Authors: Cheyanne Young
Understudy (21 page)
My answer was perfectly clear yesterday when I told her no about a million times, so she doesn’t deserve to have me text it to her now. I look over at the Art Institute calendar on the wall. The square for today has been circled a dozen times in a pink highlighter. I might have made the plans to attend the interior decorating exhibit with someone else, but plans change and I’m still going.
I dress to fit the part of a future interior decorator: black skinny jeans with maroon velvet flats, a black lacy camisole and a maroon sweater with pearl buttons. I throw my hair into a messy yet stylish bun and fold my bangs across my forehead, pinning them with a rhinestone bobby pin. A fresh coat of nail polish and minimal makeup has me looking exactly like a professional. Well, maybe a professional intern.
Attending this exhibit will be my first experience with what life will be like after college, when I’m working my dream job. It’s probably for the best that I go alone. I pack a small notebook and pen to take notes. My reflection smiles back at me in the vanity mirror as if the girl on the other side of the glass doesn’t know that I am hurting on the inside.
When I tell my parents goodbye and leave the house a few minutes later, my phone is still on my bed. I tell myself I’m leaving it because I don’t need to waste time wondering if anyone special might call me with an apology and an explanation. By the time I arrive at the convention center, I’ve almost convinced myself to believe that lie.
What used to be a professional basketball court has been transformed into an awe-inspiring floor plan of endless rooms that all flow into each other. Chills prickle up my arms as I run my fingers over a baby blue suede couch in a contemporary living room setting. The colors, the textures, the shapes—it all sends my senses into overdrive.
A few people who are older than I am meander through the exhibits. Their comments and observations both intrigue me and tell me that I have a lot to learn about interior decorating. I catch my reflection in a decorative mirror and smile. Right now most of the seniors at Lawson High are getting ready for prom and I’m at an exhibit surrounded by adults.
As I advance through an elegant living room set with a rich gold and black theme, my knee brushes against an armchair that’s tucked into a corner. Movement catches me by surprise and I flinch as I see that I hadn’t just bumped into an armchair but the a person
sitting
in the arm chair.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he says, looking up at me through the hair in his eyes. His hand reaches up to the black hat on his head and he tips it at me as he nods. My mouth falls open. The exquisitely dressed and dapper man in front of me is no man at all.
It’s Derek.
My legs grow as stiff as the armchair’s as I stand motionless in front of the person I’ve been missing for days. Funny, how my first instinct is to smile and tell him hello as if we had somehow time traveled back a couple months and were still friends. My instinct has steered me wrong enough times that thankfully, I’m quick enough not to follow it. My face remains neutral as I turn on my heel and head into the next exhibit, walking straight into the personal space of the couple in front of me. If I’m close enough to these strangers, hopefully Derek won’t try to talk to me.
A dark shadow flickers in my peripheral vision. His cologne smells exactly as intoxicating as always. I allow my eyes to crane to the left but I do not turn my head. He stands with his hands in his pockets, that silly yet adorable hat slanted on his head. He’s wearing a white button down shirt, a black tie and a charcoal grey sweater. Exactly like he promised.
The couple in front of us moves to the next room, leaving me alone with him. He clears his throat. “I think the decorator was trying to portray a…um, how would you say it…modern yet simplistic vibe with this room.”
I can’t help the snort of laughter than escapes me. “This isn’t a fine art exhibit. You don’t have to analyze it.”
His hand twirls in the air, motioning to the leather couch. “I think this couch really adds a certain…je ne sais quoi to this room. How would you say it?” He rubs his chin. “Oh! I know. It displays an ‘I’m better than you and make more money in one hour than you will in a lifetime’ vibe, don’t you agree?”
I roll my eyes. “Why did you come here?”
He turns to me and swallows. “Because I said I would.”
I glance at my shoes. He reaches into his pocket and holds up his cell phone, swiping across the screen before he hands it to me. I take it and look at a photo of him and another girl, sitting in front of a Christmas tree and a pile of wrapped presents. He looks about five years younger and the girl is just a kid. His pixelated smile is adorable and the girl looks ecstatic. I look back at Derek for an explanation.
“That’s Lexie. She was my foster sister for two years. One day her shitty drug addict father claimed he had rehabilitated and fought to get her back.”
The pain in his eyes makes my stomach twist into knots. “What happened?”
“He won. He had a great story on paper. He had spent a year in rehab, got his finances in order. He was a teacher now. My mom was devastated. Hell, we all were.”
My arm reaches out to grab his, but they’re still in his pockets so I jerk my hand back quickly, hoping he didn’t notice. “Why were you in juvi?”
Derek glances behind me, watching another group of people make their way into this exhibit. He nods toward the left and I follow him into the next room. He watches the furniture instead of me as he tells the rest of his story. “We kept in touch. After a while she got really different. Sad. Kind of pulled into herself and wouldn’t hang out with me anymore. I found out that her fucking asshole of a father had been abusing her.”
My hand covers my lips and I almost run into a fake wall. “Oh god.”
His hand reaches out, tenderly grabbing my arm to stop me from falling into a hat stand made out of guns and fake bones. At least I hope they’re fake. “I should have called the cops. I shouldn’t have taken matters into my own hands.” He swallows and runs his hand down my arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps on my skin before letting go. “In that moment though, I wanted him dead. He’s in jail now. He can’t hurt her again.”
I open my mouth to speak but I know anything I say won’t be nearly enough. “I’m sorry.”
He gives me a sad smile and grabs my hand, pulling me into the next room. “I couldn’t tell you about it because I was still dealing with the police. It’s a confidential case because she’s a minor. I just didn’t want to get into any more trouble so when they told me I couldn’t talk about the case to anyone else until it was over, I didn’t.”
“I understand. I’m so sorry Derek.”
His fingers run across my fancy hairdo and he smirks. “She saved her name in my phone like that. I didn’t even know it was supposed to be a heart until she explained it. You girls and your weird internet stuff. Nice hair, by the way.”
“Shut up,” I say as I duck under a sheer curtain and disappear into a white room. My breath catches in my throat as I look around the whimsical room. The walls are made from sheer white fabric that covers hundreds of clear lights that are the only lighting in the room. Sparkling white Corinthian columns hold stacks of the designer’s books. “This is pretty,” I say under my breath.
Derek’s hands slide around my waist, pulling my back to his chest. “Not as pretty as you.”
His breath dances off my neck. He can’t see my eyes roll around sarcastically, but I’m sure he knows they did. I look up and behind my shoulder and smile. “I don’t know about that,” I say. “I don’t glow and sparkle.”
With his arms still around me, he spins me around to face him. His eyes focus on mine. “Do you forgive me?”
A flush fills my cheeks. My heartbeat thumps loud enough that we could dance to the erratic rhythm. I stare at his silky black tie and nod.
His lips kiss my forehead as he pulls me closer to him and I don’t even care that anyone could walk in on us right now. “I never thought I could care about someone as much as I care about you. I will never hurt you, Wren.”
I smile and my eyes go all blurry until all I can see are his gorgeous eyes looking into mine and the reflection of a thousand tiny sparkling lights. “I won’t hurt you either.”
The brim of his silly hat taps against my forehead. “Does that mean you’re mine?”
I don’t need a script to tell me what to say next.
“Yes.”
Cheyanne is a native Texan with a fear of cold weather and a coffee addiction that probably needs an intervention. She loves books, sarcasm, nail polish and paid holidays. She lives near the beach with her family, one spoiled rotten puppy and a cat that is most likely plotting to take over the world.
Find Cheyanne on the web:
Twitter @NormalChey
www.Facebook.com/AuthorCheyanneYoung
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