He didn’t smile. Instead, he stared at me. His eyes didn’t glide over me. They were completely focused on my own. I felt the challenge that they insinuated.
“You need a haircut.”
That incited a small smile from his lips. “According to you?”
I squirmed a little in my seat. “Well, actually yes. And the general population.”
Everett arched an eyebrow. “Oh, really?” he asked, leaning forward on the table. “Have you surveyed the general population on the matter of my hair length?”
He was teasing me. My eyes tightened with annoyance. “Of course not. But the general population keeps their hair at a length that can manage a semblance of a style.”
He rubbed his chin in contemplation. I could nearly hear the rasp of his fingernails against his scruff. “Are you saying my hair is not styled?”
I sipped my water and let the liquid cool my tongue. “Yes. It looks like a rat made a bed on your head.” It was a lie, but it had its intended effect.
His eyes opened up then, fully, startled. “Now that is a rude thing to say.”
I nodded. “I never claimed to be anything else,” I said, throwing his words back at him.
Everett leaned back in his booth and, while staring at me, he ran his fingers through his thick, black locks, pushing them away from his face. In doing so, he exposed his forehead. Immediately, my eyes found the line that followed his hairline. It was faint, but it was white, clashing with his deep olive complexion. I knew it was a scar, even though it had faded a bit, and there was a small dent off the center of his forehead. I felt something spark within me then. Something more than mild annoyance. I met his eyes and saw the words he didn’t speak. We both have scars.
I didn’t realize my finger was brushing the one on my arm until I saw his eyes glance down. I hastily pulled my arm back and under the table. I wished fervently I’d worn something with sleeves.
“Why don’t you ask me about my scars?” I spoke without thinking.
He sipped his coffee, making a quiet slurping sound. His eyes held mine the entire time. He pulled the cup away from his mouth and licked his bottom lip before setting the cup on the table. He pushed one hand up his forearm, pushing up the jacket sleeve. He pushed it past his elbow before bringing his hand back to the table. My eyes darted between his and the arm. I knew that whatever he was doing, he was doing deliberately. His hands rested on the table top in front of us, veins raised under his knuckles. And while I stared at his hands, he turned the exposed arm over, bringing the underside of his wrist up for me to see.
The first thing I noticed was the scars. Beneath the sprinkling of hair they sat, little white and red circles, tracking the paths of his veins up to his elbow.
“Why don’t you ask me about mine?” His voice startled me, such was my concentration on his skin.
He was exposing his scars to me. I tried to summon up embarrassment, but instead I felt relief. We were on the same playing field. Where my scars were jagged and angry, the result of an attack, his scars were deliberate, repetitive. I yearned to learn more. I blamed it on my compulsion to study people. I didn’t truly care about Everett. But exposing scars that were normally hidden was as honest as nudity, if not more so.
But I barely knew him. “Because that would be rude.”
“You like that word, don’t you?” He pulled his sleeve down, hiding the circular scars that covered his arm like confetti. “I gravitate towards frankness, which you seem to think is rude.” He leaned forward on the table, pulling me under and into his presence. “How did you get your scars?”
I sipped my water again, my throat going dry at having his full attention upon me. Before I could answer, the waitress set our plates on the table in front of us. Everett pulled back, the spell was broken.
I looked down at my key lime pie. It was dyed a bright green-blue color, clearly unnatural. I pushed the plate away from me and took the bowl the waitress had set down, filled with lime wedges. As I brought the first one to my mouth, I felt Everett’s eyes on me and I looked up. He hadn’t even picked up his silverware yet. He just stared at me. In the daylight, his eye color was so light it looked as bright as the color of the fraudulent pie.
I took a bite of the lime while holding his gaze. He shook his head and cut into his stack of pancakes. I watched as he drowned them in syrup and it annoyed me. His pancakes would be soggy and gross before he had time to finish them.
He took a bite and met my eyes again. With his mouth full of pancake, he raised an eyebrow at me and gestured to my bowl of limes.
“What?” I asked, confused.
He swallowed and sipped his coffee. “Are we going to take turns watching each other take one bite of food?”
I wasn’t embarrassed that he caught me staring. As I’d mentioned before, not much affected me. Feelings were like a rich piece of cake; too much made you sick. My indifference was like a comfort blanket. I wrapped myself up in it and kept myself from feeling. Life was easier this way.
So why did Everett make me feel different? Was it the clothing I wore? Was this a costume, the heels, the dresses? When I put them on, did I subconsciously become another me? It was a bit unsettling and I swallowed my bite of lime with discomfort.
I watched him eat another bite and lick the sticky syrup from his lips. He had nice lips. They were wide, not too thin, with a pointed cupid’s bow at their center. Around his lips was his several-days-past-five-o’clock shadow.
“Do you have a job?” Apparently, his presence lowered my guard, and I spoke more freely than I usually did.
Everett nodded and ate two more bites of pancakes before answering. “I do. But I don’t work in the summer.”
I ate another lime, contemplating. “What do you do?”
“I work with middle school students.”
“Teaching?”
He ate the last two bites and settled back in the booth, getting comfortable. “No.”
I noticed he didn’t elaborate. As I was finishing my last lime wedge he asked, “Do you have a job?”
“Yes.”
He took a sip of his coffee, again making that soft slurping sound. It distracted me. “What do you do?”
“I’m a waitress.”
Everett pursed his lips, seemingly finding this information interesting. When he didn’t say anything, I bristled. “What?”
He shrugged and reached into the messenger back he’d brought with him. He pulled out a small green notebook. I watched him flip open the lid and write something, careful to keep it from my view. I narrowed my eyes.
We sat like that for a couple minutes, me glaring at him while he scribbled some words onto paper. When he was done, he put the notebook back and looked at me again, as if nothing had happened.
“That was not polite,” I said, still glaring.
“Ah, another way to say, ‘rude’. Good job. I’m sure you’ll find several synonyms for me.”
For some reason, that seemed to only further ignite the annoyance within me.
The waitress dropped off the check and Everett reached into his wallet. He slid my credit card across the table top to me and before I could put it with the check, Everett was out of the booth with his messenger bag and walking to the cash register.
I sat at the table for a moment, wondering if this was goodbye. Was I supposed to walk out the door and be on my way back home?
I stood up and brushed my hands down the front of the dress before walking towards the door. I passed Everett as he paid and stalled a minute, deciding at the last second to wait for him before exiting the restaurant.
Everett turned around and opened the door for me, so I walked back outside on to the sidewalk.
“Thank you for breakfast,” I said, awkwardly teetering on the sidewalk, trying to keep away from the foot traffic.
“That wasn’t breakfast for you, was it? If so, I am disappointed. All you ate were some limes.”
He was facing me, our bodies just inches apart to keep fr
om being separated by the people passing around us.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
He was looking at me again, staring at me despite the many people that bumped us as they moved along the sidewalk. “When you do feel hungry,” he started, his voice lower than before, “what do you prefer to eat?”
I swallowed thickly. “I like cheeseburgers, with extra cheese.” Almost as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to take them back. As if he read my mind, I saw the side of his lips lift up ever so slightly.
“You ask for extra limes, extra cheese…” he started, staring at me, breathing in the space that I breathed. “What other extras do you like?”
My mouth went dry at that. His voice was warm, smooth, like chocolate fondue. “Extra space,” I whispered. “I like extra space.” I backed up a step, praying for balance.
He regarded me for a minute, looking out of place wearing all black under the bright sun. “Did you walk here?” I didn’t answer, just stared at him as if he would eat me alive – which he probably would. I took another step backwards and glanced over my shoulder.
As if he knew I was slipping away, he held a hand up to halt me and stepped forward until we were breathing the same air again. Being this close to him was like holding my breath under water. Exhilarating. Dangerous, if I didn’t come up for air.
“Parker.” It was the first time he’d said my name.
I met his eyes again, the clear blue-green of them mesmerizing. “Do you want to go to lunch later?” A second after he said it, he winced. Did he, too, experience that quick kick of regret the moment words left his mouth?
I still didn’t answer. I think we both knew the answer to his question. I backed up again, ready to leave, but his next question stopped me. “It’s rude not to answer questions.”
I chewed on my lip as I contemplated. The question he’d asked before in the restaurant, the one I hadn’t answered, popped into my head. “Morris Jensen,” I said.
Someone bumped Everett in their rush across the sidewalk. I saw Everett turn angrily, glaring at the impatient pedestrian, before he turned his eyes to me again. Anger furrowed his brow and thinned his lips. There was a fire in his eyes that I found captivating. “What did you say?”
“Morris Jensen,” I repeated. “That’s how I got my scars.”
I couldn’t tell you why I told him. Maybe because I wanted to tell someone, even if it was a mostly-stranger. Especially since I didn’t plan on seeing him again.
“Goodbye,” I said awkwardly, turning around and walking towards the apartment.
Ten steps down the sidewalk, I braved a glance back. Everett had moved to the exterior wall of the restaurant, his body shadowed beneath the awning, as he wrote in the notebook I’d seen earlier.
I watched him scribble words down, leaning against that wall, cloaked in the harsh shadow. And then his eyes lifted and he stared at me, his eyes piercing in the dark.
I did this often, staring at people, watching them do day-to-day things. But never so openly, so brazenly. I enjoyed watching mannerisms, quirks, or the moment a person made a decision, let that decision wash over their face, tighten or relax their muscles. I liked predicting their next movements, probably because I’d been blindsided by the person who had irrevocably changed my life. Morris Jensen.
But Everett held my stare. It was intense, but curious. An animal observing its prey.
Quickly, I spun on my heels, somehow maintaining my balance, and hustled down the sidewalk to the apartment complex.
That afternoon, I cleaned out my car and left the windows open to air it out. I was soaked in sweat by the time I’d finished and took advantage of the quiet apartment to take a leisurely shower.
When I jumped out of the shower, I was startled by Jasmine busting in the room. I hastily wrapped a thick towel around me and stared at her as she plopped down onto the toilet.
She looked at me coolly, daring me to say anything. Jasmine, while not close to me in any sense of the word, knew things. Things like how much I guarded my privacy and how I was an avoider of conflict. Often, she took advantage of both of those things at the same time, like she was doing at that moment.
“You have another bathroom.” It was said quietly, as I always spoke around her. The apartment boasted three bedrooms and two bathrooms. Luckily, I’d been given the master bedroom, which came with its own en suite bathroom. It was luck more than anything else, after living in this apartment for three years and being the only remaining roommate from the original group that had first moved in here years earlier.
“Yeah, Carly’s in there. She’s sick.” Jasmine stared at me with eyes too big for her face, but the look she held was sharp, conniving. To say we didn’t get along would be like saying that grass is green. It was obvious to Carly, to any one of Jasmine’s boys that she paraded in and out of the house. I didn’t hate her, but she seemed to hold some kind of contempt for me.
I stood there, inches from her as she used the toilet. We stared at each other while the water dripped from my face onto my chest. We were at a standstill. She would expect me to leave the bathroom, but I decided I didn’t want to.
“Carly said you had a date this morning.”
My eyes narrowed. Annoyance. Carly, while sweet and unassuming, had a big mouth. Instead of answering Jasmine, I pinned her with a stare.
Jasmine finished up and stood up, pulling her shorts back up. She smiled at me, an unfriendly smile. Her blonde hair fell around her shoulders like she’d just come from a salon. It was the kind of hair that people envied. Blonde, soft, full of body. Luckily, I felt nothing but annoyance for her. She was a rash that wouldn’t go away; itching at my skin with her stares and words.
“Was he cute?” she asked as she washed her hands, using too much of my soap and splashing water all over the mirror.
“I don’t know.” It was honest. He wasn’t a man you’d see in any model magazine. He was tall, in shape, with piercing eyes and a quick tongue. His hair was too long and he didn’t seem to like colors that weren’t black, but he still called to me on a deeper level. A level that was unnerving and, let’s just be honest, annoying. As I mentioned, I felt annoyance often. It was the other emotions that were tricky, slipping through my fingers like oil.
“What’s his name?”
I picked up the hand towel after she finished drying her hands and wiped up around the sink and the mirror, roughly, to show just how annoyed I was with her. Not like that did me any good. If nothing, it seemed to widen her malicious grin, her pearly whites sparkling with gleeful animosity.
Instead of answering, I carefully pushed her out of my bathroom and then continued pushing until she was out of the bedroom completely. She resisted a little, but she was no match for me with her skinny legs and little body fat.
“Why are you so weird?” she asked right before I calmly closed the door in her face.
I hesitated a moment. “Why do you care?”
She narrowed her eyes a moment, as if considering my question. “I don’t,” she finally answered, before spinning around and moving down the hall.
It probably should have hurt my feelings, but since I didn’t have any, I felt the usual – indifference.
Carly had moved in shortly before Jasmine, but they both hadn’t been here a full year yet. Carly and I got along a bit better than Jasmine and I did, but I still felt nothing about it one way or another. Years of bouncing around foster homes had enabled me to not care about making a connection to anyone. And the fake connections I cultivated myself had caused the scars on my body.
I wrapped the towel tighter around me and grabbed a second towel for my hair. And then I sat at my desk and booted up my laptop.
I checked my bank account first before I started paying my bills. My waitressing job paid most of the bills, but I was fortunate to have my rent and schooling paid for with grants and scholarships, as I had emancipated from the foster care system when I was eighteen. I had one more year of college left before I woul
d be on my own, but I had a well-padded savings account from my settlement with Morris Jensen.
I suppose I should feel like that money was tainted, dirty, and came at the cost of permanent scarring. My lawyer had kindly mentioned the money would more than cover any plastic surgery I desired, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care where the money came from. I’d been forced into shock from the experience, so far into shock that most of the experience was still out of focus in my memory. A therapist had suggested I never came out of shock. She’d warned that the moment I came out of shock, when I fully grasped the entire situation, it would be traumatic and I would have a hard time coping.
I know that’s partially why I took comfort in my lack of emotion. The longer I existed without being ruled by emotions, the safer I was from what I had subconsciously buried in my memory.
As far as Morris Jensen, I didn’t specifically remember anything. I knew what the doctors and police officers had told me. They’d asked me, when they’d caught him, about the bullet in his stomach. But I didn’t remember the entire event. I remembered flashes. I remembered the dark, the screaming. I remembered tires squealing, the radio blaring. I remembered the crack I’d heard when my head had bounced onto the asphalt, the smell of oil and fear. Most of all, I remembered the smell of my own fear, tinged with blood and sweat. And if I closed my eyes and concentrated, I remembered the moments after, when I’d been completely changed.
Three Years Earlier
The doctors told me I had fought him hard. The blood under my nails was being carefully scraped by a very nice woman who tried distracting me with a story of her granddaughter. But my attention was focused on the social worker who was standing in the doorway, trying to keep the detectives from questioning me.
“She is too emotionally fragile to deal with questions right now.”
I was puzzled by that. I didn’t feel fragile. I felt pain, sure. Physical pain from the cut on my face, the skin stretched with stitches to cover the gaping hole in my cheek. The eight-inch cut on my forearm was quite painful as well. But maybe the social worker saw the ripped skin and torn tissue and assumed that she saw me. I was much deeper than just flesh wounds.
Ten Below Zero Page 3