"Feel free to go through my closet, grab whatever you want."
I nod. It's what I intend to do, but looking at Lex now, I'm reminded her runner's frame is a jean size or two smaller than I am. Finding something in her closet that fits me might prove challenging.
Lex grabs her phone and starts looking through it, checking her emails. In an offhand sort of way, she asks me what my plan is for the day. The question rubs me the wrong way. Because I know my sister and what she's really asking is, What's your plan? What are you going to do to fix your jobless state? Do you have a list of contacts you can call? Do you need help with your resume? Do you even have a resume? Do you even have a plan?
I don't answer her right away, opting instead to walk over to the refrigerator and grab a bottle of water. There's a dull throb between my eyes, the result of my drinking last night. My plan, I tell her, is to update my resume and start my job-hunting as soon as possible.
"Emily. Don't take this the wrong way, I love that you're here. I seriously do. But wouldn't it be easier to job hunt from San Francisco?"
I had the same thought first thing this morning. "Either way, I'd be back down here for Christmas. A week of online job hunting isn't going to hurt me. Especially since, you know, no one is gearing up for interviews this time of year."
"I guess you're right," she says, eyeing me the way she does when she knows I'm not telling her the whole truth. "Take my laptop. Use anything you need. Let me know if you need help."
She grabs her keys and purse, and heads out the door.
The whole truth is that I wasn't thinking straight when I got in my car and drove south. I was simply putting as much distance as I could between my problems and me. Now that I'm here? Well, there's no point in making another seven-hour drive north when I can rough it here long enough to spend the holidays with my sister.
After several minutes of rummaging through Lex's closet, I pull out some day dresses that look like they will fit me. I dress for the day, thankful Lex and I wear the same shoe size, at least. Even in mid-December, the weather in San Diego is pleasant during the day, nothing like the biting chill of San Francisco's winter.
Back at the dining room table, I sift through old emails, pulling up contacts that might prove useful. A television morning news program hums in the background, on for the sole purpose of drowning out the stillness of the condo.
Am I imagining it, or is the silence here thicker than in my own apartment? It's so dense the hum of the television can't cut through it. Somehow, I can still hear the silence. The muted static of dead air.
It's hard to focus. The slightest fluctuations in sound yank on my attention. A bird ruffling past outside the window, or a car door closing out front. All followed by that same, intense silence. It's deafening.
I stuff the laptop into a shoulder bag and, before I leave, I grab my jacket from where it hangs behind the door.
The moment I step outside, the air rushes to my lungs as though I've been slowly suffocating without realizing it. Smells of cut grass linger in the crisp air. There are lawn workers out, trimming hedges, and they tilt their big sun hats in my direction. I manage a small smile as I pass them, feeling a stupid, guilty throb that I'm not heading to work. That I am heading to the slick, black BMW I won't be able to afford for much longer.
For the first time, the thought of my car turns my stomach. I decide to walk instead. The closest commercial center isn't far, maybe a mile away at most.
Lex's condo is in a community built around a golf course, tucking the structures away from the surrounding areas of Carlsbad, and giving her and her neighbors a view filled with trees and rich-green, sloping lawns.
Carlsbad is as far north as I'd ever like to live in San Diego county. It's a chill beach town just a thirty-five minute shot down the I-5 from downtown San Diego.
I was in town last month, but this visit feels different. As I walk, the laptop bag strapped to my back like a school bag, I'm transported back to the mornings I'd walk to school, though from a completely different neighborhood.
The cars swoop past on the street beside me. A woman gets on a bus, tugging at the hand of her small child. Everything around me feels oddly nostalgic. As if my past is right behind an invisible veil I could accidentally walk through at any moment and find myself face-to-face with the person I used to be.
Or, worse, the people I used to hurt.
CHAPTER SIX
The bell over the door chimes as I enter the diner. I'm soothed by the familiar surroundings. It's been years since I've been in here. Ever since I moved up north for school, I haven't made the time to drop by whenever I visited Lex.
How could I have forsaken this small haven? It's quaint and homey, smells of pancake syrup and bacon, and instantly puts me at ease.
I pass the section of squared tables. A handful of people sit among them, engaged in light conversation. One or two glance in my direction.
The man behind the counter isn't the person I expect to see. I expect to see the owner, Lucas. But the man in his place is a much-younger, handsome version of Lucas.
I see attractive men all the time, but I can't remember ever once doing an actual double take. My subconscious craves an instant, closer examination. When my sights swing back, his eyes meet mine, and our gazes lock with an almost audible click.
Well, hello…
He's in his late twenties, with dark hair, long enough to finger comb into its easy, disheveled state. He wears a long sleeved, dark gray thermal shirt. A casual style that somehow serves to exaggerate the broadness of his shoulders and muscular build of his arms. His features are a shade too intimidating to be considered handsome. Never mind the beard growing in, whether it's a few days old or purposely buzzed short.
Rough around the edges. Just how I like them.
I'm convinced this man's presence is a roughly packaged gift from the universe.
Sorry you had such a shitty day yesterday. Here's some eye candy for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy a tingling in your groin with your breakfast.
You're welcome.
I settle for a seat at the counter. There's a kid on the stool beside me, a dark blue backpack strapped to his back. One hand cradles his face, elbow resting on the counter. With his other hand, he lazily scoops scrambled eggs in his fork and flings them into his mouth.
He looks at me from the corners of his eyes as I pull the laptop open over the counter. I can tell by the way his head shifts in my direction. But he doesn't say anything and neither do I.
A minute later, the dark-haired man stands before me on the other side of the counter, pulling back a sheet of the small note pad in his hand, pen at the ready.
"Morning, what can I—" His voice, which is as gravelly as I'd expect it to be, cuts off abruptly when I look up from the menu to meet his strange, fleeting expression. His head turns a fraction.
No. That can't be recognition dawning on him. I'm sure his features are only vaguely familiar because he's obviously related to Lucas. I'm sure I've never met this man before. How would I forget a face like that?
"Do I know you?" I ask, setting the menu down.
"I'm Owen. Lucas' son."
He says it like it should ring a bell, but it doesn't. I didn't even know Lucas had a son. I mean, I assumed he had kids, but he never mentioned them, if my memory serves right.
I sit up because this Owen guy is watching me so closely it'd make anyone self-conscious, eyes darting across my face like gears clicking memories into place. When his sights fall on my blonde waves, his eyes narrow ever so slightly, as though encountering an impostor to their memory.
I can almost see what he sees in their place. Golden brown hair pulled back behind my ears. A pale face and pink cheeks. Big green eyes.
Holy shit. He really does recognize me from somewhere.
"I'm Emily," I say. We've yet to break eye contact but neither one of us seems to mind. "I used to come in here all the time but I don't remember you. Which I find strange because—" I lean
further in so our faces are maybe a foot apart "—well, you're sort of ridiculously good looking."
"That's interesting." He straightens up, creating extra space between us. "I remember you."
There's no mistaking the impassiveness of his expression. The notes of resentment in his tone, though subtle, are like the early, seemingly harmless winds of a storm that's not too far behind.
I want to know where it's all coming from.
"You worked here when you were younger?" I ask, not knowing if this is the case, but compelled to break the stiffness between us.
"After school and in the summertime. I washed dishes. Sometimes filled in waiting tables." He looks at the tables behind me. "Business was better back then."
Makes sense now, I wouldn't remember him if he worked here after school. I'd come in early mornings, rarely ever after school. Yet, as soon as he says it, my eyes are drawn toward the doorway behind him. A memory loosens and flashes before my eyes. A tall, thin, dark-haired boy clad in a white apron, darting back into the kitchen when he saw me noticing him. It's a hazy memory, blurred at the edges. I'm not sure if I'm making the whole vision up.
Memories aren't the reliable archive of the past people assume they are. Memories can be altered by biases and new information. It's why eyewitness testimony is notoriously unreliable.
"What will it be today?" he asks again, telling me in not so many words he's not here to make small talk with me.
I order and watch him walk off without another word.
The kid sitting beside me lets out a short sigh and I remember he's there. He looks miserable. So much so, in fact, that I want to laugh aloud. What the hell does a kid his age even know about being miserable?
"Are the eggs not good?"
The kid looks at me. "Huh?"
"Just wanted to know if the eggs are making you miserable. So I know to stay away from them."
"It's not the eggs."
Watching him, a few details come to me at once. He can't be older than thirteen, middle school age. And he seems to be alone.
"Shouldn't you be in school?" I ask, glancing at my watch.
He sets down the fork and sits up. "Shouldn't you be at work?"
My hands are over the keyboard of my laptop, resting there. I tap a finger over one of the keys without pressing it. "Maybe I am working."
"Are you?"
I can't help but laugh. "Fine, you got me. I'm not working."
"You're from out of town, aren't you?"
"Yeah, I guess I'm technically from out of town. How can you tell?"
"It's always the same people here. Usually super old people this early in the morning."
"It's always been like that here. A good place to hide from the school crowd."
He watches me with a little more interest. "And how do you know that?"
"I went to the high school up the street. I used to come in here all the time, actually."
"Oh," he says with blatant disinterest, "that's cool."
There's something familiar about this kid, something tugging at a memory. Or maybe he reminds me of myself at that age. That thought alone is enough to give me the impression he is up to no good.
Though the logical assumption is that he's headed to school, the backpack strapped to his back makes me wonder if he's a runaway. I know I shouldn't ask him too many questions. A kid his age has been conditioned not to trust strangers. Still, I can't help it.
"Are you here with your parents?"
"No. My parents are dead."
Well, things just got awkward.
I turn to face my laptop screen, unsure what to say to that. The way he said it, the solemn tone, his downcast eyes—I somehow, instinctively, know he's telling the truth.
"I'm sorry," I say. "That sucks."
"Yeah, it does." The kid wipes his mouth with a napkin and stands up. Without looking at me, he closes a hand around his glass of orange juice and shoots back the remainder of it as though it were something much stronger.
Maybe it's because of what I learned about his parents, but his body language and mannerisms seem mature. He digs into his pocket, pulls out a ten-dollar bill, and slaps it on the counter.
"Hey, Owen," he calls out with an exaggerated casualness that wasn't there a moment before. Owen looks up at the sound of his name and his face falls slightly in a tired way. The kid's tone twists into blatant sarcasm. "Thanks for breakfast."
The bell over the door chimes and cool air rushes inside as the kid heads out onto the street. I hope he really is headed to school.
Owen places a cup of coffee in front of me, along with my food. He reaches for the ten-dollar bill and stuffs it in his pocket. I find it strange that he pockets the kid's money, but he doesn't even seem embarrassed or secretive about it so I'm left to assume this must be normal.
Rolling up the sleeves of his thermal shirt, he reaches for the dishes the kid left behind. Plates clink as he gathers them and his gaze lifts to meet mine.
I expect a smile. A fake, customer-service smile.
He doesn't smile. But he does look at me for a few seconds too long, curiosity in his eyes, as though noticing something about me he didn't before. He catches himself and switches his focus to wiping down the space beside me.
Owen moves around behind the counter, carrying the plates, and I can't help but notice there's something exaggerated about his posture. The type of intensity you wouldn't expect from a man working in a diner, but from someone about to draw a gun. And that's exactly the energy he emits, a treacherous one. Rocky cliffs and pounding shores. The type of landscape you wouldn't trek if you were cautious.
I'm a lot of things, but cautious isn't one of them.
I'm not the slightest bit subtle about the way I gape at him as I sip my coffee. It's been a while since I laid eyes on a man I could consume with my eyes and he looks far more appetizing than my food. The type of man you can't look at without imagining yourself doing things to him. Or better still, imagining him doing things to you.
He doesn't notice, or pretends not to. It's not until he takes the stack of dishes and disappears through the doorway that leads into the back that I'm finally able to fully take in my surroundings.
Some things are different.
The menu, hanging on the wall, for instance. It looks crisp—not the old worn lettering I've looked up at since I was a teenager. The tops of the stools are also new leather. Not fringed at the edges with small tears in them, the way I remember.
A dark worry creeps across my chest. It occurs to me that maybe Lucas is gone for good. That's how it happens. You get used to people, they become a staple, and you sort of forget that they're growing older. You don't notice the lines growing on their faces or their hair slowly peppering away into white. It happens slowly and then one day they're gone, washed away by time. The spot where they once stood scraped clean and taken up by a newer, younger person. Change is the only real constant in life.
Owen reappears only a moment later and I slide off my stool to meet him. "Where'd you say Lucas is?"
"I didn't say."
Is that supposed to be the end of the discussion? He seems to think so, moving along the counter, arranging the condiments sitting in front of each stool. I follow, walking parallel to him, the cold slate of granite separating us.
"Is it a secret?" I ask, my gaze flicking upward. His blasé responses will grate away at my patience pretty quick.
He stops and looks at me. "He's in the hospital. Scripps Mercy."
"What happened? Is he sick?"
Closing each of his hands over the edge of the counter in front of him, Owen leans into the space between us as though to make sure we aren't overheard. My eyes are drawn to the outline of his muscular arms beneath his shirtsleeves. "He had a massive heart attack a few days ago. Still recovering, but doctors say he'll be fine."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I'm really fond of him. He's a good man."
"Sure he is," Owen says, too quickly. I get the sense of an implied, 'wha
t the hell would you know?' And he walks away once again without the slightest warning.
I'm well aware of the discernible sting of rejection as I'm left standing there, my mouth parted in anticipation of what I was going to say next.
I get the urge to laugh, but not out of humor. How has this place not gone out of business with him behind the counter?
Sliding back onto my seat, I bring my attention where it should be. The laptop screen. My resume. My job hunting research.
I decide I've had enough of Owen's antisocial demeanor. Because fuck this guy. He's not eye candy delivered by the universe. He's a dark cloud shading my safe haven, stripping it of all the things I expected when I walked through the doors.
A part of me had hoped this little haven of mine remained untouched and sacred, even while so much in my life was uncertain.
What used to be a symbol of normalcy to me, a place I could escape to, is now just another thing that isn't what it used to be.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The sounds around me are comforting: light chatter, silverware clinking, soft ambient noises. Nothing that should distract me. Yet my attention is divided, half on the embellished list of phrases on the screen before me and half on something else in my immediate surroundings.
When Owen comes to collect my empty plate, I finally admit to myself what the real distraction is. It's him. I'm aware of him even when I'm trying not to be. I know when he is closer to my end of the counter or further down. I sense when he passes by me to bring people their orders or when he's behind the register ringing someone up.
And now, I'm trying to not be aware that he is somewhere behind me. I'm trying so hard that his voice jars me when, out of nowhere, he says, "It's too long."
I turn in time to see him reach over, finger landing on the laptop screen and tapping on the spot right over the bottom of the file, which reads, Page 1 of 3.
"Your resume," he says. "It's too long."
Entice (Hearts of Stone #2) Page 4