Not Today, But Someday(17)

I try to focus on the view in front of me, slightly obscured by frost and snow, feeling trapped – not by Nate anymore, but by my situation. My eyes begin to water, and I swallow the growing lump in my throat so I can speak. “Do you live far from here?” Nate starts the car and adjusts some of the knobs, causing the frost to dissipate rapidly from the windshield.

“Uhhh,” he hesitates. It’s obvious I’m imposing on him, making him uncomfortable. I blink, forcing two tears to run down my cheeks. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says assuringly. “I’m about ten miles southwest. I just–” he pauses, sounding nervous. “I’ve never had a girl over to my house before, that’s all.”

“It’s not like that,” I say quickly, realizing I may be giving him the wrong impression. “I just don’t have any other options–”

“I know, Emi.” He puts his hand on top of mine. I allow it for about three seconds, and then pull mine away, clasping my hands and settling them in my lap. “Sure, we can go to my house.”

“Thanks. Will your parents mind?”

“I guess we’ll find out,” he says. “But once we’re there, I know my mom won’t want me driving in this again, so we have that working in our favor.”

“Do you have an extra room?” He laughs at my question, carefully accelerating when we hit the main street. “Well? I can take the couch.”

“You don’t need to worry about that–”

“I’m not staying with you–”

“You’ve already made it clear that’s not what you want,” he says. “I don’t want that either. When you see where I live, you’re going to feel very silly, that’s all.”

“What, is it like a mansion?”

“No,” he says plainly. “It isn’t like one. It is one.”

“So you’re rich?”

“I will be when I’m twenty-one,” he tells me. “Inheritance. Now do you want me?”

I look at him, shocked, but see by his expression that he’s just joking with me. I laugh a little before I process what he’s said. “Your grandparents?” I ask him, hopeful that it isn’t some tragedy that will make him wealthy.

“Grandfather, yes,” he says. “And my dad.”

“Oh,” I say softly. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago. I’m fine.”

“Okay.” I smile when he glances over to me.

“Your lipstick is distracting,” he says to me abruptly. I moisten my mouth with my tongue, surprised the red pigment is still on.

“That was the point, I guess. I was trying to make my brother’s friend jealous.”

“You’re going about it all wrong,” he says. “Do you not realize you were blessed with the most beautiful feature I’ve ever seen on any person? Naturally and unadorned?”

I blink rapidly, taken aback by his compliment. “What?” I say in a quick huff of air. I suddenly can’t breathe.

“Your eyes.”

I have my grandmother’s eyes, apparently, but she’d died before I was born. I’d never met anyone with eyes like mine, but I always thought they were too pale, and strange-looking. “They’re weird.”

The corner of his lip lifts slightly as he shakes his head. He takes a deep breath and sighs audibly. “You’re going to think I’m weird.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see,” he says. “You may want to go home once you find out.”

“I’m a little scared.”

“Don’t be scared,” Nate says. “I’m probably the least scary person you’ll ever meet.”

“I can tell you’re trying to look a little rough around the edges,” I tell him. “The smoking. Your leather jacket. Your scuffed-up boots. But then I really look at your face. You have a very pretty face.”

“Pretty?” he asks.

“That’s not an insult,” I assure him. “You have these great cheekbones, and long lashes. And your lips are a little distracting, too.” We both blush at that admission. “I’m just being factual. I am not hitting on you, by the way. Does that make sense?”

“Perfect sense,” he says. “You’re an artist, doing what an artist does. Observing. That’s all I’m doing, too, so don’t think my compliments are anything more than... an aesthetic appreciation.”

“Okay,” I say with a smile.

“Just remember that when I show you what I’ve been working on in my studio.”

“Okay.”

He takes me down a heavily wooded road, marked with mailboxes every so often, but I can’t see any houses. Finally, he makes a right turn down an unpaved lane that’s lined with tall street lamps. “This is all our property,” he says as the drive continues for about a quarter of a mile. We come over a small hill and take a sharp left, and I can suddenly see his house.

“Holy shit.” He’s silent, continuing the slow drive over frozen rocks and gravel. I count fourteen windows surrounding an entranceway made more stately by four wide columns that rise from the ground to the roof, spanning all three floors. Three floors? “This is where you live?”