Chapter 6 #2
“Did you eat this morning?” I sign, her skin too pale for her natural complexion. She shakes her head, and a jolt of anger rises through me, though I try my best to hide it. “We’ll take a green tea, black coffee, pancakes, and a slice of cheesecake,” I say, sliding my black Amex into the machine.
“All righty. You can sit, and I’ll bring it to you.” The woman says, eyes on her screen.
“Thank you,” I grunt as Ella offers her a genuine, soft smile. My phone vibrates, and I glance at it.
Nate: Found new intel. Call ASAP.
My thumb brushes the call button before stopping. Ella has just sat in the corner next to the bay window, choosing the side with the cushioned brown bench. There is a chair facing her, dried flowers and menus on the table.
I could leave. I could let her enjoy her tea and food in peace.
Still, I don’t. My feet move in her direction, the Vodianovs, my empire, and the strategies carefully chosen this morning all sliding into the background of my mind.
A few minutes will not hurt, right? It will not change anything in my carefully arranged schedule, will it?
Hell will always be there waiting for me anyway.
I can still steal a few minutes with an angel.
It is not as if it could change my life in some irreversible way.
It is only coffee with a girl as beautiful as the moon, as mesmerizing as a siren.
My hand clasps the back of the chair, and I sit as the waitress serves our order. Ella’s hands circle the white cup of green tea, and I lean back, careful not to touch her feet beneath the table.
She fits beautifully here, with all the plants hanging from the ceiling, the flowery wallpaper, vintage frames, and classical piano music.
Whereas I am a block of concrete standing in a flower field.
My dark suit contrasts with the fairy-tale spirit of it all.
She is wearing a white long-sleeved shirt that clings to her skin enough to make me look away as a car passes outside. Does she ever wear makeup?
Whether she does or not should not matter to me in the slightest, but the absence of it seems to betray an obvious lack of sleep. And I get the unsettling intuition that no one sees it but me. Does she have someone to take care of her?
“When did you last eat?” I sign.
She frowns, signing back, “Why did you put all that money in my bag?” I lick my lips, watching her swirl her teabag.
“Eat, and I will be an open book, Ella.” I expect her to argue, but she takes the small fork and cuts into the strawberry cheesecake.
Taking a bite, she then shuts her eyes as if it is that good.
Somehow, the thought strikes me that perhaps she has not been around this sort of food for a while.
That the hole in her bag is not the only evidence of neglect.
“I expected you to keep it,” I sign. “It is not every day that someone tries to go the honest way.”
“That is not an optimistic way to look at people.”
“I am a realist, Ella. Optimism is for dreamers.” I glance at the plate, grunting a not-so-low, “Eat.” She frowns but does not argue, taking another bite, which I enjoy watching more than I should.
“Now tell me. When did you last eat?”
“A few hours ago.”
“What was it?” I sign. Why am I so obsessed with her well-being? This is not my business. I should back off.
“Sir, I…” She shakes her head, her fingers signing fast. “I don’t understand. Why are you here with me?”
“I…” I pause and take a much-needed sip of coffee.
Honestly, I do not even know, and I wish I could confess to her that it was more a question of vital need than sudden interest. Because you are a magnet, Ella, an impossible force trapping me in, and I need to know every corner of your mind.
Every reason that got you smiling, every season that got you bleeding.
Every piece of history that brought you to this table.
I need to understand why you seem so tired and why you work at night even though you live in the richest part of town.
I need to kiss your palms and watch you sleep. I need, I need—
As if she can see my internal battle, my inability to understand myself, she signs again.
“A fruit at lunch. I didn’t have more time.
It has been months since I came here to the city.
My life is… It is what it is.” She gestures toward the table.
“I can’t remember the last time I had homemade cheesecake.
Six years old perhaps? My mom used to be a great baker.
” She pauses. “So thank you, sir. It’s really kind of you. ”
“Tristan.” An adorable frown appears, eyes wide with panic. She shakes her head, and I almost smile.
“Call me Tristan.”
“I can’t. It’s improper. Sir, I’m your… I’m your maid.”
“Not here.” She looks out the window, unsure, and I wish I could kiss her forehead and show her that I could not care less about her occupation, except for the sole fact that I wish she did not have to work that hard.
“Tris-tan,” she tries on her lips, and a kaleidoscope of images bursts through my mind. A volcano erupting. A wave crashing into the shore. A rocket launching. A bear striking. A fighter sending another into oblivion. Ella, what are you doing to me?
“Are you sure you want to be here?” she signs. “Sitting…with me?”
“Don’t do that,” I command out loud, my voice low enough to strike her right in the gut.
“I am not the kind of man who can be forced into doing anything I do not want to do.” A silence stretches between us, louder than the familiar one we have shared before, and a minute passes with only eating and drinking between us.
Except it is not awkward. It is not uncomfortable.
Her company alone is enough, and she seems affected in the same way.
“What are you studying?” I ask. I know from Brenton’s report that, for whatever reason, she had to stop her second year of English Literature this year, but I ask anyway because I am not supposed to be aware of that information.
“I’m not studying at the moment, but if everything goes well, I’ll be back at it next year.”
“Why stop, then?”
She shrugs. “Priorities.”
“What could be more important than studying for your future?” She sighs, and I understand I have struck a nerve she would rather not share right now.
“What about you?” she signs. “Shouldn’t you be working instead of sitting here with me?”
“I needed air.”
“Why?”
“There are times when my office turns into a cage, and that is when I know I need to get out of it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m right where I want to be.” I glance around the café, then back at her. “Is it your first time here?”
She nods. “I rarely have time for myself, so yes.”
“Why? A young woman like you should be able to do whatever she wants to try.” She lets out a cold, silent chuckle, and I clench my fist above the table, centimeters away from her clean short nails, resting flat against the wood.
“Time isn’t on my side lately,” she signs.
“It hasn’t been for a while.” She sips her tea, and her eyes meet mine, full of unanswered questions, but also of a strength far greater than her years.
“I’m surprised you wanted to talk to me after the note I left you.
” Note I happen to be carrying in my pocket at this very moment.
“You were not wrong,” I sign. “I do know the value of climbing a mountain on my own.” A shadow of a smile tugs at her lips, and I am ruined.
Give me a war I would not fight to see that mischief on her face one last time.
What is she doing to me? Why am I still here when there is a pile of work waiting for me?
“And I respect that, Ella.” Especially since I know how few choices she has right now.
Refusing food when you are hungry takes everything from a person.
A knife turns in my chest, and I taste the cruelty I inflicted on her.
Time to make amends. “How much do you need?” I sign.
“For time to be on your side.” She looks into her cup of tea, as if the answer is waiting at the bottom.
“A miracle.” Then her face changes, retreating into shadow, the soft young woman gone, as if something has pulled her underwater and left her drowning before me. Nah, that won't do.
“Let’s walk.” She frowns. “I mean, finish this, and then we’ll walk.
There is a park right here.” I point toward the window.
She studies my face, and I wonder if she sees past the layers.
The broken pieces. The irreversible damage.
I wonder if she sees it. And a part of me thinks she does.
I do not ask about her hand, but I study the healing cut carefully.
Clean. Closing. In need of nothing more than time.
Ella does not argue. She finishes her food and lets me open the door for her, my palm aching to make contact with the small of her back.
I resist the urge and keep an inch of distance, looking around her to make sure she’s safe and that no one will bump into her.
If she’s surprised by my offer to walk together, she doesn’t show it.
Perhaps she has figured out it is pointless, or perhaps she actually enjoys my company.
We enter the park, my phone still vibrating in my pocket.
Our worlds seem to exist on opposite sides of the universe, but I cannot find it in me to leave now.
Ignoring my phone vibrating relentlessly, I open the gate for her, and as she steps in, her shoulder brushes my chest, her brown eyes meeting mine in a lethal way.
I try to rationalize it. To understand why this woman is bewitching me.
Why can’t I put my finger on it? I need more. Time. Looks. Banter. All of it.
I need more of Ella.
And right now, that is all I care about.