Limerence: Chapter 14

I’m positive there’s nothing that can dampen my good mood when I wake Tuesday morning, dawn dappling through my navy curtains.

I have no classes to attend.

No perilous thoughts of the future looming over my head.

No judgmental looks to dodge when I slip on a ratty pair of sweatpants and hoodie so large it grazes the top of my thighs.

And no killers to smile at me while they threaten my life.

Life is good – and if I had an extra thirty bucks to blow, I’d buy one of those t-shirts and proclaim it to the world.

Even the two-mile walk to the nearest coffee shop doesn’t wreak havoc on my cardiovascular system like I’d expect, and nobody looks twice at me except to make sure my coffee order’s right. It’s refreshing to feel invisible again.

On the way back to campus, my sweatshirt only partially shields me against the Autumn chill, but I’ve got the heat of my steaming black coffee still seeping through the paper cup – and I think this may be almost as nice as Paris or Dubai or a lake house on the water.

If nothing else, it’s certainly more peaceful than spending fall break in Mobile. I’ve been home for one fall break, in the first semester of my freshman year, and deeply regretted it.

Apparently, the money Mom used for my plane ticket – taken straight from Rick’s “cigarette money” – was a loan. Rick let me know as much when I showed up in Mobile, and then spent the entire week griping about his lack of funds.

Four years later, he still hasn’t let me forget about that $338, and I only come home for Christmas and summers.

So much for all that paternal responsibility Mom insists he has.

I cut through the quad, but when the stone path splits in two, it feels as if I’ve come to a fork in the road – quite literally. Do I head back to my dorm room to binge TV till the bright screen gives me a headache? Or do I spend the first morning of my break being productive and finishing that history paper so I can inevitably spend the rest of my break binging TV?

The library it is.

***

I’ve seen the library in variations from nearly empty to packed full, but nothing compares to walking over its historic wooden floors with only the sound of my own footsteps bouncing off the vaulted ceilings.

Rows of study tables stretch over the first floor, while mile-high bookcases take over the second and third, some shelves so high they can only be accessed by a rolling ladder. As far as I know, the library is one of the oldest buildings on campus – with very few renovations to protect its extensive historic collection of books. Even in broad daylight, it feels like I need to squint against the dim low-lights.

I pause by the vacant front desk to check the library catalog, a massive tome so heavy it’d probably break a few bones if I dropped it.

I resist the urge to sneeze when each turn of the page produces a cloud big enough to rival the Dust Bowl. I’m pretty sure Dean Robins has spent the last decade begging Ms. Juno to upload the physical catalog to some kind of digital interface, but she refuses.

Eventually, I find what I’m looking for. The section I need is on the second floor. I bound up the mahogany spiral staircase, my eyes peeled and my head on a swivel.

“Shelf D,” I mutter to myself. “Shelf D, shelf D, shelf D, shelf –”

I stop cold in my tracks and blink twice to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

“Adrian?”

The figure sprawled out on the floor stiffens, and then turns to face me, looking just as surprised to see me as I am him.

“What are you doing here?” His eyes narrow, as if I’m the one intruding on him. And judging by the way he’s propped against the shelf, a book spread open in his lap, he’s clearly been here awhile – so I guess I am the one intruding.

I shuffle awkwardly on my feet, suddenly unsure how to navigate this development. Adrian is the last person I would’ve expected to find still on campus. Sometimes there are stray faculty members and the occasional student that stick around, but never someone of Adrian’s caliber.

“I’m just trying to find sources for that history paper,” I say and gesture to the bookshelf he’s leaning on, which is, just my luck, shelf D. “Aren’t you supposed to be in New Orleans? Or New York?”

He raises an eyebrow, and my cheeks bloom with color. “I overheard you in the hallway yesterday,” I offer as explanation.

“No,” he says flatly and turns back to his book – some medical textbook with an anatomically drawn heart on the cover.

“Well…” I can feel my chipper mood dissipating by the second. “I just need a book for my essay. The one you got me an extension on.” I can only imagine how dark my cheeks are. “Which…thanks for that by the way. You didn’t need to do that, and I don’t know why you did, but I appreciate it.”

Chalk this up to things I never thought I’d be doing: thanking Adrian Ellis.

He doesn’t so much as look at me, still entirely focused on his book, and the awkward silence is nearly deafening.

I clear my throat. “Uh…the book I need. It’s actually just like –” I point to the shelf he’s resting his head on, his curls covering half the spine. “Right there. If I could just grab that…” I don’t particularly want to enter Adrian’s personal space any more than I’d like to enter a cobra’s, but I inch forward anyway.

He shifts forward, reaches one arm back and grabs the exact book I need. “Early colonial settlements, right?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Here.” He’s still not looking at me even as he holds the textbook out for me.

I snatch it up. “Thanks.”

The only reply I get is the flap of a turning page, the dismissal clear.

I can’t put my finger on why, but Adrian is clearly off-kilter. Withdrawn and almost…mopey?

I know because I’ve spent my entire life dealing with mopey. I recognize it as well as I recognize the sad shuffling of my mother’s footsteps or her long, drawn-out sighs that can heard halfway across the house.

And granted, her moping usually follows another break-up, which I doubt is the reason why Adrian seems so gloomy but…

Well, it could be.

Just because he spurns Sophie’s advances doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a girlfriend capable of breaking up with him.

My mind begins filling in the blanks before I’ve even settled on the thought. I picture him showering affection on some tall beauty with the body of a Victoria’s Secret model and the mind of a scholar. She probably has no idea what kind of darkness he’s capable of.

Or maybe she does.

Maybe she likes it. Maybe she gets off knowing what kind of violence he’s capable of.

I don’t know why the possibility leave my chest feeling uncomfortably tight. This is none of my business. I’m supposed to be manifesting a quiet and uneventful senior year, which means staying away from Adrian – especially when it seems like he’d rather be left alone.

And yet, instead of turning around and leaving like I should, I stay rooted to the spot, open my mouth and ask, “Are you okay?”

He gives me a quick, sharp glance that has me immediately retreating into my shell. “Is there something else you need from the bookshelf, Poppy?”

Oh-kay. Message received.

“Uh…no.” I whip around, intent to hole up in my dorm room and pretend this interaction didn’t happen when a loud gurgling sound cuts through the library.

Adrian may not want to talk, but his stomach clearly does.

“You’re hungry.” I stare at him, slightly mystified that he’s produced a sound so…normal.

So human.

After all, Adrian seems to maintain such obsessive control over everything in his life that I hadn’t expected his stomach to be any different.

“What an astute observation,” he mutters. He slams his medical textbook shut and begins gathering his things.

“You haven’t eaten anything?” I’m not sure if it’s self-destructive curiosity or essay procrastination that prompts me to keep talking.

And granted, I haven’t eaten either. If it weren’t for the black coffee I gulped down a few minutes ago, my stomach would probably be harmonizing with his.

“I’m just going to grab a protein bar from the cafeteria,” he says, but his stomach makes another loud growl as if protesting the idea of one of the cafeteria’s stale, cardboard-flavored protein bars.

He shoulders past me, and I take a deep breath.

This is not my problem. If Adrian wants to mope, he can mope. If he wants to eat a protein bar that probably expired before he was born, that’s his indigestion to deal with.

But as his broad shoulders begin disappearing down the stairwell, my mouth works before my brain does. “I know a good place to get breakfast. If you’re interested.”

He stops walking.

“And willing to buy,” I add.

He turns, and he looks very interested.

***

I blame my mother for this bout of temporary insanity.

She’s the one who spent eighteen years conditioning me like one of Pavlov’s dogs to hear No, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it and realize that it actually means: if I don’t figure out what’s wrong in the next ten minutes, I’m going to get the guilt-trip and silent treatment combo for the next week.

That must be why I’m here, fidgeting in one of the vinyl booths at Caboose’s, itching to hand Adrian a cigarette and a pack of tissues.

He peruses the menu, looking more skeptical by the moment.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a menu that includes pictures,” he says. “Does every dish come with a side of bacon grease or do they only get bathed in it?”

“The bacon grease is what makes it good,” I retort. I’m already salivating at the thought of another plate of cheese-smothered hash browns and whatever else I can ring up on Adrian’s dime.

And I’m trying very hard not to think about how I sat in this same diner a few days ago, just two booths down, and shared a meal with Mickey’s grieving girlfriend – only to return with his murderer.

I glance at the photo of Caboose the dog framed on the wall. Sorry, Mickey. The hash browns are too good.

A pretty, college-aged girl with a face full of freckles and blue ombre hair comes to take our order. “Welcome to Caboose’s! What can I get you guys?” Her gaze darts between us, and I can only imagine what an odd pairing we must make.

Adrian, effortlessly gorgeous as ever in his beige peacoat, slacks, and black turtle-neck. When he flips the menu over, the Rolex on his left wrist glints under the fluorescent lights.

I’m still wearing the same hoodie and sweatpants I left my dorm in, my pin-straight blonde hair tucked behind my ears.

The waitress – Dixie as her name tag implies – is too polite to say a word. “Can I start you off with some coffee? Water?”

“Coffee please,” I say.

“Water,” Adrian orders. “Not tap.”

She nods and darts off to fill our drink requests while Adrian eyes the vintage, bare-bones diner with judgment. “I don’t suppose you could’ve picked somewhere with a smaller risk of food poisoning?”

“You’re not going to get food poisoning here,” I say. “I think.”

“How reassuring.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, you probably have a higher chance of contracting food poisoning via expired cafeteria protein bar than you do here.”

He doesn’t argue.

Dixie reappears, bearing my coffee and Adrian’s water. “You guys have a chance to look at the menu?”

“Unfortunately,” Adrian mutters and I kick him under the table, which does nothing but elicit a slight smirk in response.

If she hears the snide remark, Dixie doesn’t let on, and I jump in with my order before he can say something else condescending. “I’ll take the cheesy hash browns with a side of eggs. Scrambled.”

She nods and then turns to Adrian. “And you?”

“I’ll try the same but with a chocolate chip pancake on the side,” he says, and shoots her the same friendly smile I’ve seen him use a hundred times. Charming with a flirtatious edge.

A flush colors Dixie’s cheeks. “Sounds good. I’ll put those in.”

As soon as I’m sure she’s out of earshot, I say, “You went for the hash browns. Very courageous given your newfound fear of food poisoning.”

“It’s a ploy. If you start looking unwell, perhaps I can stop eating and save myself.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh. Great.”

Our banter dies there, another awkward silence creeping over the table. Clinking plates and the kitchen’s sizzling flat top serve as background noise, and I soak in my regret.

This was a mistake.

I took a murderer to breakfast. Like we’re friends. Like every interaction we’ve had hasn’t been uncomfortable from start to finish.

I clear my throat. “So, uh…you never answered my question earlier. Why aren’t you with your family? Are you taking a later flight or something?”

He arches an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize breakfast came with an interrogation.”

It takes significant effort to avoid rolling my eyes again. “This isn’t an interrogation. I’m just trying to make conversation.”

“Well, in that case,” he says, resting his chin on his palm. “Why aren’t you with your family?”

I take a sip of my coffee and shrug. “I never go home to my mom on fall break. It’s too expensive.” It’s odd, but I don’t find any shame in admitting my financial shortcomings to him. He’s not like Sophie, trying to lord his wealth over anyone within spitting distance.

“And your father?” He asks.

I pause, coffee still clasped in my hands. “Is none of your business.”

Something sparks in his eyes. “I thought we were just making conversation.”

Tension forms like a knot in my stomach. “I don’t like talking about my father.” I keep my eyes fixed on the chip in the table’s aluminum edge, but I can feel his stare burning holes into the side of my head. He’s like a bloodhound, unable to let go of a scent until he’s tracked it to the end.

I catch him leaning forward from the corner of my eye. “Tell you what,” he says. “You tell me about your father, I’ll tell you why I’m not with my family right now.”

I look up, visibly surprised.

Adrian is probably the last person in the world I’d like to share my life story with, but the offer is stoking my own curiosity, so I give in. “I don’t have any contact with him,” I admit. “I’ve never met him. He signed over his parental rights when I was less than a year old, and that was that.” I convey the story with all the emotion of someone listing off ingredients from the grocery store – a skill well-practiced over the years.

A beat of silence passes before he says, “I know.”

I scoff. “You know?”

He sips his water, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “I looked into you, remember?”

Annoyance swells inside me. “Then why make me say it?”

“Because I think it’s interesting,” he explains, “How people act when they’re vulnerable. Sometimes they cry or lie…you, for instance, like to pretend like it just doesn’t affect you at all.”

“Because it doesn’t. Not anymore,” I shoot back.

“Right,” he drawls.

“It’s true,” I say, but I hate how defensive I sound. How defensive he is making me sound. “I mean, yes, it affected me when I was a kid, but I’m beyond that now. He lives in Mississippi. I’ve known that since I was fourteen. If I was still pissed, I would’ve shown up at his door years ago, but I didn’t. I’ve come to terms with it.”

Adrian doesn’t look like he believes a single word out of my mouth, but I just take a deep breath, remind myself that his opinion doesn’t matter, and say, “I answered your question. Your turn.”

A little bit of the amusement fades from his face, but he still answers. “Well, that’s easy. I didn’t go home to my family because I didn’t want to.” He takes a long sip of his water, and I wait for the rest of it, but he doesn’t elaborate.

“And…?” I prompt.

He shrugs. “And that’s all.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It does,” he retorts, “I’m not in New York or New Orleans or anywhere else with my family because I don’t want to be. I never said I’d go into detail.”

“But we had a –”

“A deal. To answer a question,” he finishes sharply. “Just because you chose to divulge a sad detail about your father doesn’t mean I need to.”

I let out a disbelieving huff.

Of-fucking-course.

Well, guess it’s on me for expecting him to open up like a normal human being just because I did.

His words sting a little more than they should – probably because I’d let my guard down long enough to convince myself Adrian was worthy of a little sustenance.

And kindness.

Why am I subjecting myself to this again?

“You’re right,” I say stonily as I reach for my worn Target jacket crumpled in the corner. “I don’t think I’m hungry anymore. But thanks for the coffee.”

I intend to shuffle out of the booth but Adrian’s tanned, nimble fingers are blocking my exit before I’ve even taken a step. “Wait.”

I don’t look at him.

He sighs. “That was a little unfair of me.”

I shake my head. “Actually, it’s not. If you don’t want to be vulnerable, you don’t have to be. That’s your choice. Just like me choosing to leave right now is mine.”

“I’m trying to apologize to you. That’s something I do very often, you know. At least not genuinely.”

“And you seem to be doing a superb job of it,” I say, more sarcastic than intended.

Another sigh.

I try scooting out of the booth again, but this time, it’s Adrian’s voice that stops me. “Well, if you must know, I got in a fight with my father.” It’s said so quietly that I almost miss it.

“What?”

His hand falls away, and when I turn, he’s staring out the window, eyes on the cars rumbling down the rain and oil-slicked road. “That’s why I didn’t go home for break. I didn’t want to deal with him. Or my mother, for that matter.”

I set my jacket down. “Why did you get in a fight with your father?”

“My time,” he admits, “At last week’s swim meet. It wasn’t good enough.”

I blink at him. “What are you talking about? You came in first.”

“Sure, but it was still one of my slowest times of the season.”

“But you came in first.”

I can still picture the crowd going wild the moment Adrian touched the wall.

He rolls his eyes. “You have to understand. When I’m competing for something, whether it’s in the water, in class, or somewhere else, I’m not just competing with everyone else. I’m competing with myself.”

I’d always assumed Adrian’s perfectionism was a self-inflicted trait, but if the stuff about his dad is true…

“He sounds like an asshole,” I say.

The corner of his mouth curls. “He is, but now that I’m an adult, he doesn’t have a real leg to stand on anymore. He can shout and scream and throw his tantrums, but I don’t have to be around to hear them.”

“Guess I’m not the only one who likes to pretend they aren’t fucked up by their parents.”

Adrian turns from the window and looks at me head-on. “On the contrary,” he says, “Everything I am is because of my parents. They’ve turned me into the man I am today.”

Maybe it’s the way his voice drops or his obsidian eyes seem to harden, but the statement sends a chill through my spine.

I have a feeling he’s not just talking about the perfectionism or competitiveness.

But the darkness vanishes from his expression as quickly as it appeared, and I do my best to pretend that it hasn’t left me slightly unsettled.

“This feels different than I thought it would,” he says.

“What feels different?”

“Opening up to someone,” he explains, “I’ve only ever seen vulnerability as a tool. A weakness I can wield against someone when I need to. I didn’t realize it could feel…” He pauses like he can’t find the word – or maybe just doesn’t want to say it out loud. “Nice.”

I swallow. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

It’s weird. His words shouldn’t resonate this much, but they do. Because I may not use other people’s vulnerabilities like ammo (at least not in a long time), but I’ve certainly used my own that way.

I need more than two hands to count the number of times I’ve used my sad little childhood to get a break from my professors or Dean Robins.

And now that I’m sitting here, I can’t remember the last time I was vulnerable for the sake of being vulnerable – and not to gain some sort of edge.

And Adrian is right. It does feel nice.

“You know, this thing we’re doing right now?” I say. “Pretty sure it’s called human connection.”

A breathy laugh escapes him. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m not sure I’m capable of human connection.”

I pointedly ignore the endearment as I raise an eyebrow. “Well, you’re connecting with me right now.”

When he looks at me again, I don’t find any amusement or playfulness in his stare – but something entirely new.

Interest.

Not curiosity but interest.

Pure, unadulterated interest that makes my breath catch.

“Yes, I suppose I am connecting with you,” he murmurs, and I find myself unable to look away from him. Something is happening here. Something big. Something new. I feel it all the way down to my gut.

“All right!” Dixie’s chirpy voice cuts through the moment, and I rip my eyes away to find our waitress has come bearing food. “Two orders of hash browns and a chocolate chip pancake. Anything else I can get you?”

“No, thank you,” I tell her.

“Well, enjoy!” She shoots us one last smile before disappearing.

Adrian grabs his fork and digs into the hashbrowns first, his skepticism returning.

But I see that same doubt disappear as his eyes go wide and he lets out a quiet noise of pleasure that has my heart skittering to a place I didn’t realize my heart could skitter.

“You were right. These hash browns are amazing.”