TWENTY-NINE
For a girl who had barely enough time to stop and breathe in the last ten years, the concept of boredom is a novelty. Or it is until I last an entire night without talking to anyone or running a chore or having a thought beyond ‘what the hell am I doing here? By morning, boredom has become a vicious irritation.
I spend a couple of quiet hours updating my journal and sketching out the places I’ve seen in the last couple of days, but even that doesn’t hold my attention as it normally would. I coveted my journal time before, scraping together every spare moment between lectures to write my thoughts and feelings, draw the faceless people in the crowds, or jot down songs and snippets of conversations I’d overheard. It was my little bit of escapism. Here though, it is my only available pastime. It feels cheaper somehow — way less organic.
When I venture beyond the safety of my room, the apartment is already devoid of Dax and Sylvie. I fix breakfast, eat, and clean my dishes in no time at all and fall back into my head. The questions compile themselves into a list that batters itself against my temples repeatedly until I force myself to find a distraction.
I consider watching TV, turning the flat screen on, and flicking through the channels, but the longer I sit on Dax’s comfortable sofa, the more I feel like Eric; perched in his recliner, belching, farting, and wasting every day watching reruns. Nope. No thank you.
I wander around the room, scanning the book titles on the shelves and discover that someone in the house has a serious love of all books King. I’ve read one or two of his most well-known titles, but the vast number of spines with his name on them lining the shelves overwhelms me. Even if I was in the mood to read, there is no way I could select one without taking hours to read all the synopses.
A tinkling sound echoes from somewhere upstairs, capturing my attention and whipping me into motion. I track it down the corridor to my room and watch my phone throw coloured lights up the walls as it bounces around.
Though I’m holding onto the hope that Aiden is finally touching base, I know there’s really only one person it can be. I don’t want to answer it, but Dax’s smug facepops into my head and I reach for the button.
“What?” I snap.
“Will you quit wandering around like a lost puppy and just find something to do? The boys’ laughter is distracting me.”I glide back out into the hallway and flip off the nearest security camera. I hear the roar of their laughter down the line alongside Dax’s chuckle.
“They’ll only distract you if you sit with them, Dax. I thought you were a businessman? Don’t you have something better to do than watch me like some kind of pervert?”
“Not today, I don’t.”
“Great. Then perhaps I should just stay in my room like a prisoner?” I huff.
“You are not a prisoner.” His sigh hisses. “But do what you want.”
“I will. Oh, and tell your smartarse guards that while they were watching the rest of the house, they totally missed the showdown in the laundry room yesterday. Big stupid blind spot. Reconsider how much you pay them.” The silence that flattens our conversation thrills me. I’ve rendered Mr Smartmouth speechless. Go me!
While I hold the winning ground, I disconnect the call and leave Dax to stew on what I’ve said.
I don’t wait long. The phone rings in my hand; the call accept and reject buttons blink on the screen. Not thinking too hard about it, I slide the reject icon into touch, and put the phone on my lap. It rings again. I repeat the process. It feels oddly powerful calling the shots, denying and irritating him all at once, much like he denied and irritated me. Sure, it isn’t to the same degree, but I get a petty thrill from it anyway, one that elicits a burbled giggle.
Then logic kicks in, reminding me what happened the last time I refused to answer Dax. He has a habit of just turning up when he really wants something. Is he coming to get me?
I slip out of the room, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hunting me in the only safe space I have to myself. I’m conscious of the eyes on me, so I saunter along the corridor and down the stairs, seating myself at the kitchen counter and placing the phone in front of me. The second I do, it beeps. A message flashes on screen.
Go sit at the dining table. Third chair down opposite the vase. Side nearest the wall.
I read it twice and then send a message of my own.
Why?
Blindspot.
Push the chair right back to the wall.
Why am I playing musical chairs in an empty room?
Because the cameras can’t see your messages from there.
Sneaky.
Practical.
Now what?
Why did Ben corner you in the laundry room?
Oh my, you figured that out so quickly! I mean, you’re only a day late.
I wonder if sarcasm translates via text?
I watched the footage of him leaving, smartarse. Now answer the question, and while you’re at it explain why you waited until now to tell me.
Seems it translates well enough.
Why don’t you ask him?
And I didn’t mention it because we’re not talking.
Trust me, I will ask Ben, but right now I am asking you. And, Jules, I’d call this talking.
Fine. He asked me what I’d overheard.
And we’re not talking; we’re fighting.
That night in the Tower?
No. Yesterday. Here.
Jesus, how do you find trouble alone in a locked apartment? I’m coming up to speak with you.
Do you have to?
Why?
Because I prefer talking to you this way. It’s better than snapping at each other, and I don’t have to look at your face.
Is there something wrong with my face?
Yes. It’s too damn smug and distracting.
Oh.
I have to admit, I’m glad I don’t have to look at yours either.
Gee, thanks.
It means I can get honest answers out of you without constantly wanting to taste your lips.
Oh.
I expect an instant cheeky reply, but no message follows. No beep, no flash. No sound of the door downstairs unlocking so that he can come up and prove his words.
Fine. I didn’t want him to, anyway. Did I?
Yes. I want it a whole damn lot and that’s the problem. He humiliated me. I shouldn’t want him at all. Am I damaged? Am I my mother’s daughter, after all? Am I so starved for attention I’ll forgive his shit? No. But I also can’t hold a grudge when I don’t know his reasons for reacting the way he did. I’m hurt, but there’s a chance I don’t know the full story. I mean, he apologised profusely…I just didn’t give him the opportunity to explain.
My phone pings.
Sylvie is waiting downstairs in her car for you. She explained what happened. She wants to apologise.
I don’t see why.
I don’t need her apology.
Please, Jules. She was out of order, but she was protecting me in her own childish way. Can you let it go? This one time? For me?
Manipulative son of a…
Fine. One time.
If she even looks at me wrong, I’m done.
Where’s she taking me?
She wants it to be a surprise.
I have a team following you both. You’ll be perfectly safe. Plus, you get out of here for a while. No more smug face — at least for a little while.
A reprieve, huh? Sounds good. Still, if I end up in a ditch. Sylvie did it.
She’s nice really. I promise.
Get what you need and meet her at the car.
Bossy much?
Oh, and since when was fighting the synonym for flirting?
Looks like I’m buying you a new thesaurus.
TAKE YOUR PHONE.
Sure thing.
I’ll keep it close to my heart.
I step into camera range and make a slow, deliberate point of tucking the phone in my bra, patting it twice and then blowing my observers a kiss.
“You’re killing me, Jules!” Dax’s voice carries clear from downstairs. He’s probably standing right at the bottom. I jog down to catch him, but he’s already gone, so I shout “perverts!” in through the open guards’ room door and run down to meet Sylvie. I laugh until I cough, then I laugh until it stops being funny and finally, I laugh at the fact I’m laughing. When I open the passenger door to Sylvie’s classic VW bug—if you can even call the old rust bucket a classic—my face is red and my jaw hurts.
“You seem like you are in a good mood.”
Just hearing her voice sours my brief happy.
“I’ve been annoying, Dax,” I tell her.
“I’m sure you were, and I’m sure he likes it.” She smiles genuinely and tips her head, gesturing for me to climb in. I hesitate. Any time spent with her seems like too much time. In the end, I’m here because Dax asked me to try. This way, no one can say a bad word about me when things inevitably go to shit—and with the way Sylvie switched earlier, I’ve no doubt there’s more than one face to this girl.
Sure, I’ll give her one more chance because, like my grandmother always said, people are fallible. Sometimes we just fuck shit up and we don’t know why. So, give second chances—but never third.
She revs the engine and drops the clutch, shooting forward and propelling us around a central grass verge. We bound down the drive to the main gate and the road beyond.
I hold onto the carved handle in the door and grip for my life, partly to prevent bouncing into Sylvie as she drives and partly to hold the door closed. The damn thing is so rickety all it needs is a hole in the floor, and we could pick it up and run it down the road.
“I’m sorry!” she shouts over the noise of the engine. I have nothing to reply. Sorry is just a word. It will be a while before she shows me if she is really sorry or not. She sounds genuine enough, and her expression dances the line of contrite and concerned. For now, I have to take her word for it, but I’ll be watching her.
“There are a lot of women who would go after Dax for the money,” she continues, attempting to excuse her behaviour. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t one of them.”
“Sylvie, when I found Tom on the stairs, the only thing that stopped me from running away was that he could have been my brother. In another seventeen or eighteen years, that might have been one of the twins, and what if someone just left them to die? I didn’t help him for a reward. I did it because it was the right thing to do,” I snap.
“I know. I really am sorry. There are only three people I love. One of them is dead, the other you saved, and the third has smiled and frowned more times in the last twenty-four hours than he has in years. I can’t say I’m pleased that it’s you and not me that made the difference, but I will come around. That’s more about me and nothing to do with who you are. I’m sorry.”
“How about we just get to where we are going in one piece? You don’t say the ‘S’ word again for the rest of the day and I’ll try to let yesterday go. Give us both another chance.”
Sylvie’s entire body relaxes, the tension draining from her as a twinkle of mischief glows within her eyes. “Deal. Hold on tight, I am going to put my foot down.”
“Oh God, do you have to?”
“How else will the boys get any excitement?” She nods at her rear-view mirror and, sure enough, a large black sedan weaves through the sparse traffic to keep up with us.
With a grin, I realise I might have just found something in common with Sylvie.