Through Glass (The Glass Series Book 1) (3 page)

Chapter Three

Pretending I belong in this place

It’s a good thing I set my alarm clock. I wake up an hour before Oliver is supposed to pick me up, feeling like I haven’t even rested at all. I probably would have slept for another three hours if I hadn’t committed to going out tonight. I’m glad I did, though. I am absolutely starving and I have no food in my fridge. I pray whatever he has planned involves some kind of meal, although I know I can’t afford it. He will probably foot the bill again, much like the first night we were out together and spent a hundred dollars on alcohol alone, on top of our meal. When he asks for one check tonight I’ll tell him he doesn’t need to pay for my meal, while assuring him that I will get the next one. Perhaps I’ll be polite and offer to cover us both this time before the waitress even comes by to offer coffee or dessert, and maybe he’ll let me pay—meaning I definitely won’t have enough money for groceries anytime soon. I will have to eat Ramen noodles for two weeks if that happens.

I sit up in bed and throw my feet over the side. I reach down for the dress I left crumpled on the floor and hope there are no wrinkles in it. Since I don’t have a dryer in my apartment, I’d have to hang it in the bathroom with the shower on hot for a couple minutes to steam the wrinkles out, but I really don’t have the patience for that.

I hold it up—it’s not wrinkled. I decide I should probably wear makeup this time. I don’t think he’s ever seen me with makeup on, and I’m not sure why I’m trying so hard to impress him. I reach for my foundation, and begin to dab it onto my face. It covers hundreds of freckles on my otherwise flawless skin. I used to love my freckles. My grandmother had me convinced that they were ridiculously cute. I was even proud of them, until my ex-husband told me they looked terrible and asked me to wear several layers of makeup to hide them when we were out with his buddies. Now I am ashamed of them.

The light pink blush gives my cheeks a sheer hue, and my dark purple eyeliner makes my huge hazel eyes stand out even more.

Convinced that I have done all I can to make myself look decent, I sit on my bed, staring into my mirror, and I wait.

He sends me a text that says he’s in the parking lot of my building. Gone are the days when men actually came knocking at the door, I guess.

K, coming out.

He’s wearing a suit. I can tell, even though I can barely see him through the tinted windows of his black Sonata. I can see the dark jacket and the contrasting white shirt. I’m glad I wore a dress.

I open the car door and I have to move his notebook from the seat in order to get in. I put it carefully on my lap and begin to thumb through it.

“Don’t read anything,” he asserts, sounding almost angry.

That’s not exactly fair. He went through my canvases without my permission, but I’m not allowed to glance through his writing? They are each just as personal as the other. They both express our feelings. Suddenly, my cheeks turn red. I comply with his request and I reach back, placing the notebook on the back seat.

“Have you started your painting yet?”

“You saw me just hours ago. I hadn’t started it then, and no, I still haven’t started it now,” I snap, noticeably upset that he had given me attitude for opening his notebook. I had no reason to answer in such a snotty tone; realistically, it was a valid question on his part—I had more than enough time to touch the canvas with the first couple of strokes of my brush, but I was uninspired—or just plain lazy.

“Okay.”

Okay? That’s it? Is this going to be the only conversation we have until we get wherever we’re headed? Where are we headed, anyway?

“Where are we going?” I ask, quietly.

“Vieux-Port Steakhouse. Have you been?”

“No.”

I don’t even like steak, but I assume they have more to eat than just that.

Oliver seems to know all the best places in town. As a restaurant owner himself, assessing the competition is probably a good thing, although a steakhouse doesn’t exactly compete with a small hipster coffee shop.

We make small talk until we arrive. We both seem to be in a better mood as we walk into the dimly-lit, inviting atmosphere. We are seated beside a giant picture window and a fireplace. This place is beautiful.

Oliver orders two appetizers—one on my behalf, because the waiter has a very thick French accent, and Oliver speaks far better French than I do. A full bottle of wine is placed on our table.

“I have a cat,” I blurt out before I take a sip of wine.

“You do? I didn’t see a cat while I was over the other night.”

“He’s shy. He hides under the bed when I have company over,” I explain.

“Oh. What’s his name?”

“NyQuil, because he’s black. Are you upset?”

“No, of course not. Why would I be upset?” he asks, puzzled.

“Both of my exes hated my animals,” I mumble.

“Laur, you and I aren’t exactly together—and even if we were, I don’t hate animals.”

I’m not sure what to make of that. I mean, I knew we weren’t together but I’m a little hurt by the way he worded that. I’m not sure how any of this works. I never really dated anyone in school, and then I only had the two serious relationships after I graduated. When I married my ex-husband, I felt a sense of relief that the whole dating thing was over—almost like no matter what happened now, at least I knew I wouldn’t die alone. Little did I know he’d hurt me, scar me for life, and prevent me from ever being sane in a relationship again.

At least Oliver wasn’t upset about my cat.

“So tell me something about yourself,” he says, touching my hand. I almost instinctively pull back. It’s been so long since anyone has touched me.

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. I know you’re an artist and a cashier, you just moved here from a small town, and you have a cat. Tell me something else,” he says, smiling warmly.

“My grandmother raised me in a little French town,” I explain, speaking quietly. “I went to a small school and I didn’t have many friends because I didn’t speak the language well when I was sent to live there. I focused on my school work and I got into a good college. I have a degree in marketing. I got married as soon as I finished high school and he wasn’t a very nice person. We split up a couple years later. I dated another guy for a couple years, but I felt like I was dating his mother, so that ended as well. And now I’m just me. I lead a pretty boring life.”

I pause, assessing his body language now that I’ve mentioned my marriage, but it doesn’t seem to have fazed him.

“I see. But what do you like to do?” he asks, pushing me to open up to him.

“I love to paint. I write poetry. I love coffee and wine. I hate the rain and I hate being cold. I did gymnastics for fourteen years, and then played on my college’s volleyball team. I don’t want to work in marketing, because I really don’t like people. I just really want to paint.”

“I write poetry, too.” He smiles.

“I know. You wouldn’t let me read any of it.”

“That wasn’t poetry. I’ll let you read my poetry.”

“What was it then?”

He ignores my question.

“I’m going to write a book someday where a guy tells a story, then bumps his head, and tells the same story over again, and again and again. I’m literally just going to copy and paste. It’s brilliant. Would you like some more wine?” he asks, noticing my glass is empty.

He’s changing the subject. Now I’m really curious about what was in that notebook. Maybe it’s a journal, documenting his life. Or maybe it’s a book of girls’ phone numbers. Maybe he writes about all the different girls he takes on dates. Maybe—

“Would you like to read something I’ve written?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts.

I nod.

He pulls a piece of paper out from the pocket of his jacket, and asks “Have you read
To Kill a Mockingbird
?”

I nod again, wondering if anyone has actually not read
To Kill a Mockingbird
.

He unfolds the piece of paper, and slides it over towards me. The title at the top reads
Stay Inside
in bold letters.

Here we are, sitting with our friend Dill, trying to figure out if Boo Radley is ill.

We’re wondering why he won’t come out. Does he not want to know what the whole world’s about?

We think up a plan and they send me out yonder. Into Boo’s yard, I now have to wander.

But is it as brave of me as the others say? What is there to be so scared of anyway?

Maybe Boo is afraid of what he doesn’t know or of what they’d think if he let it all show.

So he stays inside, not wanting to see just how mean and how cruel this whole world can be.

Here I am, sitting with Jem. He’s bawling his eyes out; something’s happened to him.

I ask what is wrong, and he looks away. He starts crying again, then begins to say:

‘The trial wasn’t fair, the verdict unjust. In Atticus Finch, Tom put his trust.

Still, he is to die; it just isn’t right. There is no way anything happened that night.

But they looked at his skin and thought he must have done wrong. They looked past the evidence; now all hope is gone.’

It makes me think of Boo and how he doesn’t want to see just how mean and how cruel this world can be.

Perhaps Tom would be safe had he stayed inside, and maybe, just maybe, he would not have died.

Here he is, sitting with me. He talks with wisdom, trying to get me to see.

Atticus Finch says: ‘Jean Louise, Miss Dubose isn’t mean, please know, Scout, she has the most courage I’ve seen.

You may not see it and you think she’s insane, but she puts up with some of the worst kind of pain.

I know that she’s rude and says things that are wrong but you have to understand: this woman is strong’.

Then Atticus left, and I thought of what was said. Maybe Miss Dubose should stay in her house, instead.

That way she wouldn’t be so mean to everyone. She’d just sit quiet in the dark, and never see the sun.

Here I am, now all alone. I look around at the place I call home.

Aunt Alexandra isn’t nice, and Dill’s not there anymore. I’ve gotten into trouble again, ‘cause Walter is poor.

Now I wonder what this life would be like if I stayed inside all day and all night,

If I didn’t go out or see any of my friends; If I just stayed in until the world ends.

Maybe things would be easier, not a worry or care. Maybe I’ll try it, I won’t go out there.

Miss Dubose wouldn’t be mean, and Tom wouldn’t have died. Boo Radley’s got it right; I’ll just stay inside.

–Jean-Louise Finch

“It’s absolutely brilliant,” I gasp. “Mockingbird is one of my favorite books, and I cannot believe this—it’s so beautifully written. I’m really impressed, Oliver.”

“Thanks, Lauren. I’m going to go for a smoke,” he says.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I didn’t know you had a cat.” He smiles.

“Do you do anything else?” I ask.

“What do you mean? I drink, every so often. I don’t smoke much, and I don’t smoke anything other than cigarettes, if that’s what you’re asking. I did coke once, but ice cubes got stuck in my nose.” He grins.

“Yes, that’s what I meant. Smoking is terrible for you. Maybe it’s time to quit.”

“I plan on it, real soon. Just not right now. Things have been stressful.” He takes his notebook from the table, and brings it outside with him. I watch as he walks out the door. He’s clutching the book so hard, his knuckles are almost white.

I decide I need some air, too. I follow him outside, with the intention of standing out there with him. Instead, I see him on his cell phone. He isn’t even smoking.

I turn and duck back into the restaurant.

He joins me a couple minutes later. I don’t even know what to say to him.

Is he lying to me?

“They still haven’t brought our food yet?” he asks, but it’s more of an observation. Obviously, if the food isn’t on the table, they haven’t brought it out yet.

“How was your smoke?”

“Not great. It took another couple minutes off the end of my life, and I know I need to quit. Smoking is never good.”

As he sits down, I can smell cigarettes on his clothing. At least he wasn’t completely lying, I guess. He did have a smoke. But who was he on the phone with?

“If I put my root beer in a square glass, does it become beer?” He grins.

I stare blankly at him. I get the joke, but I fail to see the humor when he’s clearly hiding his phone conversation.

“My friend also called me, and that interrupted my train of thought while I was trying to have a nice, relaxing evening with you,” he says, breaking the silence, perhaps noticing that I am unimpressed.