rewrite all the classics to make them more exciting? ”
“What?” I gawp at him. “You remember that? How?”
“You were the most precocious child ever. You were always telling us about whatever book you were reading and how you could do it better.” I cringe. His memory is a bit too good. “So do you?”
“No.” I play with the thick stem of my wineglass. “I wish I still had that confidence. I am applying for journalism, though, so I guess I want to tell real-life stories now.”
“That’s cool. I thought you might be into art, because you’re writing about the painting.”
“Oh, yeah.” I smile stiffly. Now is probably not the time to bring up my fondness for true crime. People can be really weird about it. “No, it just has an interesting, erm, history. It’s been stretching my research skills.”
“Sounds like fun?” he questions, and grins when I nod. “Good. It could be like the old days. You, me and Iz all hanging out again.”
“I think Izzy has her sights set way outside of Blackwood. She’s applying to some art and fashion courses in London.” I narrow my eyes at him. “You know, you were pretty mean to us when we were kids.”
“I was not!” He chokes on his beer and starts to laugh as it sprays out across the table. “Oh, god, sorry.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Okay, maybe I was a bit annoying.”
“A bit? I remember you telling us such a scary story about the campus ghost that I cried every night for a week.”
“I did?” He holds the bottle in front of his mouth to hide another smile. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I pinch a slice of apple out of my glass and bite into it. “I got over it.”
“It was a good story.” His eyes twinkle, and I can’t help but smile back.
“What’s a good story?” I look up, realizing I’d forgotten there were other people here.
Noah’s friend Jen leans against the doorframe, a white crop top and low-rise jeans showing off the golden chain encircling her stomach. It matches the delicate gold script nameplate at her throat. I swallow the rest of my apple and immediately want to curl up in a ball.
“Hey, Jen. Oh, just the campus ghost.” Noah grins, and she throws her head back in a throaty laugh that I couldn’t pull off in a million years.
“God, I haven’t heard that one in years!
” She pushes her glossy bangs across her forehead, showing off perfectly flicked eyeliner.
She’s so flawless she could be the fifth member of Blackpink.
“Come on, you have to tell it. I bet Jake has never heard it before.” She leans over and pulls Noah up with one elegant hand, and he follows her into the living room.
I guess our conversation is over, then.
“Fliss, bring in the sangria!” Izzy shouts.
I dutifully collect the half-empty jug and wipe the sticky residue from the handle.
I pick up my glass and follow them into the living room, where Jen is busy directing the others into a circle on the floor, so I place the jug on the coffee table and join Scarlett near the window instead.
Dad’s record player sits open on a small shelving unit hidden behind the fronds of a palm.
“This is a cool collection.” She smiles, gesturing to the vinyl records with her glass.
It’s mostly just fruit now, but looking at her red-rimmed eyes, I get the impression she’s not only on sangria.
I look at my own drink, deciding to make it last. One of us needs to stay sober tonight, and Scarlett does not look like a viable option.
“It is? I think my dad got most of it when he lived in Paris,” I say, picking up the sleeve of whatever is playing. He never had vinyl in the house when we lived together, but the edges are rounded with time. Vintage, then.
“Yeah, loads of sixties and seventies stuff. Very psychedelic.” The current song finishes, and I listen to the bumpy scratch of the vinyl as the needle moves on to the next one.
“Hey, I recognize this one. Was it in a film or something?”
“It’s ‘Season of the Witch’ by Donovan. Lana Del Ray did a cover.” Scarlett sways on the spot, her hair swishing gently as the male vocals start to ramp up slightly. “I like this version better, though.”
Scarlett gets lost in the music and I listen to the lyrics, something about picking up every stitch. When Scarlett looks to see if I’m enjoying it, I nod in agreement, even though I have no idea what the singer is going on about.
“I like it,” I say as Jen turns to us and wiggles her fingers in an exaggerated fashion.
“Come on, you two. Time for a ghost story.”