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“Can I do your hair?”
“What are you going to do?”
“Here.” She comes over and turns me around, pulling half my hair up and wrapping it around in a messy top knot, leaving two pieces out that frame my face in the front. I watch it all in the mirror, slightly impressed by how quickly she was able to do it.
“For someone with short hair, you sure know how to style it.” I smile at her through the mirror, and she smiles back, accepting the compliment before going into one of the drawers and pulling out a gold necklace. I know it very well, it’s mother's old locket, the one she gave to us both.
Neither of us have ever worn it out of respect. We wanted to avoid fighting over the only sentiment gifted to us before her passing. She unclasps it, coming straight for me.
“No, Olive.” I step back and she continues forward.
“It’s fine. You’ll need mom with you tonight.”
“I really, don’t think—“
“Espie, please. I want you to.” She presses and I sigh.
“Okay.” I barely agree, and she gleefully puts it around my neck just as a knock resounds at the door.
“Who is it?” Olive sing-songs, like she has no idea.
“Adrik.” He mocks her tone, and I stifle a laugh as I cross to the door, waving goodbye to her. She runs up to me as I grab the handle, tightly hugging my waist.
“Good luck.” She whispers and steps away as I open the door, nerves setting in. Adrik hovers in the doorway, a thick knit black sweater with tears through it, showing bits of his tattoos underneath. He’s wearing charcoal joggers and black slippers, and he smells incredible. I’m definitely holding my breath looking him up and down, and he licks his pink grin.
“Ready?” He holds out his tattooed hand, his wide smile with surprisingly bright teeth— considering his chain-smoking habits— and it makes me even more on edge. I reach for his hand and my insides swell with something like hunger but worse. It’s not just that we’re holding hands, walking down the stairs like we’re actually together, it’s the fact that he hasn’t said one unpleasant thing to me yet.
I remind myself that it’s just a game. That's all this is to him, so that’s how I’ll treat it.
We cross through the main foyer and then down under it— a way we haven’t ever gone, following a dimly lit hallway with paintings of war in black frames on red walls. The next hall we turn down is mostly stone, with small windows to see the town below us. Snow plows line the streets by the dozen, but we’ll probably be in here for another day before we can get out and drive around.
Not that we’ll even get to go anywhere. Why get my hopes up when I can barely breathe at home without being watched? We continue a bit further and then a long set of steps, lit by rows of LED lights close to the floor, lead down to something I can’t see. We follow them and just before we reach the bottom I can see a dark wood door, slightly cracked open.
Upon arriving at it, Adrik lets go of my hand and opens it up the entire way, revealing a beautiful sight. A candle-lit kitchen with high wood beams, thick stone walls, dangly plants, and herbs hanging from every direction and a wood table already set with candles and a single red rose in a black clay vase. I gasp a little, not on purpose, but just because it’s the only reaction one should have to such extravagance.
He grins in my peripherals and walks with me inside, closing the door behind us. I look around more, completely captivated by how much peace the room is filled with.
“Do you like it?” He grins like he knows the answer.
“It’s…” I nod. “It’s very nice.” I swallow nervously because he’s close, and my heart is pounding, and my mouth is dry.
“Wine?” He asks, and I get embarrassed because I think he can tell I’m nervous.
“Sure.” I smile, and he goes in ahead of me, grabbing a bottle off the bottle rack taking up an entire wall. When he comes back to the table, he pours a glass to the brim and then a glass half full of red wine.
I grab the glass that's to the brim, and his eyes flick up to me. They’re blue, very blue. And now I’m even more nervous.
“That was mine.” He grins, pouring more into the half-empty glass.
“Oh, how sweet of you to think I don’t like a good red.”
“I don’t know what to think of you, Esperanza.” That glint of mischief flickers and I plaster on a grin, despite my disdain for being called by my full name. He crosses to the kitchen and turns on a small radio, resting on a wooden shelf above one of the sinks. Jazz begins playing, and he turns it down a bit, beginning to rummage through things.
“You can sit.” He says, continuing to pull out pots and pans. I take a large gulp of my wine and cross to the corner of the kitchen, hoisting myself up on the marble countertop, but before the counter aligns with the back wall. This way, I can look over his shoulder as he cooks. He looks over at me with a grin, titling his head.
“I meant at the table.”
“Oops.” I don’t care, don’t even pretend to care, and he must like this because he lets out a genuine laugh before crossing to a silver door that is definitely a walk-in fridge. I watch him enter, rummage through some things and fill a basket to the brim with ingredients, holding some under his arm and chin as he staggers back to the stove. Amused, I watch as I drink my wine. He sets everything on the counter and glances over at me again.
