A/N: Here's chapter eight. I apologize for the delay, this one took more than a month. But it's long -- extremely long. About twice the length of the other chapters, in fact. Plus, I was in Colorado on vacation for awhile, so that put me an entire week behind, anyway. :) I had a great time in CO, though, and I think it was good to get away from the story for a bit.
Anyway, thank you all for your comments and reviews. They are always appreciated, so feel free to voice your opinion. :) I'll stop talking now. On with the story.
Chapter Eight: Breaking and Entering
December 5, 2006
Sera
"Oh, sweet Jehovah, I've got a gray hair. Do you see that?" I plucked out the offending hair, holding it up for Jonathan to see, scowling. "School is driving me into an early grave. You know, I'd nearly forgotten why I decided to forego grad school when I first graduated – but now I remember. Finals week."
"You know, you're not supposed to pull those out," Jonathan said, amused. He scrutinized the hair, then carefully inspected my head. "Now two more will grow in its place."
"Old wives' tale," I said, flinging the strand into the floor beside us. "All I care about is here and now." I grinned in spite of myself. "I'm a little stressed out, can you tell?"
"Just a little." He reached over, flipping my notebook closed. His fingertips brushed against the top of my hand as he did so, and I noticed that he let them linger there longer than necessary. My fist tightened up involuntarily. "Let's take a break. I could use one, anyway."
I nodded, slouching back in the hardback chair and closing my eyes. We were at the library, in a far corner of the fifth level, going over our presentation for the hundredth time. On any normal day – meaning, an average non-finals day – we would be utterly secluded and have the luxury of complete peace and quiet. However, it seemed that all 4500 of SWU's enrollment had gotten the same idea to study amongst the stacks. The small, everyday sounds of paper rustling, people whispering, and books shuffling was driving me mad. I had the insane, inexplicable urge to stand in my chair and tell everyone to shut the hell up.
But then again, I've never really handled stress all that well.
I drummed my fingers on the wooden tabletop, still keeping my eyes closed. I just wanted to rest here and take a quick catnap – just twenty minutes, that's all I needed… "Is it only Tuesday?" I murmured aloud.
"Yep." Jonathan's voice floated somewhere to my right.
"Yeah…" I sighed, letting my eyes flutter open for a moment. It wasn't helping that the inside of the library itself was about as stimulating as an abandoned mine shaft. The overhead lighting was yellow and weak, making it difficult to read (much less stay awake). We'd turned on the individual fluorescent lamps that were built into each library table, so that at least brightened up our workspace, but it didn't do much for the overall atmosphere. I supposed the low lighting was good for the books, but it certainly wasn't doing much for my mentality.
"Let's get some coffee." I felt Jonathan's hand on my shoulder, and I started, snapping my eyes open. I lazily rolled my head back, looking up at him. He smiled in his sly, playboy way, lips pulling into a thin, curved line. His head was tilted down, and his thick hair – which he'd admitted hadn't been cut in nearly two months – fell forward, forming a little curtain around his features. He was such a goodlooking guy, Jonathan… Dylan was probably right. Why shouldn't I take the chance? Why was I always so hesitant?
"Coffee?" I asked, yawning. "Where?"
"Lighthouse Café?" he asked. Before I could answer, he slid his hand down and grabbed my arm, lifting me to my feet. "They have the best macchiato there. It's like an adrenaline shot to the heart. Perk you right up."
"Lighthouse?" I repeated. They did have excellent coffee, but it was all the way down the street, a ten-minute walk, at least. Then, of course, the inevitable twenty-minute wait (at least) in line to place an order. Warren was supposed to be here any minute, and I didn't want him to show up and then us be gone… "Maybe we should wait until Warren gets here. I don't want him to think we stood him up or anything."
Jonathan looked annoyed as he gathered up his stuff. "And you really think he's going to show?" he asked disdainfully. "We've barely seen him in more than a week."
I frowned. He had a point – Warren had been nearly MIA since my last encounter with him, and that had been the Sunday after Thanksgiving. He'd missed every meeting we set up, which was frustrating. He'd made it to class, but didn't so much as talk to either of us while he was there. I'd left him a voicemail yesterday about us meeting up tonight at the library, and to my surprise, he'd left me a return message promising that he would show. But his voice had sounded off. Demoralized. Not that he ever really sounded enthusiastic about anything, but he'd seemed even more downtrodden than usual. I wondered what was wrong – he'd been fine when I'd seen him last, upbeat and polite, even graciously offering the use of his laptop to type up the final paper when the time came. So hard to figure out…
"He'll be here," I said firmly. "He promised me."
Jonathan rolled his eyes and began throwing books and papers into his backpack. We couldn't leave our stuff on the table – too much risk of someone stealing. It always struck me as ironic that people who were supposed to be so intelligent – college students – would be so obtuse as to swipe someone else's material, but that's humanity for you, I suppose.
"He's done," Jonathan scoffed. "He's mentally checked out. Just trying to ride through on our coattails at this point."
I narrowed my eyes, gently pulling my arm free from his grip. "He helped," I said. "He helped me a lot, actually."
Jonathan mumbled something unintelligible under his breath. I didn't bother to ask him to repeat it – I knew I didn't want to hear it. The two of them were just alike, which was something neither would ever be willing to admit. If they'd just cut each other some slack now and then everyone would get along fine.
Must be the testosterone. If this was a couple of girls, we could solve the problem with a movie night and a gallon of Ben & Jerry's…
I sighed. I'd learned that most of the time, it was best to ignore the boys' diva fits and just switch the subject. "All right. We'll go to Lighthouse. But let's bring it back here, okay? We'll just have to drink it out in the lobby."
Jonathan pursed his lips. He had a small scar on his lower lip, the result of a four-wheeling accident when he was younger, I'd learned. Most of the time it was nearly indistinguishable, but when he stiffened his mouth it stood out white against the pinkish tint of his lips. "Okay," he relented. Sighing with relief, I gathered my bag and followed him down the steep stairs.
"We'll lose our table, you know," I said, casting a glance back towards where we'd been sitting. A group of students had already converged on it, like vultures attacking fresh roadkill. "Well, lost, I should say."
"We'll find another." Jonathan leaped off the last two steps and jetted into the lobby. I struggled to follow him, cursing my poor decision to wear heels. How did New York women do it? I saw scores of fashionistas on the sidewalks in their stiletto boots every day, strolling easily to work or class as if they were wearing tennis shoes. I, on the other hand, hadn't quite gotten the hang of it yet. I wanted to look nice, but not at the expense of abusing my poor, tired feet…
"Hey, slow down," I said, trying not to sound too desperate. Jonathan obliged, shortening his strides to match mine. We ambled through the lobby, curiously checking out the little groups here and there. Seems we weren't the only ones panicking over a final project. "Sorry," I apologized. "It's the shoes. They weren't a good choice. I chose fashion over function today."
"Women and their love of shoes," he mused. "I'll never understand it."
I laughed. "Me either, really," I admitted. "I think it's just something programmed into us since birth." We reached the outer doors and he stepped forward, grasping the thick handle and holding it open for me. I gave him a quick thank-you and stepped outside, met by a sharp, bitter wind. "I know my sisters are the same—"
I stopped my sentence short when I ran straight into something – or someone, rather. "Oh, I'm sorry!" I exclaimed as I awkwardly stumbled back. "I wasn't paying—" I stopped short again, suddenly realizing who I'd run in to. "Warren!"
I watched his expression change – his eyebrows and lips were curled in irritation at having his personal space invaded, but they slowly softened, just a smidgen, when he recognized me. "Hi," he said quietly.
I shot Jonathan a told-you-so look. "I'm glad you made it," I said cheerfully. I kept my tone purposefully light. Warren looked so different. Normally he kept a perfected sulky expression on his fine features, but the past week he'd just looked… sad? No, that wasn't quite the right word, but I couldn't place my finger on it. Melancholy, maybe. At any rate, he really just looked like he could use a long, tight hug. "We were beginning to worry about you," I added for effect.
He snorted, shooting a knowing glance at Jonathan. "I bet," he muttered.
"You're late," Jonathan said flatly.
Here we go… I sighed inwardly. "So," I said loudly, drawing their attention back to me. "We were just going to get some coffee before starting up again. Come with us. Then we'll run through what we all have." I smiled earnestly at Warren. I half-expected him to reject my proposal, but instead, he gave Jonathan another suspicious glance, then nodded.
"Okay," was all he said.
Relieved, I brushed a few errant hairs out of my eyes and pointed down the street. "All right, then. Let's go."
xxxxx
Cappuccino is God's gift to mankind. He created it specifically with stressed-out college students in mind. I'm convinced of this. And Lighthouse, I must say, makes the best in the city.
I took another long drink of the hot, sweet liquid and swallowed. Jonathan's idea to take a break and get some joe had been an excellent one – I was already beginning to feel re-energized. Though I suppose large quantities of caffeine will do that to a person; it is a drug, after all. Nevertheless, I was feeling better about everything in general. This project, school, life in New York. We were almost done. Just a few more days, then I could really relax.
I idly picked up a newspaper that had been left on our table. There was yet another headline about the Avenging Angel on the first page – ANGEL: FRIEND OR FOE? I took another sip of my coffee and scanned the article. It had been the talk of the town for the past week or so – the supposed do-gooder Angel had allegedly dropped a suicidal man off the Tremonte Bridge last week, and it had caused a mild uproar among New Yorkers. Anti-mutant groups trumpeted it, proclaiming that it was proof that mutants were a hazard to society.
"What are you looking at?" asked Jonathan. I held up the article to him, and he wrinkled his nose.
"I told you," he said. "No such thing as a 'good' mutant."
I clenched my jaw a little. I didn't know what to think – there were no true witnesses, only people who had seen part of the goings-on and made assumptions. I just couldn't fathom that someone who risked their life to help others so much would purposely send a man to his death. "I think it was an accident," I said. "It just doesn't make sense."
"What are you talking about? People who were there said—"
"And all of those people admitted that they didn't actually see the whole thing," I interrupted him. "Apparently, one of the cables broke and they were ducking for cover when the actual drop occurred. That's what the Times said." I shrugged. "I mean, the man was suicidal, anyway. He could have just wrestled from his grip and fallen on purpose. It makes sense."
"A convenient excuse," Jonathan said, blowing into his cup to cool down his drink.
I restrained a groan. Jonathan was just so stubborn. "Well, I guess no one really knows except the Angel," I said crisply. "And he's not around to give his side of the story, so I'm going with my gut."
"Sera, you're always so trusting. This is New York," Jonathan said. "Everyone has an agenda, even humans. So it's silly to—"
"Can we get started?" Warren suddenly spoke up. Jonathan and I turned to him, surprised at his outburst. He looked irritated at the direction of the conversation. "I can't stay very long."
"Sure," I said. "Sorry, I get off on tangents sometimes." I gave him a sheepish smile.
His face slackened a bit. "It's okay," he mumbled, slouching back down. I nodded, taking the reins again.
"Okay, anyway," I announced, curling my hands around the styrofoam cup for warmth. "Status check. What all is left to do?" I paused. "Well, the final write-up, that report, but that shouldn't take too long."
"Well, we've all already got our speeches written, don't we?" Jonathan said. "I do, I know you do, Sera…" He shot a sidelong glance to Warren.
"Mine's ready," Warren said. "I have my notes."
Jonathan's brow furrowed. "Notes?" he repeated. "All you have is notes?"
"That's all I need." Warren was unperturbed, leaning back in his chair and staring out the window. He'd ordered a double shot of espresso, but hadn't even taken a sip yet. He seemed distracted today, even more so than usual. I kept trying to catch his eye, hoping to engage him, but he'd remained in something of a zoned-out state. He wasn't ignoring me on purpose, I thought, but rather just really distracted with something on his mind. "That's what real orators do," he added, just as a dig at Jonathan's expense, I was sure.
Jonathan bristled. "Real orators? You go in unprepared and hope that your notes will get you by? God, Warren, I don't know how you expect to get through college with that kind of attitude."
I suppressed another groan. That was totally unnecessary – because Warren had a point, in public speaking classes we'd been taught to go by notes alone and not come with a word-for-word speech to recite. I'd just written mine out because I knew for certain that if I didn't, I'd forget half of it. I'd learned that from personal experience – I was by far the most scatterbrained teacher at George Washington High; always losing my train of thought mid-lecture. It had been a mistake to attempt to be a teacher, especially since my public speaking skills were decidedly lacking.
"That's an ironic statement, coming from someone who's been working on a four-year degree for six-and-a-half years," Warren replied calmly. "And I suppose you never took a communications or public speaking course in that time, because if you had, you'd know that you're never supposed to read to your audience. Unless, of course, you're the President of the United States giving the State of the Union Address," he added in sarcastically. "And last time I checked, you weren't."
I felt my mouth drop, and I had to hold back a snort. I had to give credit where it was due – a pretty good comeback, I thought. I glanced over at Jonathan, biting my lip to keep from laughing. I couldn't help it, and I fervently hoped that he hadn't noticed. Luckily, his attention was riveted towards Warren. Jaw rigid, eyes smoldering. I took a sip of my cappuccino, staring down into the cup in an effort to regain my composure.
"What the fuck is your problem, man?" Jonathan snapped. "Why do you always have to act like that?"
Oh, Lord, here we go… I might just get to witness a fist fight today…
I quickly swallowed, preparing once again to act as referee. Dealing with these two one-on-one was fine – no problem. Jonathan was always a perfect gentleman with me, and I'd even warmed up to Warren solo. But in a group setting, they were tiresome. "Jonathan—" I began.
"No!" he interrupted me, scowling at Warren. "I want this asshole here to answer the question. All semester long, he's treated us like shit, acting like he's so high and mighty and wise. When in reality, it couldn't be further from the truth."
I buried my face in my hands, all trace of the earlier laughter gone. I was so tired of this… "That's enough," I said quietly. "Let's just—"
"Sera," Warren suddenly said, his voice still that eerie, level calm. "Why don't you go grab us another round?"
I looked over at him, surprised. Another round? My cup was nearly gone, but he still hadn't touched the espresso. "What?" I asked. I fidgeted under the table, feeling terribly uncomfortable. Amazing how quickly the mood had shifted – the tension in the air was palpable. I looked over at Warren, curious, and he met my eyes with that cool, collected gaze. And then I understood – he didn't want more coffee, he just didn't want me there while he and Jonathan 'settled their differences'.
Well, no argument here. "Oh," I said quickly. "Um, well, I don't have any more money, but I'll get you another espresso if you want…" I shot another quick look at Jonathan, who remained stonefaced.
"Don't worry about it. I've got it." He pulled out his wallet and tugged a ten from the folds, sliding it across the table to me. "That cappuccino's pretty good, right?" he asked, giving me a pointed look. I nodded silently. "Get another for yourself. And will you get me a cup as well?"
"Sure," I said nervously, darting my eyes between the two. "What size?"
"The biggest they have." He didn't look at me as he spoke this time, instead staring across the small wooden table at Jonathan. I could practically feel the sparks in the air.
"Okay." I wasted no time in jumping up from the table. "I'll, um, be back in a few minutes, then…" I hastily grabbed my purse, slinging it over my shoulder. Clutching the ten in my hand, I gave both of them a curt nod and headed into the other room to get in line.
"Take your time," Warren said dryly to my back. I didn't acknowledge his comment, but I silently agreed.
Oh, I plan to… believe me, I plan to…
xxxxx
Being a popular place for college students to crash, Lighthouse was crowded regardless of the time of day. Waiting twenty minutes in line to get your order was pretty much standard. Normally, I found this an annoyance, but today, it was an advantage, since I was in no rush to return. I wasn't going back to that table until Warren and Jonathan finished their 'discussion', once and for all.
I leaned against the counter, idly folding and unfolding the ten dollar bill Warren had given me, making fresh creases in little parallel lines along the length of it. It seemed strange to me, to just be able to pull money from your wallet and hand it to someone without a second thought. Anytime I bought something, I had to quickly count what I had, estimate the cost, decide whether or not it was worth the expenditure… I sighed. I knew that money didn't equal happiness, but it sure seemed to make some things a lot easier.
"Can I help you?" I turned to face the barista's perky, effervescent smile. She had short blond hair cut into a perfect bob, and I personally thought she was way too cheerful for such a dreary, cold December afternoon.
"Um, two French Vanilla cappuccinos, please," I said. I was just assuming Warren wanted the French Vanilla flavor, I really wasn't sure since he hadn't specified. Although truthfully, I doubted he wanted the coffee at all. "Large, for both," I added as an afterthought.
She typed into the register, her long nails clicking against the buttons. "That'll be eight-forty-two," she said. I handed her the ten and watched as she counted out the change. "It'll be just a few minutes."
I smiled ruefully. "Oh, take your time," I said, repeating Warren's request. With that, I turned around again, watching the rest of the restaurant. And it was just luck that I turned when I did – just in time to see Jonathan jetting towards the door, practically shoving people out of his way in the process. I felt my eyes widen, and I scrambled to stand up straight.
"Jonathan!" I called out, taking a few halting steps in his direction, deftly maneuvering around the empty wooden chairs, tables, and customers. What was he doing? Leaving? "Hey, Jonathan!"
He stopped, turning to face me. His face was bright red and livid, and for a moment I was reminded of my year-old nephew whenever he got angry – he'd get the same flushed, contorted expression just before he began a spectacular crying fit. I took a few more hesitant steps towards him, wondering what in the world was going on. "Where are you going?" I asked uneasily.
"I'm leaving," he seethed. "Since you and Warren seem to get along so well, then you deal with him." A jab at me, I was sure, for all the times I'd defended Warren, and yet had not defended him earlier when Warren had made the scathing four-year degree comment.
"What? What happened?" I reached out to grab his arm, hoping to placate him. I was somewhat conscious of the other patrons staring at us, but I ignored their curious gazes. He shrugged me off, adjusting his jacket cuff.
"I'm not working with him anymore," he said flatly. "I'm sorry, Sera, but I can't deal with it. I just can't. I've done my part. I'm finished."
My jaw dropped. Was this the same guy who was just accusing Warren of abandoning us just a few hours ago? "What?" I said incredulously. "We still have to finish up that paper, and—"
He threw his arms up, exasperated. "I know. And I'm sorry, but I just can't do it. Not with him. I just— I—I just can't." That was a side of Jonathan I hadn't yet seen – he was so angry he was stuttering. It was unsettling to witness. "You two can finish it up."
However, now it was my turn to get angry. Unsettling or not, we still had business to finish. "You're just walking away?" I said hotly. "Just like that?"
His face softened a bit, and he shrugged, somewhat apologetically. "I'm sorry… I'm really sorry, I really am. But… he's gone too far, Sera. If I have to spend five more minutes with him, I swear to God I'll punch him in the face. Or worse. So it's best if I just cut out now before it gets ugly."
Before it gets ugly? So what I just saw in there wasn't ugly?
I lowered my head and rubbed my temples. We didn't have time for these types of shenanigans… it was only two more days, could he not just suck it up for another forty-eight hours? I lifted my chin up again, preparing to say exactly that, but after taking another good, solid look at his expression, I realized it was a lost cause. He was leaving, whether I liked it or not.
And hey, maybe it wasn't a bad idea to keep them separated, anyway. It would probably be a little less taxing on me.
"Fine," I said, sighing heavily. "How about this – I'll finish up with him right now, and then you and I will meet tomorrow and finish up the paper. Alone."
"Okay," he said. "But I have to work tomorrow night, so it would have to be during the day sometime…"
I closed my eyes, silently fuming when I realized what was going to have to happen. Of course. "Well, I have a final in the morning and then I have to work during the day, and then I have another late final," I said shortly. "So that's not going to work."
"Oh…" he paused. "Well, maybe we could meet early in the morning, before your final, and—"
I cut him off with a wave of my hand. I didn't want to deal with this anymore. "Just nevermind. We'll finish it up, it's no big deal."
"Sera—"
"I said don't worry about it! There's not time. I just want it to be done. I'm gonna go right now and Warren and I will get it done. I'll see you Thursday." With that, I turned sharply on my heel and stalked off before my anger could build any further. I heard Jonathan's sputtered protests behind me, but I didn't bother to acknowledge them. In fact, I was so set on leaving the room that I'd forgotten about the drinks I'd ordered until I heard the barista yelling at me.
"Miss! Miss! Your cappuccinos!" I halted, feeling my face flush. I quickly made my way to the counter and picked up the drinks, smiling thinly at the blonde.
"Thanks," I murmured. With a cup in each hand, I headed towards the back room again, only allowing one small, inconspicuous glance towards the front of the café. Jonathan was nowhere to be seen; apparently he'd gotten the hint and left. I wasn't sure why I felt so relieved – after all, he was basically getting away with doing no more work – but I felt as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, nonetheless.
"I swear," I muttered. "It'll be a miracle if I make it through this week."
xxxxx
"You've been very quiet today."
Warren turned his head and raised one eyebrow, studying the steaming cups I set in front of him. When I'd approached the table, he'd been staring out the window, deep in thought, looking remarkably calm for someone who'd just engaged in verbal fisticuffs with another man. I eased into the seat across the table, studying him curiously. Best not to start in with the burning question I had just yet. I'd talk him up a bit first, see what was running through his mind.
"I'm always quiet," he said.
I shrugged casually. "Yeah. But this is a different quiet." I leaned back in my chair, following his gaze out the slightly steamed windows. There was a row of old-style Victorian houses across the street that had been split up and adjusted to rent out to college students. One of the houses had a huge homemade Chi Omega flag hanging from the windowsill, and it flapped wildly in the wind, flowing and snapping with each fierce gust.
"Hmph." Warren slowly inched his hand across the table, reaching for the fresh cappuccino. His fingers gracefully curled around the cup one at a time, reminding me of the slow, deliberate motions of a spider's crawling legs. Mesmerizing.
When he said nothing more, I tried again. "How are you doing? Everything okay?"
Warren looked at me sharply, his eyes narrowing, eyebrows furrowing until the formed a line of V-shaped wrinkles in his forehead. It was a look of true bewilderment – I'd seen the exact expression on my older brother the day I'd told my family I was moving to New York. I'm sure he was thinking the same thing, as well: 'What? What did you just say?' It was a little sad, I thought, that he seemed to be so secluded from society that a simple query about his well-being would confuse him.
He shifted a little in his chair, shoulders rolling and stretching. "I'm fine," he said, though I detected unease in his voice.
"Oh?" I rested one elbow on the table, angling towards him ever-so-slightly. "You seem… I don't know, upset."
"Upset?" he repeated. "I'm fine."
I sighed. Typical male – always so unwilling to share any shred of emotion or issue. Nick and I had gone round and round like this in the years we dated on a regular basis – me pressing for information when he seemed down about something, him drawing back and insisting that he was perfectly okay. We'd had many of the 'I'm fine/Are you sure?' conversations in our day. I'd been convinced at the time that the secrecy was just a personality flaw of his, but being around other men the past few years had shown me that it was actually a more common trait than I'd imagined.
"Well," I said after an awkward moment. "Okay. But, you know, sometimes it helps to talk about things. And I know you don't know me very well, but if I can help you out with anything, then just let me know." I folded my hands on the table, a little embarrassed at the earnest offer I'd just laid out there for him. Who was I to act as Warren's confidante? It wasn't as if we were great friends… or even friends at all, really.
He quickly looked down at the table, and I caught the slightest hint of a flush across his cheeks. Embarrassment? Gratitude? I couldn't tell. "Oh," he mumbled after a moment. "Thanks, I guess." Gratitude, then, perhaps. I smiled, then promptly frowned at his next statement. "But I'm fine."
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Well, I'd tried, anyway, and that was what counted, right? I relaxed in my seat, deciding to change the subject to something a little less intrusive. "So, Warren," I said, speaking a little louder. "What did you say to him?"
His brows scrunched together again as he tried to follow my line of thought. "Say what to who?"
I snorted. Short attention span, or simply being his usual evasive self? "Jonathan. You know, the other guy in our group. The one you always fight with. And the one who just ran out of here fifteen minutes ago. Sound familiar?" I couldn't keep the sarcasm from my voice.
"Jonathan," he repeated, his lips curling into a smirk. He seemed quite pleased with his handiwork, and I felt a trace of annoyance. This was a joke to him?
"Yes, Jonathan. What did you say?" I asked again, this time with a little more emphasis.
"Nothing he didn't already know," he replied airily, obviously grateful not to be the center of my scrutiny any longer. I narrowed my eyes at his vague remark. He finally took a drink of the cappuccino and nodded appreciatively, holding up the cup. "You're right. This is good."
"Look," I said after a long moment. "I realize that it's none of my business, but I'm asking anyway. I just want to know why one of my team members just stormed off in a hissy fit and swore he wasn't coming back until the final presentation on Thursday. That's not good. You know why? Because now we have to do the work." I stared at face, hard. Some of the sympathy I'd felt for him earlier was ebbing away. "And for the record, you are helping me write this."
He actually laughed, the first true smile I'd seen from him all day. "I know," he said simply.
Why was he so calm? His unruffled demeanor was beginning to aggravate me. Stressed-Out Sera was about to make another appearance. "Well, when are we going to do this?" I asked, not bothering to hide my annoyance. "It's not like we have a lot of time left. Shouldn't we get started?"
"I, well…" he trailed off, a bit flustered. "I can't stay long. Actually, I need to leave here in a minute. Tomorrow?"
Leaving already? Was I the only one with any sense of responsibility? "Tomorrow?" I grabbed my cup and took another long drink, willing myself to calm down. Perhaps two cappuccinos chock-full of caffeine was not a wise idea, after all. "The night before it's due? Oh, that's perfect."
"Well, what other time do we have?" he asked. "If you ask me it doesn't look like you have much of an option. That is…" he gave me a sardonic smile. "…if you still want my help."
I set my cup down on the table with a loud clack. Okay. If he was going to act like that, then so would I. "Fine," I said. "But we're using your computer. At your apartment."
He blinked. "What?" Then shook his head. "No."
"What do you mean, 'no'?" I said.
"I mean no."
"Warren…" I sighed. "I know I'm being a little demanding right now, but we're down to the wire and the options are limited. I won't be there long. In fact, you'll hardly even know I was there."
"No."
"Why not?" I rested both elbows on the table an planted my face in cupped hands. I gave him my best glare, just for effect.
He squirmed a little, breaking eye contact and staring out the window. "I—I don't like being a host. Can't we meet somewhere else?"
A host? It wasn't like I was asking him to put on a dinner party. I slapped one hand down on the table, startling him. "Look, I have a test tomorrow morning, then I have to work, and then I have another test, late. The library closes at ten." I sat back and folded my arms stubbornly. "So what do you propose? That we meet here? No. I don't have a computer, you do. And you even said we could use it, a few weeks ago when we were talking about getting this thing done. So take it or leave it – otherwise, I'll just write it myself, get my friend to type it, and then tell the professor that you and Jonathan both flaked out."
He stared at me, looking a little shocked. I was a little shocked, myself. I'd always considered myself to be a pretty headstrong person, but I was not the type to hand out ultimatums. Well, not under normal circumstances, anyway, and there was certainly nothing normal about this situation.
"Okay," he said after a few long minutes of excruciating silence. I noticed his knuckles tightened a little around his cup, the skin paling with the effort. He appeared to be uncomfortable with the idea; no surprise there. I wasn't really that keen on it, myself. Meeting with Warren alone on neutral ground was fine, but in his own apartment? People just seemed different when they were in their own environments.
"Okay. Good." My voice belied a confidence that I didn't actually possess. Had I really just commanded Warren Worthington the third to open up his home to me? And did he really just agree? I reached into my bag, pulling out a pen and piece of paper. "Um, I need your address."
He studied the black Bic and ripped-out sheet from my mini notepad for a second, as if he couldn't believe he'd just agreed to it, either. I watched, rapt, as he scribbled down directions in his thin, wiry handwriting. He looked up when he was finished. "Um… Worthington Tower, down on Rose," he said. "You come in the lobby, go to the desk. Tell them you're there to see me. They'll buzz me, then let you in. I'm in the top apartment."
Good grief, it sounded like security at Fort Knox. "Okay," I said, grabbing the little sheet of paper and folding it into a tiny square. I suddenly felt nervous, like I was going too far. Wasn't I the one who earlier had promised not to overstep Warren's boundaries?
But he agreed… if he really had such a problem with it, then he wouldn't have, right?
"Okay…" He sat back in his chair, folding his arms tightly across his chest, his discomfort clearly showing. "Um, what time will you be there?"
"I don't know, exactly. Depends on when my final gets out," I said, "and it doesn't start until eight-thirty."
He blinked. "Can you be more specific?"
Was he not listening? "I don't know when I'll get done," I repeated. "I'll just call you."
"Why don't you just plan to come over at… ten?" he asked. "Can you make that?"
"Ten? Why?" I held my arms up, frustrated. "Can't I just call when I get out of the test?"
"I like to plan," he said defensively. "I need to know when you'll be there so I can make sure… so I can make sure I'm ready."
I exhaled loudly and threw my arms down. "All right, fine. Ten."
One side of his lip curved into a smirk, a look of satisfaction that he'd gotten his way. A small victory, I guess, considering I'd forced him to play 'host'. Men. I will never, ever understand them.
"Was that so hard?" he asked. With that patronizing statement, he took another long drink of cappuccino and stood up in one smooth motion. "And really, I do have to go. But I'll see you tomorrow, Sera." The smirk flattened into a thin line. I couldn't tell if he was trying to smile or holding back a grimace. I closed my eyes and just nodded, suddenly exhausted. "At ten," he added, just before walking away from the table.
God help me.
xxxxx
My experience with apartments thus far in life had been those of the lower middle class/college sort. Simple buildings and floor plans, with a few amenities, like a rectangular pool or small exercise room. Nowadays, on my budget, it was a tiny studio, barely bigger than most people's car garages. At WVU, I'd lived in a midsize two bedroom/one bath with a roommate for my last two years. Nick and I had looked at renting one of the 'luxury' 2,000-square feet apartments in town before ultimately moving into a quaint little house on the south side. I'd thought they were pretty extravagant at the time, with inlayed brick, corner fireplaces, and crystal chandeliers hanging over the dining area.
But, as it turns out, I had a severely limited definition of the word 'luxury'. The Racquet Club had been 'nice'. Worthington Tower was truly luxurious, in every sense of the word, from its soft, warm carpeting, the intricate paintings decorating the hallway, the gilded accents in the lobby, to the decked-out doorman who looked like he would be right at home as one of the royal guards in England.
It was intimidating, to say the least. I'd done as Warren requested, checking in with the security guard in the lobby. I'd been buzzed in, taken the express elevator to the top floor – to the penthouse, which for some reason brought all sorts of unseemly connotations into my head – and then nervously walked through the short corridor to knock on Warren's door. There was a little gold-plated knocker in the center above the peephole, but nothing else adorned the thick oak. No number, no name, nothing. I supposed, though, that there wasn't really a need for it. Everyone knew who lived here.
He answered the door after my second knock, sliding it open with some hesitance. Wearing a thick black GAP sweatshirt, jeans, and beat-up Nikes, he stood and regarded me for a moment before speaking. His blond hair was ruffled in an adorable way, with curls askew, as if he'd just run his hands through it. "Hi," he said.
I fidgeted. "Hi."
He nodded, pursing his thick lips. "Right on time. Come in." I watched as he stepped back and turned, walking in. With some trepidation, I followed.
"Wow," I said as I sidled through the door, still feeling edgy – how ridiculous, I was a grown woman. "Your apartment is, um, gorgeous." Understatement of the year. I'd known Warren would live in a nice place, but the penthouse at Worthington Tower far exceeded my expectations. It was huge, for one, that much I could see without going another step further. Sheesh, his foyer alone was bigger than my entire apartment. I cast a quick glance around at the décor – dark, rich colors, like burgundy and gold, seemed to be the accent colors of choice. Large framed canvas paintings were hung along the hallway, and the various knick-knacks and decorative items here and there gave the place a chic, urban feel. It certainly didn't look like the apartment of your standard 18-year-old…
Warren glanced back at me, a rueful smile on his lips. He seemed almost embarrassed, as if the lavishness of the apartment was a liability. "My mother decorated it," he said. "And when I moved in, I just kept it that way."
"It's nice," I said, nodding as I followed him to the den. "Very nice…"
"Yeah… she's got good taste." Warren stopped by the couch, glancing around uncertainly. "Um, you want something to drink?"
"Just water is fine." I sat down gingerly on the couch. It was soft, plush leather, and my body practically melted into it. He ambled into the kitchen, and I crossed my legs primly, feeling very out of place in my old jeans and nondescript knit sweater. Uncouth, perhaps, in the elegant atmosphere in the apartment. The fact that Warren had money – a lot of money – had never seemed like that big of a deal to me, but witnessing the glory of it in person changed my perspective. Although he'd always been standoffish and even rude in the beginning, I'd never thought of Warren as particularly snobby or superior. However, being surrounded by such opulence was enough to instill a small inferiority complex in me. Eighteen-year-old Warren Worthington the third could have anything his little heart desired. Anything. Twenty-seven-year-old Sera Slone would be lucky to afford the knee-high Candies she saw in Macy's the week before.
I sighed, tucking my hair behind my ears. There was a thick, hardback book on his coffee table, so I reached out and checked out the cover, curious. A Short History of the Movies. Interesting. I flipped open the cover, pursing my lips as I scanned through the table of contents.
"Here you go." I jumped nearly a foot in the air when Warren returned on stealthy, silent feet. My hand automatically slammed the book closed, as if I'd been caught doing something illegal. I jerked my head around to look at him, giving him a shamefaced grin. In return, he raised one thick blonde eyebrow, though I caught the barest hint of an amused smile before he sat down next to me.
"Thanks," I said, accepting the tall glass. I quickly took a drink, the icy water sliding down my throat. I set the glass on a thick ceramic coaster and turned to Warren, beckoning to the book. "So… you like movies?"
He clasped his hands together, tucking them between his knees, and leaned forward to check out the book cover. It was a sweetly childlike pose, and I felt my lips curve up, just watching his body language. He was still distant, true, but not so closed-off like he'd once been. The stiffness in his posture was gone, replaced by a somewhat relaxed slouch. Progress, yes. If only I could have gotten Jonathan to see that.
"Yeah," he said after a moment. "I watch a lot of movies. I've got a pretty big DVD collection."
"What's your favorite?" I asked. "Any in particular?"
He reached up to scratch his nose, and his eyes squinted in deep thought. "Pretty much anything by Scorsese. Raging Bull, Taxi Driver, Goodfellas. Um, and Spielberg's stuff, some of the time. Raiders of the Lost Ark, Jaws, Schindler's list, yes. E.T., Hook, The Terminal, no." He paused. "Yeah, I really can't just pick one… Oh, and of course, there's also Pulp Fiction."
"Of course," I repeated dryly. "That's like, the favorite of every guy I know. What is it about that movie that you all like so much?"
"What?" he said defensively. "I dunno, it's just a good film. Drugs, sex, and violence. It's over the top, but entertaining."
I shrugged. "I suppose. Maybe it's just not my style."
"Not your style?" Suddenly his eyes lit up in an expression I'd never before seen – mischief. "You're probably one of those rom-com girls, aren't you? A little dose of Luke Wilson and you're good to go, I bet. Or," he added, "maybe Disney cartoons are more 'your style'? Shrek, Toy Story?"
I felt my face flush. "There is nothing wrong with Luke Wilson," I said haughtily. "He plays the sweet average man very well." I grinned in spite of myself. "And for the record, yes, I like Disney cartoons. Aladdin's my favorite."
"Aladdin, huh?" he asked, amused. "Why?"
"I don't know. Robin Williams is great in it. And Aladdin's kind of cute, don't you think, for a cartoon?" I grinned at Warren's incredulous expression. I guess he'd never had an animated crush. "Plus, he could fly around on that magic carpet. Very cool."
One side of his mouth twitched, and his eyes squinted together in a mysterious smile. "Yeah, I guess so," he agreed. "Very cool…"
I flipped the book closed and set it back on the table. It was already late, and as much as I appreciated that Warren was showing a little personality, I didn't want to waste his time or overstay my welcome. "Okay, I'm not trying to be rude, but I don't want to waste your time…" I rested my hands in my lap. He looked a little surprised at that statement. "So should we finish this up?"
"You're not wasting my time," he said, his voice whisper-quiet. I blinked. What? "But yeah, it's getting late. I'll go get the laptop." He stood up, straightening the front of his shirt. He gave me a quick, shy nod and jetted from the room.
"Okay, cool," I called after him. I leaned back into the couch, continuing to survey the room. The kitchen was just on the opposite side of the room, and I could see several other doorways just beyond it in a small hallway, but I couldn't tell what sort of rooms they led to. There was a set of wrought-iron spiral stairs in another corner of the den, and I wondered just how huge the penthouse really was – who had stairs in their apartment? Did that lead to the master suite? Probably. I was curious to see the rest of the place, but I didn't want to ask for a tour fear of coming across as nosy or impolite. Warren was a man of boundaries, as I'd said, and I certainly didn't want to overstep them.
"Got it," he said, startling me back into reality. I watched as he strolled back in the room, casually carrying his computer in one hand as if it weighed nothing. He pushed the power button, and I could hear the fan and disc drive whirring as the machine started up. He sat down next to me and placed the laptop on the table, equally between us. "Let's get this thing finished up."
xxxxx
Though I'd initially balked at going through with it, coming to Warren's apartment was actually a good idea. It was wondrously quiet, for one – a relief to me, as it meant no infuriating background noise, like chatter or rustling papers. Despite his weak declaration that he hated playing host, he was surprisingly gracious, keeping me satiated with refills and even bringing out some Thai Lettuce Wrap appetizers he'd made earlier in the evening. He liked to cook, he'd said, and he'd made too much. They were delicious – not in a grossly oversaturated way, like how juicy cheeseburgers could be delicious, but in a light, healthy way that made me want to reach for more without feeling guilty. So Warren Worthington was a closet chef. Who knew?
"What's another word for 'good'?" he asked suddenly, his fingers stopping on top of the keys. "That doesn't sound… professional enough."
"What's the context?"
"For the conclusion, to basically say that we feel Genetic Preimplantation Diagnosis is a good idea." He scowled a little, his pretty face scrunching up. "I really hate that we're arguing for this."
"As do I." I leaned back in the cushions, idly looking over at Warren. Well, he'd been nothing but helpful, no doubt about that. Jonathan would kill me for saying so, but in some ways, Warren was easier to work with. Because when he set his mind to something, he motored towards the goal full-force, concentration unbroken. It was almost midnight, nearly two hours after we'd begun, but we were almost done with a ten-page report, by taking turns writing it out on the laptop and alternately helping one another. Not too shabby.
"Hmmm," I continued, still watching his hunkered-over frame. He had odd posture. I'd never noticed it when he stood, but sitting like that made it look as though he had a sort of hump on his back. "Wise? No. What about 'shrewd' or 'prudent'?"
"Prudent works." He leaned over and his fingers flew over the keys, quickly typing. "How's this for an ending: 'To conclude, in this day and age, foregoing the opportunity to prevent crippling or life-threatening diseases in our youth is akin to taking a gamble with their health. Preimplantation Genetic Diagnosis is not only a solution, but a prudent decision for future parents.'"
I waved my hand haphazardly in the air. "Sounds great," I said breezily. "Save it, print it, and let's hand it in." I rubbed my eyes, yawning. I was definitely beginning to feel the effects of my eighteen-hour day. "So tired," I murmured softly, not intending for him to hear.
"You look it." He glanced over, his hands still resting on the keyboard. "Long day?"
"Very." I stood up and stretched my arms toward the ceiling, willing my muscles to loosen up. "I plan to take a nice, long break when this is ov—" I was cut off by the shrill, insistent ring of my phone. Frowning, I dashed over to my purse, which I'd set down on his leather armchair. Fishing through my purse, I grabbed it and put it to my ear without checking the name of the caller. "Hello?"
"Sera!" I chuckled at the enthusiastic voice. Randi, nearly drowned out by laughter and music in the background, sounding like she was having the time of her life. Which, with her perspective, she probably was. The girl never missed an opportunity to party. "Omigod, Sera, you have to get down here to Club 141 right now."
"What? Why?" I turned halfway to Warren, who looked away from the screen. He smiled when I gave him a helpless shrug, and motioned for me to leave the room if I wanted, for privacy. I nodded, shuffling towards the kitchen. "Oh, it doesn't matter. Don't tell me how much fun you're having, because I can't come."
"WHY NOT!" Randi protested, as if I'd just personally insulted her. "Sera, they have the most amazing band here, and there's tons of cute guys, and they're handing out free shots, and—"
"It sounds wonderful," I cut in, smiling in spite of myself. "But I've got my final presentation tomorrow, and I'm still working on it right now."
"Where are you? Dylan said he stopped by your place and you weren't home!"
"I'm…" I paused, feeling a slight blush steal across my cheeks. Randi and Dylan knew of my change of opinion towards Warren, but not that I had basically invited myself into his home. "I'm at Warren's apartment, writing the report."
It was a good thing I'd left the room, because if Warren had heard her reaction – and believe me, he would have, at the decibel level she was displaying – I'd have been royally embarrassed. "WARREN? WARREN FUCKING WORTHINGTON? You're alone with him in his apartment? SERA SLONE!" I cringed, my fingers fumbling with the volume buttons on the side of the phone. When I'd managed to turn her down to a more manageable listening level, I held the phone back up to my ear. She was still going. "—and has he put any moves on you yet? How's he dressed? Is he playing music? Did he give you a tour? Did you see his bedroom? Did you—"
"Randi, shut up," I hissed, hunching over, as if I could hide that way. I didn't understand why she always equated coming to someone else's house alone with sex. It was as if she'd never heard of platonic friendship, or even just group cooperation. "No, for the last time, no. There is nothing scandalous happening here, despite what your twisted little mind likes to imagine. We're working!"
"Well, your loss," she sniffed. "Is his place gorgeous? It is, isn't it? God, Sera, I am so jealous. Well, are you at least getting in good with him like I said you should? Are you going to introduce me? I think that—"
"Randi," I repeated patiently. "Neither the time nor place. All right? I'll call you tomorrow when I'm done, and you can tell me all about this amazing band and the hot guys and the shots. But seriously, I have to go. I wish I could come, but I'm stuck. This has got to get done tonight."
Randi grumbled, but relented. "Okay. But—" she stopped, and I heard loud, screaming laughter in the background, along with other voices and her familiar shriek. Someone must have antagonized her in some way. "Sorry, sorry! Okay, Dylan says hi, and he wishes you were here."
"Ditto," I replied wistfully. "Have fun, and be careful, okay?"
"Okay. Love you, Sera! Don't work that pretty little head of yours too hard! Or his, for that matter!" She giggled loudly at her blatant double entendre, and before I had the chance to respond, the line went dead.
It's a good thing I love you, Randi Cox. Because otherwise, I'd kill you.
"Right," I muttered. What a handful. Though she seemed quite insistent about meeting the youngest Worthington, I could only laugh at the thought of them hanging out together. She would be dazed by his angelic good looks and insurmountable wealth, of course, but I had no doubt that he would find her to be completely insufferable. If there was one thing I'd learned that Warren respected, it was intelligence, followed by maturity. Neither of which poor Randi possessed, sadly.
When I returned to the den, Warren was sitting on the couch, grinning, holding several sheets of paper in his hand. I furrowed my brow, walking over to him. "What's this?"
"Our GPD report, all typed and ready to go." He carefully stacked the sheets and handed them to me with a slight dramatic flair.
"Printed, already? That was quick…" I accepted the report, flipping through it. Three months of hard work, all bound up onto ten 8½ x 11 pieces of paper. It didn't seem fair, really. All those hours, all that tension and drama, whittled down to less than three thousand words.
"Wireless printer," he said. "It's in my office. I just printed and ran and picked it up while you were on the phone."
"Oooh, gotcha." Of course. Leave it to Warren to have nothing but the best technology had to offer. Office? Wireless printers? What normal eighteen-year-old had that? What normal eighteen-year-old needed that? I held up the paper. "So this is it, huh? We're done?"
"We're done." He stood up and stretched a little himself, grimacing slightly as he arched his back. His posture appeared normal again… odd. Must have just been the angle that he was sitting earlier.
"Stiff back?" I asked.
"You could say that." He paused. "I just need to… move around. I've been here all day, haven't even been outside. Just studying and getting other stuff done."
"I know the feeling," I murmured. I flipped my wrist and glanced at my watch. Almost twelve-thirty; if I left now, I'd be home by one. Our presentation was at ten tomorrow, which wasn't too terribly early, but I was exhausted and would have to set my alarm nonetheless. "Well, if we're done, can you hold onto everything? If you don't mind…"
"Sure." I pulled out a folder and handed it to him, watching as he slid the report inside. "Here's the disc, too" he said, showing me a CD jewel case. "Just in case something happens to the print-out."
"Great, thanks." I zipped up my bag. "Well, Warren… I'm not trying to be rude, but I'm heading out. Thanks for helping."
"Did I have a choice?" He attempted to keep a straight face, but I could see the slight lines of laughter creeping around his eyes and mouth. "You're welcome. And…" he paused for a moment. "Sorry." I knew instantly what he was talking about, and I nodded. "Some people just… just don't get along. End of story." He shrugged. "And I suppose your friend Jonathan and I fall into that category."
I shrugged it off uncomfortably, hitching the straps of my bag a little tighter. "Yeah, I guess. But it's over now, right? And after tomorrow you'll never have to see him again. Maybe. Unless you have another class with him, I suppose." I laughed softly, taking a few ambling steps into the middle of the room. Wait, where was the door to leave? How pathetic that I was practically getting lost in his apartment…
"A shame," he remarked dryly. "Do you need me to show you out?"
I nodded, embarrassed. "But for the record, Warren…" I said, following him out of the room, "are you ever going to tell me what you said to him yesterday to set him off?"
Warren simply smiled, then turned and lightly placed a hand on my shoulder, steering me towards the door. "No."
xxxxx
I was in the elevator, nearly halfway down, when I realized I couldn't find my phone.
I tore through my backpack, tossing it on the floor and pulling out everything to look. I rummaged through my purse. Nothing. Pursing my lips, I realized that I must have left the phone in his apartment. I'd had it out when Randi called… walked into the kitchen… what had I done with it then? I must have set it down, on his marble kitchen counter or maybe in the den somewhere. I grunted in irritation – I was tired, a little grumpy, and just ready to get home. I considered leaving it; asking Warren tomorrow to bring it to me later, but then I remembered that after tomorrow, there was a good chance I might not see him again for a long time, what with Christmas break looming and his general secluded nature. Besides, the cell was the only means of communication I had at home – with no landline phone or computer with internet connection, I relied on it daily.
"Great," I muttered, looking at the elevator display slowly, silently tick down. I waited until it had reached the bottom, and when the doors opened, I pushed the tiny round button for the top floor and then stood still, waiting to go back up.
I hesitated when at Warren's door. It had only been about ten minutes since I'd left, maybe, but I hoped that he hadn't already gone to bed or gotten in the shower in that time. I knocked on the door once and waited. When I heard no movement inside, I knocked a little louder. Still nothing.
Great… is he upstairs? Showering? Asleep? Should I knock again? Leave? Do I really need the phone that badly?
Sighing, I rested my head against the door, knowing the answer. Balling up my fist, I cringed as I pounded on the door, determined to get him to hear this time.
Still nothing. Sighing with irritation, I grabbed the door handle, rattling it. And was shocked when the knob actually turned. Either he'd forgotten to lock it after letting me out or simply never bothered (something I couldn't see from him), but the door to his apartment was open.
I've never been a particularly nosy person. I'd been taught by my parents to respect people's space and privacy. I'd had friends who would eavesdrop on their siblings' phone conversations by picking up the line and muting it. I knew people who thought nothing of walking in without knocking. I'd always considered these little intrusions to be nothing short of rude… but standing outside of Warren's apartment in the early hours of the morning, I was near the end of my rope. Blame it on my fatigue, but I allowed myself to do something I normally would never do.
I opened the door.
I stuck my head inside first. "Warren?" I called out nervously. "Hey, Warren?" No answer. I bit my lip, mentally debating whether to completely enter. After a moment, I slipped inside and took a few cautious, soft steps towards the den. All the lights were still on, as it was when I left, proof that maybe he hadn't gone to bed yet. "Warren?" I asked again, projecting my voice a little further.
He must be upstairs, otherwise he would have heard me by now.
Well, if he was upstairs, then I could just run and find my phone and leave without him ever knowing I'd been back inside. I liked that option more and more as I thought about it. I quickened my steps, moving first into the empty den. I scanned the room, looking at the couches, the tables, the floor. No phone. Cursing under my breath, I then walked into the kitchen. The lights there were off, and since I didn't want to attract attention by turning them on, I fumbled around on the counters, relying on the soft ambient light from the other rooms to help me.
I hit pay dirt when my fingers brushed against a little block of small plastic. "Yes," I murmured, clutching the phone tightly in my grip. Mission accomplished. Turning, I retraced my steps to the den.
Warren's apartment had an abundance of windows. From what I'd gathered, his penthouse took up the entire top floor – meaning that with the exception of the small corridor that led to the elevator, his place stretched all around in each direction; all four walls of the tower. And each of those walls, I assumed, featured spectacular view of the city. The den, for example, featured a huge set of double French doors with wide glass panes in the middle, leading out onto an expansive, impressive balcony. Walking forward, I could see thousands of tiny, sparkling lights stretching across the horizon. I hadn't really had the chance to give it a good look when we were working earlier, so I stepped a little closer on my way out, peering wistfully at the tall buildings that surrounded Worthington Tower. My apartment only gave me a view of the dumpster in the back alley and the windows of my neighbors across the way. I wanted so badly to walk outside and see it all a little clearer, but I restrained myself, knowing that it would be seriously overstepping the boundaries – as if I wasn't already.
"You're a lucky man, Warren," I murmured, shaking my head. "I wonder if you even know…" I started to back away, preparing to leave once again.
And then stopped.
When I was younger, I remember the first time I saw an eagle in person. It was in third grade, we were on a class field trip to the zoo, and they had a special showing of various bird species held in a small amphitheater close to the aviary. I'd been sitting in the front row with my best friend Lisa, the two of us only about five feet away from the handler. Of all the birds they'd shown that day, the eagle had been the largest, and I'd been awed by his amazing wingspan, his feathers, the way he fought to fly away, apparently aching to take to the skies.
However, what I was experiencing now wasn't exactly the same type of innocent awe. I was looking at a glorious set of feathered white wings, but they weren't attached to a bird, they were attached to a man.
I blinked, frozen. "Angel," I whispered. The Avenging Angel? Landing on Warren's balcony? Why? Just using his place to take a rest? I took a few more steps back without thinking, feeling a little niggling of fear rising in my chest. It was the same way I'd felt when the clawed man had shown his true colors; amazed at the sight, intimidated by the implications of being in the presence of a mutant, such a hated creature. I halted when my feet hit the tile of the kitchen; I still had a perfect view of him, but I figured that from outside, he wouldn't be able to see me in its darkness.
I swallowed, remaining stock-still. The Angel had flown down, wings spread wide, and now he stood on the railing of the balcony, bending his knees in a squat, as if taking a breather. His blonde head was down for a moment, and his back and wings moved up and down with each deep inhalation he took. After a moment, he looked up, the black mask obscuring his features. Then, suddenly, he stood back up and leaped down on to the balcony, walking briskly to the doors.
My mouth fell open when he tugged on the handle and casually walked inside, his massive wings retracting and folding back behind him to fit through the door. I wanted to dash from the room and run upstairs, tell Warren that he had an intruder (an intruder that wasn't me, of course), but I refused to move, terrified that even the slightest motion would catch his eye. He was inside… fifteen feet away from me, tops. I was standing within spitting distance of the famed Avenging Angel; a mutant who had saved lives and had been accused of taking one only two weeks ago. What was he doing? What was going on?
I couldn't breathe.
What do I do? I don't know what to do…
I crept even further back, taking tiny, silent baby steps. Meanwhile, he strolled into the den, stopping right in the center of the room. He sighed loudly, stretching his arms out first, then slowly the wings again, lengthening them until the very tips of the feathers brushed against the walls on either side. My God, they were huge. I was never any good at estimating perspective, but they looked like they could be ten feet long each. I suddenly recalled something I'd said to Warren some months ago, about the unlikelihood of the Angel being a dangerous mutant. Some sarcastic comment about him flapping someone to death. Looking at him now, with those two giant appendages looming on either side of his taut, built body, I suddenly realized that death by feathers could actually be a possibility. I swallowed again, feeling little beads of sweat forming on my forehead.
The Angel reached up, grabbing the bottom edge of his mask, and in one smooth motion, yanked it up and over his head. He shook his head rapidly and breathed another loud sigh of relief, obviously glad to be free of his disguise.
And in that moment, I almost passed out. Again.
Warren? Warren? Oh my God, oh God, that's Warren…
Warren Worthington the third, son of one of the richest men in America, my classmate, my group partner, the famed recluse of New York City, had wings. Warren was a mutant. Not human, but a different species. Oh, God, a mutant. And not just any mutant, but New York's most infamous. Oh, sweet Jehovah… was this really happening?
My legs began to tremble, and the sweat beads dropped, leaving wet lines down the sides of my face. What was it about me that allowed me to be in such close proximity to mutants and have no earthly idea? The clawed man I hadn't known personally, but I'd seen Warren several times a week for months… how did he hide those wings? How could they possibly fit under his clothes?
I gripped my phone tightly in my hand, wishing that I had never come back up to his apartment. I wanted – needed – to leave, but with him standing between me and the exit, I was trapped.
Okay, Sera… okay, just stand here and wait until he goes upstairs… it's on the opposite side of the room, as soon as he's up and out of sight, just take off for the door… it'll be all right. You just have to wait for the right moment… just stand still, he can't see you…
I obeyed my much calmer inner voice, choosing to do absolutely nothing except stand and watch with rapt, stunned attention. Warren wiped his brow, pushing thick, sweaty locks of blonde curls away from his forehead. His eyes were nearly closed; the fatigue clearly showing, but not in a negative way. He was tired from his excursion, that much I could see, but it seemed to be a good tired. An accomplished tired. Re-energized, in a way. Possibly the sort of rush I myself got after successfully finishing a five-mile run – a weak comparison, I knew, to a man who could fly, but I was pretty much at a loss for coherent thinking for the evening.
I stood, mesmerized, hiding just inside the darkness. He pulled his wings in and then stretched them out to their full span again, throwing his head back and sighing softly as he rolled it around in a clockwise motion. A cool-down, it appeared, after his nighttime foray into the skies. Witnessing his inhuman power was a simultaneously stunning and terrifying scene – I suddenly remembered a line from Fellowship of the Ring, where Frodo offers Galadriel the One Ring, and then observes her transformation. "She stood before Frodo seeming now tall beyond measurement, and beautiful beyond enduring, terrible and worshipful." The first time I'd read it, back when I was twelve, I'd had trouble envisioning such a sight, but I suddenly found myself understanding perfectly now. Beautiful and terrible, yes.
After a long moment, he straightened up, pulling the wings a little closer, until they hung lightly on either side of him, the midpoint between being fully extended and folded back. The feathers made a slight rustling noise when he moved, I noted with some fascination. And though it felt somewhat shameful to think it in this context, I couldn't help but notice the leanness of his body, the perfect lines of muscles that showed through his snug, light clothing. I'd never seen him in anything but loose shirts and jeans; I'd had no idea he was so… so built. The front of his black shirt was drenched in sweat, I also noticed, forming an inverted V down his torso. I wrinkled my brow, wondering how he'd managed to wriggle into such a tight-fitting top. Alterations had to have been made… were there holes in the back, for his wings? Did it zip or button?
I must be dreaming… I have to be dreaming… this cannot possibly be real…
He threw his shoulders back and headed in the opposite direction, going for the stairs. As he turned, I got a good look at his back – the wings nearly cascaded behind him, hanging down and fluttering lightly like a long, flowing robe. Their bases protruded directly out of his shoulder blades (and, I saw, out of two slits in the shirt), sprouting up and out like trees growing from the ground. And they were indeed completely, one hundred percent covered in feathers… blinding white, in various shapes and sizes. I reached up and placed one hand over my heart, feeling the rapid-fire beat just under the skin. It was a good thing he was leaving, because I was feeling more and more lightheaded by the second…
Almost there… he'll go up the steps, and I'll dash out. No problem… I'll leave and pretend like this never happened…
In the back of my mind, I'd decided without even realizing it that sneaking out and pretending I'd never seen what I'd actually just seen was probably my best plan of action. I wasn't a snitch, and according to Dylan, I was a world-champion when it came to keeping my mouth shut; locked up tighter than Fort Knox. I'd kept outrageous secrets before, I could manage this. I wouldn't tell anyone. Not Jonathan, not Dylan, not Randi, not my mother, not the New York Post, no one.
He climbed the spiral stairs, folding his wings up so they could fit in the narrower space. I reached one hand out and gripped the kitchen counter, steadying myself. Warren Worthington, the Avenging Angel. Suddenly, incomprehensibly, everything made so much more sense… his aversion to society, his awful attitude, his secretive nature… he didn't want anyone to find out about his mutation. Who did know? His parents? Did anyone? I allowed myself to exhale when his head disappeared upstairs, out of sight.
BRRRRRRRRIIIIINNNNNGGGGG!
My eyes widened in horror. SHIT!
I fumbled with my phone, pressing frantically at all the buttons until it went silent. I caught a flash of the name on the lit-up display – RANDI COX – and silently swore at her in a thousand different ways. I clutched the phone to my chest, stumbling backwards when I heard the unmistakable sound of Warren running back down the stairs. Too late. Too late, and there was absolutely nowhere, and no time, to hide. I hit the counter behind me, hard, and grunted when my legs gave out and I ended up slouched in the floor, my backpack smashed against the cabinet behind me. I dropped the phone; it hit the tile with a loud clack. A shadowy, winged figure suddenly appeared in the open doorway, imposing and surreal just like a true angel, backlit by the lamps from the den.
The light in the kitchen came on. And then the Avenging Angel and I came face to face, staring at each other in pure horror for a long, endless moment.
I'm going to die. I'm going to have a heart attack and keel over, I'm sure of it…
I sucked in my breath sharply, barely aware of the loud, wheezing noise it made when I did so. I felt my lips quivering, my eyes watering. Warren, meanwhile, stood perfectly still, his face frozen in a similarly wide-eyed, terrified expression. His face had gone ghastly pale; the color completely drained.
I had to get out.
"Warren," I said tremulously, cringing at the way my voice cracked. I pushed against the cabinet behind me, struggling to get back on my feet, but my knees simply wouldn't work. I looked up at him desperately, with no clue what sort of excuse to articulate. What could I say? I'd basically committed a crime – breaking and entering – and because of that, I'd stumbled across his biggest, dirtiest little secret. "Warren, I—"
"Get out." His voice was low, flat, emotionless. He had a naturally deep voice anyway, but this was different than usual, harsh and almost guttural. The pale, haunted look instantly disappeared from his eyes, replaced by an edgy hardness that sent a shiver of fright straight through me. I was reminded yet again of the mutant who'd been in the bar, the man with claws… he'd had the same hardened look on his face when he was holding them to that man's throat, as if he was fighting back sheer panic... a look of determination, survival…
"Warren—" I tried again, faltering, struggling to explain myself. To try and tell him that it was okay, that I wouldn't tell, that I hadn't meant to spy. That he could trust me… I shoved against the cabinet once again, this time gathering enough momentum to propel me to my feet. My phone, in an ironic bit of humor, made a merry, twinkling sound, an indication that Randi had just left me a voicemail. I bent down and hastily snatched it up. My face felt like it was on fire…
I took another wheezing, struggling gasp for air and attempted to speak again, the words coming out in an unintelligible jumble. "IforgotmyphoneandItriedknockingbut…" I sucked in another breath. "…youdidn'tanswerandIjustcameintogetitand—"
His face darkened. "GET OUT." He wasn't yelling, exactly, but I found myself cringing all the same, just like I used to do back when my father would shout at me for breaking curfew back in high school. And just like my father, when I remained silent and didn't move, it only served to make him angrier. "GET OUT!" he shouted, rising higher and higher, to the point of hysterics.
"I'm sorry," I said, nearly crying. What had I done? "I won't tell anyone, I swear… I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—"
"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOME!" I reeled a little at the anger, the pure hatred in his voice, his eyes. I managed a stiff nod, and somehow, my legs obeyed, taking a few uncoordinated steps before breaking into a reckless run. I raced past him, suddenly conscious of the outer feathers on his wings brushing against my shoulders as I tore through the doorway. I went through the den and into the foyer, my arms flailing to try and maintain balance. I ran straight into the main door, unable to stop my momentum. With shaking hands, I scrabbled at the door handle and yanked it open, running out into the hall.
I didn't bother with the elevator – I had an overload of adrenaline, and I had no desire to stand so close to his apartment and wait. I needed to get away, put as much distance in between us as possible…
So I chose the long stairwell instead, tearing down the thirty-plus flights at breakneck speed, running as if I was being chased by the devil himself. I slipped and fell more than a few times – my shaky knees couldn't withstand the pounding and pressure I was putting them through, and I even ended up skidding on my rear for several steps about halfway down.
Once on the ground floor, I garnered several open-mouthed stares as I dashed helter-skelter through the posh, intricate lobby, shoving open the thick glass doors that led into the building. The guard shouted in surprise; I ignored him.
I hit the street and kept going, heedless of my out-of-breath state or the backpack bouncing back and forth painfully against my sides. I didn't stop running until I'd reached the train station, finally allowing myself to collapse in an ungainly heap on one of the waiting benches. I buried my face in my hands and gasped for air, ignoring the curious glances of others around me, with that one thought repeating ad nauseum through my head. What have I done? What have I done?
When I heard the rumbling of the subway approaching, I raised my head halfway, peering between my fingers at the dirty concrete floor. I inhaled slowly, trying to regain some sense of calm. But I couldn't quite pull it off – because life, I instantly knew, would never quite be the same.