As Told By Paramours

chapter eighteen

josie

"RIGHT," ELIJAH SAYS SLOWLY, THEN HE HOLDS MY EYES FOR A SECOND before looking out the window. It's the fourth time he's done it, I can't help notice. "So we go for Richard."

I don't think I'm getting used to talking to him just like this.

I meant it when I said his accent was nice. Nice is an understatement, actually. I keep wanting to purposely make him talk so I can hear that slightly noticeable lilt that comes out when he says certain words like sure or we could do this. And his voice is just really really smooth to the ear, the kind of voice you can tell is a great singer before you even hear the singing.

I put my hands flat on the table and look away when he catches me staring (also the fourth time this has happened), narrowing my eyes at our papers on the wooden table as I start: "I can't help feel there's something we're missing—"

"Josie Posie!"

I subconsciously smile at the voice, eyes meeting brown ones. "Angie!"

She shimmeys her way over to our table and helps herself to a seat. "Angie this is Elijah. Elijah, this is Angie."

"So this is Elijah," Angie murmurs, eyes sparkling as she turns to him. I think to hit her under the table, but she's an elderly, and I'm afraid she might pull out a walking stick from somewhere and hit me with it.

"Nice to meet you," he says, and gives her a small smile, holding his hand out.

She gives a mischievous smile as she takes it. "You as well." She turns to me. "How's it going so far?"

I look at Elijah, not because I want him to say anything, but I just want to look at him. Despite that, reluctantly, and ironically eloquently, he explains everything from beginning to end, and tells her what else we're missing.

"Maybe," Angie starts thoughtfully, "Ximena isn't the key to this. Maybe someone lied. The only person who knew Rosemary was going to meet John was Carey, right?"

I frown. "I don't think either our grandparents would lie about this even after all this time."

She shakes her head softly. "Not that. Maybe someone fed her the lie that he wanted to run away, and that's why she decided to go meet him that night."

● ● ●

"Okay, how about on a scale of one to ten."

I think for a moment, scaling everything mentally. "Hotness or, like, attractiveness?"

"Overall attractiveness."

I hum and cross my legs so I'm sitting criss-cross on the small space of the computer chair. "His voice was a good eight."

Khushi's eyes widen surprisedly as she scrapes the rest of her strawberry cheesecake flavored ice cream out of the container and licks the spoon. "Eight?"

"You know what, eight-point-five."

"That nice?"

"I mean damn, if you had his accent, I'd marry you." I say jokingly, and regret it the second she raises a brow and replies: "So you like him, then?"

"No," I say, "Just because I like his voice doesn't mean I like him. I mean, I like Giveon's voice. And Anderson .Paak's. That's what you say about singers."

"But he wasn't singing."

"Well, I like your talking voice."

She shrugs and throws the empty ice cream cup in the trash by her bed. "If you say so."

"I'm not going to suddenly develop a crush just because our friendship was upgraded to face-to-face." I lick my lips and flatten my hair. "I still think of him as my friend."

"Putting a face to the name is different," she says. "Now, if you did happen to perhaps like him, it wouldn't be weird."

"You're more invested in him romantically than I am," I murmur, eyes searching for something to do with my hands. I settle on playing with the chair hems. "Maybe you should go for him. He's cute enough; I'd support you."

She grins. "Maybe I will. I have a thing for singers."

I grin back. "Right. Miles was proof."

A pillow hits me square in the face.