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"Yep." She props an elbow atop the bar, scanning the terrace. Then points. "See that man?"
Sighing deeply, I play her little game, following the line of her gaze, searching and searching through the crowd, until—I gasp.
...until I find the man.
On the opposite side of the terrace, Hayden sits at the edge of the pool, his shins submerged in the water glowing off his shirtless chest in the night, as cigarette smoke puffs from his lips, billowing over his blond locks. His friends from earlier either sit or stand beside him, chatting and dancing to the beat, oblivious to his territorial demeanor.
As he stares right at me.
"I can't speak for you, Juliana, but that man right there." Mei flicks her chin, and for once, not an ounce of playfulness or teasing seeps through her tone when she says...
"He's not pretending."
TWENTY-FOUR
HAYDEN
Chain-smoking.
That's the only thing that's kept me from pounding on Juliana's door or kicking it down, when she inevitably doesn't answer.
Earlier, I lit my first cigarette in hopes of burning the taste of her off my tongue, but it didn't work. So, I lit another... then another... until I lost count. I'm at five, I think. Maybe six, but I still taste her minty breath, still feel her on my skin, her hair like the ghost of a shadow wrapped around my fingers, even as I soak in this in-ground hot tub.
Alone. The night sky my canopy, as the last of the cleaning crew take their leave, trash bags in hand. They made quick work as usual, picking up and scrubbing the patio, and finished at 3:30 a.m. on the dot, twenty minutes after the party ended. Another service will take care of pool sanitation tomorrow morning.
Nine times out of ten, I'm reluctant to see the party end, so I'll hop to another and power on till sunrise. Although, I'd much rather keep my party alive all night long, and I would, if it weren't for last time, when I opened my front door to a group of cops, who slapped a curfew in my face, citing some 'noise ordinance laws' nonsense.
Whatever. That's my response, usually. But not tonight. Tonight I'm...
Thankful for the peace and quiet.
And it is so very quiet, save for the hot tub jets rumbling against my back—and the soft creak of the terrace door opening. Rummaging through my cartridge for another cigarette, I don't look, assuming a crew member forgot something, until I spot a familiar red bikini from the corner of my eye.
My heart flutters as the last person I anticipated walks my way, barefoot, with a towel draped across her shoulders. Juliana's hair bundles atop her head in a messy bun, with her bangs falling around her face. Her makeup is gone, too, yet she's no less striking.
She stops at the opposite end of the hot tub, her toes hanging off the lip. "Mind if I join?"
I'm tempted to hit her with the good-old if I ever say no to that question, feel free to lead me out to pasture, but that's a little too morbid for her tastes and frankly too sour for my mood. So, I opt for a simple, "Go ahead," while lighting my next cigarette.
I take a long drag, hoping it'll lessen the blow when she removes her towel. Of course, it doesn't. She dips a toe in, making that ow, too hot face. What follows is a torturously long process of her easing in, with me trying not to ogle at the curves of her body.
Then, we sit in silence—not an awkward silence, but calm—for quite a long time, just aware of each other's presence. Occasionally, I sneak a glance her way, wondering when she'll berate me for earlier, for taking things too far like always, but instead, I find her overlooking the skyline with a peaceful expression.
That is what she came out here for, right? To tear me a new one. But I see no signs of her planning to, so I leave her be and shut my eyes. I lean back, letting the nicotine course through my brain, a numbing buzz that—
"Why didn't you tell me you were an artist?"
I snap to attention. How does she...?
A hint of guilt flashes across her features. "I found your studio." Sorry, her eyes seem to say.
"Oh. That's okay..." I shrug. "I don't know. Artist is a strong word. It's just a hobby."
More silence.
"Is that why you don't sign your name?" she asks hesitantly.
A knife twists in my gut. For a moment, I contemplate my response, then err on the side of truth. "A signature implies others will see it."
