Ten Below Zero(7)

He lifted his eyes to mine. “What are you going to have?”

“Nothing.”

“You’ll have something.” His eyes didn’t waver. I squirmed a little and crossed my arms over my chest.

“No.”

His eyes narrowed, but not in anger. More like in contemplation. The waitress returned with our drinks while we were engaged in an unannounced staring contest.

She wrote down Everett’s order before turning to me. Before I could open my mouth to answer, Everett interrupted me. “Key lime pie. And if you have extra limes, could you toss those on her plate, too?”

“Sure thing,” the waitress cooed before sauntering away. I watched her departure with fake interest, trying to avoid looking at Everett. His gaze on my face made my skin itch.

“I said I wasn’t hungry,” I finally said, smoothing out the skirt of my dress.

Everett picked up his cell phone, black like his clothing, and glided his fingers across the screen with one hand while he poured creamer only into in coffee.

“That’s very rude, you know,” I said, my eyes tracking his hands, the way he poured the creamer to the very top without overfilling.

His eyes shot to mine in an instant, one black chunk of hair hanging over his forehead in front of his left eye. “I never claimed to be anything else.” A repeat of his line the night before.

He didn’t smile. Instead, he stared at me. His eyes didn’t glide over me. They were completely focused on my own. I felt the challenge that they insinuated.

“You need a haircut.”

That incited a small smile from his lips. “According to you?”

I squirmed a little in my seat. “Well, actually yes. And the general population.”

Everett arched an eyebrow. “Oh, really?” he asked, leaning forward on the table. “Have you surveyed the general population on the matter of my hair length?”

He was teasing me. My eyes tightened with annoyance. “Of course not. But the general population keeps their hair at a length that can manage a semblance of a style.”

He rubbed his chin in contemplation. I could nearly hear the rasp of his fingernails against his scruff. “Are you saying my hair is not styled?”

I sipped my water and let the liquid cool my tongue. “Yes. It looks like a rat made a bed on your head.” It was a lie, but it had its intended effect.

His eyes opened up then, fully, startled. “Now that is a rude thing to say.”

I nodded. “I never claimed to be anything else,” I said, throwing his words back at him.

Everett leaned back in his booth and, while staring at me, he ran his fingers through his thick, black locks, pushing them away from his face. In doing so, he exposed his forehead. Immediately, my eyes found the line that followed his hairline. It was faint, but it was white, clashing with his deep olive complexion. I knew it was a scar, even though it had faded a bit, and there was a small dent off the center of his forehead. I felt something spark within me then. Something more than mild annoyance. I met his eyes and saw the words he didn’t speak. We both have scars.

I didn’t realize my finger was brushing the one on my arm until I saw his eyes glance down. I hastily pulled my arm back and under the table. I wished fervently I’d worn something with sleeves.

“Why don’t you ask me about my scars?” I spoke without thinking.

He sipped his coffee, making a quiet slurping sound. His eyes held mine the entire time. He pulled the cup away from his mouth and licked his bottom lip before setting the cup on the table. He pushed one hand up his forearm, pushing up the jacket sleeve. He pushed it past his elbow before bringing his hand back to the table. My eyes darted between his and the arm. I knew that whatever he was doing, he was doing deliberately. His hands rested on the table top in front of us, veins raised under his knuckles. And while I stared at his hands, he turned the exposed arm over, bringing the underside of his wrist up for me to see.

The first thing I noticed was the scars. Beneath the sprinkling of hair they sat, little white and red circles, tracking the paths of his veins up to his elbow.

“Why don’t you ask me about mine?” His voice startled me, such was my concentration on his skin.

He was exposing his scars to me. I tried to summon up embarrassment, but instead I felt relief. We were on the same playing field. Where my scars were jagged and angry, the result of an attack, his scars were deliberate, repetitive. I yearned to learn more. I blamed it on my compulsion to study people. I didn’t truly care about Everett. But exposing scars that were normally hidden was as honest as nudity, if not more so.

But I barely knew him. “Because that would be rude.”

“You like that word, don’t you?” He pulled his sleeve down, hiding the circular scars that covered his arm like confetti. “I gravitate towards frankness, which you seem to think is rude.” He leaned forward on the table, pulling me under and into his presence. “How did you get your scars?”

I sipped my water again, my throat going dry at having his full attention upon me. Before I could answer, the waitress set our plates on the table in front of us. Everett pulled back, the spell was broken.

I looked down at my key lime pie. It was dyed a bright green-blue color, clearly unnatural. I pushed the plate away from me and took the bowl the waitress had set down, filled with lime wedges. As I brought the first one to my mouth, I felt Everett’s eyes on me and I looked up. He hadn’t even picked up his silverware yet. He just stared at me. In the daylight, his eye color was so light it looked as bright as the color of the fraudulent pie.