As Told By Paramours

chapter fourteen

josie

USING MY HAND TO FEEL UNDER THE COMFORTERS, I distractedly move on to the next room.

"Don't be a stranger," a staff member says as they pass me, and I smile.

I should be running over the checklist of items to look out for; things like sharp objects, but instead I'm feeling skittish and slightly aghast because I'm meeting Elijah really soon. Like really, really meeting him.

It's been over three months since I've known him, which sounds so weird to my (mental) ears. It feels like yesterday we were just getting to know each other, and now, though I've only seen him once or twice, I can name his favorite color, his sister, his mother's name, and oddly enough, what he ate for dinner a week ago and what show was playing on the television while he ate (fettuccine alfredo (his dad, Bart Ibrahim, made it for a change) and Bridgerton (per request of his older sister, Mauve, since she was home for the weekend)).

I think about how he's a (self-proclaimed (which I find funny, because usually, people who self-proclaim they're something, are not that thing, but he actually is)) quiet person, and how he's been relatively open with me, and it makes me feel warm, like he cares about me too— at least, as much as you can care for someone when you've never actually seen them.

"Thank you for always coming to help out," Bernard, the resident who owns the room says with a booming yet oddly kind voice. Only then is it that I realize I'm frozen in spot in his doorway.

I smile and continue moving, heart warm. "Of course. Thank you for thanking me."

Sharp objects, sharp objects, sharp objects. Then I stop. That sounds wrong.

"Kids like you need to take some time off," he tells me, bushy gray brows furrowed against pale, taut skin, "See the common room. Build something in the workshop, or check out the performance going on, or maybe the baking class with Elise. I mean, we may be old, but we can have a nice time."

"I don't doubt it," I laugh, then pause cleaning. "Wait— performance? Right now?"

It's a later shift, and there's only been one semi-performance at Jameson; karaoke night (two residents got heat-stroke, so we agreed it wouldn't happen again).

He nods, surprised I didn't know. "Yeah. In the main hall."

Maybe I'll tell Elijah about it later; he should come do a performance sometime. I bet they'd love him.

I meet his eyes, intrigued. "Tell you what; I have two more rooms, then I'll see if I can catch it."

A hum in a agreement leaves him. "You won't wanna miss it."

● ● ●

I'm leaning my side against the door to the main hall, big smile on my face.

From where I am, I can't see the performer, only hear the voice very faintly over the loud cheering.

There are elders up and dancing, clapping and howling. I hear the faint sound of the song: Don't Go Breaking my Heart, a classic.

I peek my head further into the room, and I see my grandmother (even though she's standing at the back with her eyes slightly narrowed (that's her pleased face, by the way)) and I even see Angie near the frontlines if I go on my tip toes. I don't see John, but maybe he's like Elijah and doesn't like too much noise.

I shift, going to where the masses are but stay hanging back in the middle, just so I can get a view of the singer. Then I freeze, because Elijah is sitting on a stool, with a big grin on his face, nodding as he sings and meets the eyes of the people in the crowd. And I think, all the photos John was showing don't do him justice, not nearly.

He's wearing an unbuttoned flannel shirt and jeans cuffed at the bottom, with black Vans.

His skin is glowing, (literally, and it's not because of the sweat), and I for some reason take note of how nice his teeth are even from afar, with long, pointy, and oddly attractive canines and pin-straight rows that split into a wide smile every second he isn't singing. His hair is different, less long like he got a hair cut, and the curls are thicker, but there's that dimple and his eyes are sparkling, and he looks really happy.

You can tell singing is what he loves to do, and what makes him happy. Or at least I assume. I haven't seen him enough to know whether his eyes always shine that way. But I want to know.

Then those eyes land on me, and a shiver runs down my back. I feel like he's stared at me for minutes, but I think it's been seconds by the time he looks away, and my face feels sinfully hot.

I wonder for a moment: Did he recognize me? Then I shake my head because there's no way he would, because he's never seen me.

And for the first time, I regret that.

And that scares me.

I don't remember walking out, I don't remember ending up in the stairwell, but I remember my phone buzzing violently in my pocket, making me jump. I answer, and the caller says: "Hello? Is this a Laurier?"

"Yes, it's Josie Laurier," I say. "Who is this?"

"Um, I don't know if you know me, but my name is Lola." Every trace of happiness fizzles out in a second. "I'm your father's daughter, so I guess we're--"

I don't even register what I reply as my phone slips from my hands and all the waves hit at once.