Love Story (6 page)

He released my hand and nodded toward my chair. “Sit down another sec. Your grandmother wanted me to bring you something you left at home.” He reached around for his backpack.

Obediently I collapsed into my chair because my legs felt weak, and because I really did need him on my side. But I said quickly, “I don’t want it.”

He broke into a playboy grin, as if we were flirting instead of dancing around a sensitive topic. “How do you know you don’t want it? You haven’t even seen what it is.”

“Whatever it is, I left it on purpose.”

He pulled it from his backpack and placed it on the table between us. My music player and earbuds.

The last time he’d handed me my music player, at my grandmother’s Derby party last May, he’d saved me from a convo with Whitfield Farrell, a twenty-one-year-old college dropout who would inherit the famous farm next door. Whitfield was widely known for his drunken exploits at the horse parties, and widely rumored to want in my pants. My grandmother had ordered me to be nice to him because she did business with his dad.

So Whitfield put his hand on my ass. I was not far from slapping him and then taking whatever punishment my grandmother dished out, when Hunter tapped on the window and held up my music player, which I’d left in the barn. When he saw I couldn’t get away from Whitfield, he came inside the mansion. Made a big commotion of it, too, stomping in his stable boots across the antique Persian rug. Whitfield wandered away to find another bourbon. Hunter watched him go, then turned to me. And he flirted with me like he would flirt with any girl at school until my grandmother stalked up and asked him in an angry whisper what the hell he thought he was doing inside her house.

Thing was, this had seemed completely in character for Hunter. He was the charmer, the savior, the leader, every girl’s hero. When the neighborhood boor targeted a girl for the evening, of course Hunter would deftly intervene, even against the boss lady’s wishes.

For anyone else. Not for me. For years, Hunter and I had kept our distance. When he stepped in, I started thinking about him differently. Thinking hard about him. Casting him not as everybody else’s hero but as my own. The prom had passed already, but graduation was coming up. We were headed for the same college. Because of our past together, we would have a lot to work through, but maybe college was our time to do it.

And then he stole my life.

I managed a tiny smile for the several-months-older, quite-a-bit-drunker Hunter, as if the music player represented a long-ago period of my childhood rather than last May. “I definitely left that in Kentucky on purpose,” I said. “It’ll do me no good here. I can’t afford new songs.”

His golden jaw dropped. He rolled his eyes. He must be plastered. “Songs aren’t that expensive,” he said.

“Every little bit helps,” I said, “when I’m trying to pay the rent and experience New York.”

He talked right over “New York” as if he hadn’t heard me. “You love your music.”

“I did when I was trying to shut everything out. Now I’m trying to let everything in. I want to hear New York rather than some song I downloaded. I want to smell New York. Well—New York smells like garbage. Vietnamese garbage, Mexican garbage, Lithuanian garbage, Nigerian garbage, all within a three-block walk. Even the stench is part of the experience. I want to pay attention.”

Leaning forward, he covered my hand and the music player and earbuds on the table with both his big hands.

My face flushed hot like he had thrown his latte into it.

“You don’t want your music player because your grandmother gave it to you,” he said. “Admit it.”

I tried to pull my hand out from under his. The corner of the music player dug into my finger. I stood up.

“Sit down.” He sounded authoritative, and suddenly very sober. He squeezed my hand on the table. “We’re not done.”

“Yes, we are.” I loosened my hand from his and placed it on his shoulder. “Some of us work for a living.” I turned for the counter.

Before I could slip my hand away, he grasped it again. “Give me your new cell phone number.”

I laughed shortly at the irony: dreamy Hunter asking for my number, when I couldn’t give it to him anyway. “I don’t have a cell phone.”

He closed his eyes and kept them closed for several seconds, as if hoping that when he opened them again, my second head would have disappeared. In the light of two mismatched lamps on nearby tables, each of his blond lashes cast two long shadows down his tanned cheeks. He opened his eyes. “How can you not have a cell phone?”

“Too expensive.”

Shaking his head, he pulled my hand until it lay flat on the table in front of him. He drew a pen out of his pocket and clicked it open. “Here’s my number, then. If you ever need me, find a phone and call me.”

I was pulling hard all this time. Despite my best efforts, by the time he stopped talking he’d already written hunter across my palm, in case I forgot whose phone number was written there, and his area code.

“Hunter.” I looked around the coffee shop, afraid of making a scene at work, but truly not wanting Hunter’s number tattooed on my hand. “Hunter, this may be hard for you to understand when you are on the stealing end of the inheritance rather than the victim end. If I needed help, you are the last person on Earth I would call.” I gave my hand one last, hard jerk and reeled back a couple of steps. His pen had left his entire phone number on my palm, plus a line down my middle finger and off the tip.

“My break is over and I’m already in trouble for getting here late.” Scooting my mug from the table, I hurried away, weaving among the now crowded tables filled with a second wave of late-night coffee addicts. My boss glowered at me with his fists on his hips. I could only hope Hunter, the future president of a multimillion-dollar equine enterprise and the heir to a fortune, understood where I was coming from as a girl alone and struggling financially. I hoped he would cut me some slack about the stable boy.

As if.

N
EW
Y
ORK IS THE CITY THAT
never sleeps, but it does get tired. Its eyelids grow heavy and it wants to veg in front of the television. When my boss let me off work at eleven, all the other shops were closed. Traffic was sparse. Only a few pedestrians passed me on the street. The lights were no less bright, but the night had formed a dome over them, as if I were walking through a movie set made to look like the city rather than the real thing, and I would never see very far down the dark side streets even when dawn broke.

I felt like the only person in the world awake and walking by the time I reached the honors dorm. But every window on the front was still lit, even mine, dimly, with light filtering through the doorway from Summer and Jørdis’s outer room. I might even encounter Hunter in the stairwell. This should have been the last thing I wanted, but it wasn’t. I lingered over my mailbox in the lobby, sifting through endless pamphlets for campus events scheduled when I would be at work and tossing each one in the recycling bin.

Finally I shuffled up one flight of stairs and opened the door to my room. The first thing I saw was Summer and Jørdis sitting cross-legged on Jørdis’s bed, cutting out pictures. The second thing I saw was my green-sequined belly-dancing outfit hanging on the back of my door. When I’d first brought it home from the thrift store, I’d planned to keep it in the closet I shared with Summer, but Jørdis asked me to hang it in full view of the room because she liked the glitter. She was an art major.

Maybe this was how Hunter had known I was taking belly dancing. Growing warm, I wondered when in the past week he’d been in my room.

Summer looked up from her scissors and grinned at me. “Well? Did the stable boy make it to your assignation?”

I glared at her, then looked pointedly at Jørdis. Summer and I really, really needed to work on our silent language.

Summer dismissed Jørdis with a flourish of her scissors. “Jørdis knows all about it. Brian stopped by. He said he and Manohar and Hunter went out and got wasted, and Hunter told them he was the stable boy.”

Usually I was very careful with my belongings because they would need to last me a long time. My book bag was a large leather designer bag I’d seldom used back home. I needed it to take me through college and beyond, because I’d never be able to afford another one like it. And I dropped it to the floor with a thud, unable to hold up the weight of my books and “Almost a Lady” for another moment.

Jørdis produced a third pair of scissors—her supply of sharp instruments was limitless—and held it out to me. “While we are discussing this, come and cut for me. It will help you with your aggression.”

Jørdis was Danish and no nonsense, softened only by the silk scarves she dyed herself and tied around her hair to keep it out of her paint. She seemed like a nice enough person and she hadn’t yet complained about me tromping back and forth across her room at strange hours to get to mine when I worked late. She only seemed distant because of her harsh Scandinavian accent, her flattened affect, and the fact that she was always either gone, with her bed made tightly, or sitting carefully on her bed so as not to muss it, holding scissors. When she and Summer and I first met, she had told us right away how her name was spelled, that the
o
in her name contained a slash. Summer and I had called her “Jørdis with a slash” behind her back for several days until we decided she wasn’t so bad.

One thing she was very good at, surprisingly, was making friends. She’d already decided her project for her college gallery show at the end of the semester would be a series of huge collages composed of tiny cut-out faces. This meant that whenever Summer or I had a spare moment, Jørdis shoved a pair of scissors in our hands and dumped a pile of old magazines or photographs in our laps. She also recruited people she met in the lobby or the hallway to come back to the room and cut out faces with her.

Tired as I was, I didn’t think handling a sharp instrument was a good idea. But I knew from experience that there was no arguing with Jørdis. I slunk to her bed and accepted a pair of scissors and a ten-year-old copy of
Rolling Stone.
“Hunter promised not to say anything to Gabe,” I murmured, “but since he got drunk with Manohar and Brian and told them, I’m screwed already. They’ll spread it everywhere because I’m the honors program joke.”

“Brian didn’t make it sound that way at all.” Summer placed a neatly clipped face on the pile in front of Jørdis and turned the page of her copy of
Tiger Beat.
“Hunter was shocked and flattered by your story, and he got drunk with Manohar and Brian because they were discussing whether you have a thing for him.”

For a long, delicious moment, I believed Summer. Then my memory of my conversation with Hunter kicked in. “Did Brian tell you that’s what went on,” I asked her, “or is this your interpretation of the events?”

“It’s my inter—”

“Right,” I butted in. “Do me a favor and stop interpreting. Hunter could not care less whether I have a thing for him, because he doesn’t have a thing for me.”

“I’m not so sure.” Jørdis bit her lip and carefully cut around someone’s ear for an achingly long moment before she continued, “I caught your Hunter outside in the hall several days ago, reading our names on the door. I made him come in and cut for me.”

Wow. I nodded toward the door to my private room. “Did he ask you whose belly-dancing costume that was?”

“He did,” she said. Mystery solved.

“Did he peek into my room?” It was tiny, only the width of the bay window that took up one whole wall, and exactly large enough for a single bed and a miniature dresser and desk. Every room on the front of the honors dorm housed two roommates in the outer chamber and one in this alcove. I’d heard around the dorm that students killed for these bay window rooms, and the older students called dibs. But Jørdis said the tiny room made her claustrophobic and reminded her of her summer in Japan, where she had been made to sleep in a tube. Then Summer didn’t jump at it, so I did. I loved the smallness, the closeness, and the door that I could close. It was all very Virginia Woolf—until you remembered that she committed suicide, which took some of the fun out of it.

No, I loved my little room, but I had to store most of my stuff in Summer’s closet in this larger room. There wouldn’t have been much for Hunter to see inside my room. I still wanted to know whether he’d seen it.

“He did not peek,” Jørdis said, “but he pumped me for information about my roommates, especially you, until I asked him whether he knew you.”

Summer leaned forward expectantly and dropped magazine and scissors. “What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Not really.’”

Summer turned to me. “See? He’s confused by your swift exit from Kentucky. Jørdis asks him whether he knows you and he wistfully says, ‘Not really,’ like he wants to reconnect with you but doesn’t know how.”

I sliced through the center of the picture I was trimming. I was too tired to argue with Summer, but I wished she would quit picking up the broken pieces of my life and trying to build something romantic out of them. That’s what I’d tried to do in “Almost a Lady,” and that’s what had gotten me in this mess.

I pointed at Summer with my scissors. “Hunter said he would ask Manohar and Brian not to tell Gabe or anyone else about the stable boy, but he couldn’t promise anything. That’s where you come in. You’re friends with Brian. Ask him to keep quiet about this as a favor to you. Make friends with Manohar and do the same thing.”

“Whoa!” She held up
Tiger Beat
as a shield. “I already defended your story. Haven’t I done enough?”

“Five words.” I counted them on my fingers for her, the scissors hanging from my thumb. “Can. I. Have. Erin’s. Vote?”

Summer cackled. “I can’t imagine asking a favor from Manohar. You heard him in class. He hates me.”

“Then you’re going to have to do a one-eighty and stop antagonizing him in class,” I said. “If he wants to tell me that romance novels aren’t fit to wipe his ass, you just go ahead and let him say that. My internship is more important than my pride.” I wasn’t sure this was true. My pride was pretty damned important. But I was tired, cutting with only one eye open now. If I had that internship, I wouldn’t need to work for six hours on top of attending class and studying for twelve.