Sidetracked: Part 1 Page 8

  “It’s alright. She wasn’t sure either.”

  “Hey, your new boyfriend’s last name is Monroe too, right?”

  “He’s technically not my boyfriend,” I say, “but yes.”

  “Ice and Night... They have some weird names, huh?”

  That’s exactly what I said.

  “Anyway, are you having fun in Arizona?”

  I drop the soiled cotton pads into the wastebasket and turn on the cold water to wet a washcloth.

  “Not as much fun as you,” she says. A pause. “Hey, am I on speaker?”

  “You’ve been on speaker the whole time.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  I finish rinsing my face and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look tired, but I regret not putting my hair up considering I bothered wearing makeup.

  Rose clears her throat. “Well, we should definitely order pizza when I get back.”

  “Sounds good. I can’t wait.”

  ten

  I PROBABLY PUT TOO much effort into my appearance, but I’ve been nervous since our phone call yesterday. Ice invited me out to dinner—a fancy dinner.

  He has something important to tell me, and I’m meant to dress well, but I have no idea what it’s about. He refused to share any hints over text or during the equally vague phone call, so I’m at a complete loss...

  What could he possibly want to say? Where are we going? How important is important? Is it something bad?

  Is it a love confession?

  Ha!

  I’ll find out soon enough, but, right now, I’m more concerned with my state of dress. Am I overcompensating by wearing jewelry, or am I still not dressed up enough? Did I paint my nails the right color? Should I have bothered painting them at all?

  It’s almost six.

  I’ve been pacing, checking my phone more than I should. If I don’t calm down, I’ll just embarrass myself when he shows up. Well, no— I’m sure I’ll embarrass myself tonight regardless, but stressing out won’t help.

  I should...distract myself.

  Maybe I could put my hair up? A ponytail? Or a bun?

  Hm... A bun will work as long as it isn’t too messy.

  Styling my hair into a decent half-up, half-down look wastes a good five minutes, after which I continue staring in the mirror. Large, anxious green eyes stare back, so I practice looking like I’m not terrified while applying a third coat of mascara.

  My winged eyeliner isn’t perfect. My attempt at smoky eyeshadow is timid at best.

  I am wearing lipstick.

  I never wear lipstick!

  But I glance down at my dress again and worry I haven’t done enough. What kind of formal events has Ice attended in the past? What does dress well mean to the eldest son of a wealthy business family? Dressy casual? Semi-formal? Black tie?

  God, I hope not.

  A knock on the front door startles me.

  I suppress the urge to pretend I’m not home and instead scramble into action, grabbing my purse off the couch on my way to the door. I take a deep breath—do not touch your face; do not smear lipstick everywhere—and I pull the door open.

  For an instant, I swear I’ve seen God himself. Light shining from above. An angelic choir singing.

  Then I blink, clear my mind, and hope I wasn’t drooling.

  Ice is not in a suit and tie, like I had feared, but I immediately realize I’m underdressed. He wears a grey dress shirt and red tie, with the hem of his shirt tucked into dark, pressed slacks. He looks considerably more put-together than usual, which is saying something, and he smells vaguely of cinnamon even from this distance.

  His sleeves have cufflinks.

  I’m wearing a poly cotton summer dress.

  As we scrutinize each other, he regards me with unabashed amusement.

  “I did mention to dress nicely, didn’t I?”

  “This is nice for me,” I say, attempting a curtsy to show off my dress’ flared skirt.

  He laughs, covering his mouth with a raised hand. My informal appearance obviously doesn’t bother him that much if he finds it comical, but it’s still a little humiliating.

  I smooth my dress and ask if I should grab an overcoat—since I own a decent one—but he waves it off.

  “It’s nothing of consequence,” he assures me with an easy smile.

  As we walk to his car, he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, loosens his tie, and unbuttons his collar, transforming his outfit from semi-formal to dressy casual. I feel better, but not by much. I guess I should have worn one of my old homecoming dresses.

  Ice smiles and opens the passenger door for me. The car smells good—like whatever spicy body spray he’s wearing. I fiddle with the thin, silver bracelet on my wrist.

  Semi-formal dress. Something to tell me.

  What kind of date is this?

  “You look nervous.”

  “Ah...” I glance up from my hands, my face warm. “I was just wondering where we’re going.”

  He casts a shifty glance with an equally shifty smile as he turns the key in the ignition. “Don’t worry; it’s my treat.”

  I never assumed for a second it wouldn’t be his treat.

  “What a relief,” I say. “I doubt I could afford whatever you have in mind, anyway.”

  His smile doesn’t falter even as his focus shifts to driving.

  Judging by the route displayed on the silent GPS, we’re heading downtown. There are dozens of fancy restaurants there, but I’ve only eaten at one—an Indian restaurant for a graduation party with a group of Rose’s friends. We were messing around and having a good time, so we didn’t take the upscale atmosphere serious.

  That was nothing like a date.

  Ice clears his throat. “You must be curious to hear what I have to say.”

  “Curious would be putting it lightly,” I mutter.

  I did not mean to say that out loud.

  My heart races as I watch for a negative reaction on his part, but he simply laughs. The same as earlier, he covers his mouth with one hand. He doesn’t normally do that, and I can’t remember him ever taking a hand off the steering wheel while driving before. He’s also talking more than usual.

  Is he nervous too?

  Oh, god...

  With both hands safely planted on the steering wheel, his gaze flicks to the rear-view mirror. His eyes are contemplative, and he doesn’t quite smile or frown.

  “There’s something I haven’t told you about me yet,” he says.

  I ignore the annoying urge to scratch my arm and keep my attention locked on his face. He watches me out of the corner of his eye, gauging my expression between glances at the road ahead.

  “Something about you?” I ask. “Well, what is it?”

  His mouth hitches up on one side. “It’s a secret.”

  Seriously? He’s gonna play it like that?

  Okay. I’m intrigued.

  “A secret? Are you gonna tell me or not?”

  “In time,” he says, averting his eyes. “For now, I need to park.”

  Oh. We’re already at the restaurant?

  I watch the people on the sidewalk through the passenger window until we turn into a parking garage. Ice drives up to the third level and parks in a corner space. The car falls silent as he removes the key from the ignition. He unbuckles his seatbelt, but he doesn’t open his door, so I don’t move either.

  After a beat of silence, he looks to me and smiles.

  “It’s a secret of the most sensitive nature,” he says.

  I frown as concern sets in, crushing my previously lighthearted curiosity. “So, it’s like a real, serious secret, then?”

  “Oh, yes.” He nods, his smile unwavering. “I’m not meant to speak of it freely, but I’ll make an exception for you—if you swear you won’t tell anyone else.”

  “Sure,” I say, the word more like a question than an agreement.

  “Very good.”

  He steps out of the car.

  I fumble to unbuckle my seatb
elt. I never had issues with it before, but my hand trembles. As the button finally clicks beneath my thumb and frees me, the passenger door opens. I hold the strap of my purse to still my hand and look up at Ice, who stands just outside the car. He watches me with a smile and a touch of caution in his eyes.

  “What’s your secret?” my voice asks.

  “I’m not human.”

  “What?”

  I search his face for the punchline. But there isn’t one.

  Amusement creeps into his expression, though he’s clearly not teasing me. His warm, humored smile holds no mischievous darkness. He just finds my startled reaction funny.

  This is not funny.

  I don’t move.

  He sighs and shakes his head. “Now then, Jayde, shall we head inside?”

  He holds a hand out toward me, and I scrutinize his face again, but I still sense no malice. His smile is easygoing and mild, and his eyes are kind. He looks...as human as anyone else—as human as he always has.

  Slowly, I release my grip on my purse’s strap.

  I should see this date through, right?

  My fingers brush his outstretched palm, and his warm hand closes around mine. For an instant, I wish I never agreed to come. But I let him help me out of the car. And I take his arm when he offers it for me to hold.

  As we walk, he prompts a normal, casual, completely unrelated conversation as though he never said anything strange in the first place.

  We already have a reservation at the restaurant. It’s a formal, sit-down establishment with burgundy decor and moody lighting. Service is fast even considering the reservation, as a uniformed waiter ushers us to a small table immediately after greeting us at the front door. Our meal arrives quickly too, and it’s delicious, but the seconds manage to drag on like hours.

  This date is going far worse than I anticipated.

  Ice...isn’t human?

  I pick at my fancy pasta and drink fancy iced tea out of a fancy crystal glass and contribute to our idle conversation. He eats and smiles and chats so easily, and I’m too confused to do anything but follow along. His words echo in my mind, but I have no idea how to bring it up.

  He said the secret is sensitive, but why would he mention it so casually and then drag me inside without any explanation? Just to torture me?

  Ice finishes eating first. A fork clinks softly against the porcelain plate as he sets it down. I’m almost done too.

  Say something—

  “Um...” I look up from my plate. My resolve wavers, but I might burst if I don’t speak up. “You were saying—back at the car...”

  He shrugs. “What of it?”

  Is he playing dumb?

  Are you kidding me?

  I glance around the restaurant. We’re in a secluded corner, and, as far as I can tell, there isn’t anyone within earshot as long as I speak quietly. On the off chance it’s not a joke or weird, edgy metaphor I’m not cultured enough to get...

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” I whisper.

  He canvasses the restaurant himself before watching me for a quiet moment. It drives me up the wall, but at least I know he intends to say something.

  “It’s simple,” he says. “I’m not human like you are, kid.”

  Kid? Yeah, no. I don’t like that. And he said he’s not human aloud like it’s nothing a second time.

  “Not human?” I ask delicately.

  “Not at all.” He smiles, but the expression is soft and strange. “I’m...something different.”

  For once, he seems uncomfortable—his eyes periodically dart around the room, and his usual air of confidence is muted—but I never expected this. We’ve been hanging out for a while. I met his family. They’re normal—for the most part. I refuse to believe he isn’t human. What else could he be?

  Surely, it’s some kind of joke. Still—

  “Okay, fine,” I say with a sigh. “If you’re not...human, what are you?”

  He covers his mouth and laughs like what I said is funny. I don’t find this situation funny at all, but I’m obviously missing something. He stops laughing, checks his watch, and then rests his elbows on the table, holding his chin in his hands with an unwavering smile.

  “I’d love to explain in more detail, but not here. It’s a secret, remember? I only mentioned it because I wanted you to think about it before we talk.”

  Talk?

  “Where?” I ask.

  “Home,” he says. “Will you join me?”

  eleven

  I ACCEPT THE INVITATION.

  As we finish eating, Ice Monroe—Hot Grocery Store Man, the mythical perfect guy who apparently isn’t human—wastes no time in whisking me out of the fancy restaurant and into his car.

  I follow willingly, of course, but the drive from downtown to Westbrooke is tense and silent. I hug my purse and stare out the passenger window. I steal glances at him often, but he focuses only on driving and says little even as he parks on the curb outside his house.

  We walk inside.

  Through the house, and down the hallway.

  If he’s serious...

  Finally, Ice leads me into his bedroom. With a deep breath, and a quick glance at Night’s room across the hall, I close the door behind me.

  “Have a seat,” he says. “This will take some time to explain.”

  He gestures toward his bed, which is neatly made up with a coordinated grey bedding set. I slip out of my heels and sit on the edge. The softness of the mattress throws me off.

  What is it? A pillow-top? Memory foam?

  I scan the rest of the room, looking at anything and everything to avoid making eye contact.

  The bedroom is clean, meticulously organized, and furnished almost entirely in shades of grey and black—though the walls are still a sage green. An end table with a lamp, metal water bottle, and digital alarm clock on top. A short, black bookcase full of hardcover novels—a lot of classics and creative non-fiction, from the look of it.

  My host stands in the middle of the room in front of a desk with next to nothing on it.

  A full-length mirror hangs on the closet door to my left. My reflection sports a terse frown and wary eyes. For some reason, I want to let my hair down, but I can’t bear staring at myself for very long.

  So I return my attention to Ice.

  He’s still quiet, though he watches me carefully.

  I worry I’ll start sweating if he doesn’t get on with it, so I make direct eye contact, but he breaks it immediately. As he glances at the ceiling, he runs a hand through his hair.

  Finally, he refocuses on me, though his cool expression betrays a twinge of discomfort. Not a good sign.

  “Yes. As I said in the car, I am not human.” Despite his uneasy appearance, his voice remains level and calm. “I’m an immortal.”

  “Immortal,” I echo, soaking up the word.

  “Let’s see...” He paces, making a full circle. Then he brings a fist down in his open palm and meets my gaze again. “Immortals and humans are similar, except—”

  “Can you die?” I ask.

  He falls quiet. His eyes are wide, his brows somehow furrowed at the same time. Then he sighs heavily.

  “Of course, I can die. Don’t be absurd.”

  Why is that even more confusing?

  But I keep my mouth shut, and his frown softens.

  “However,” he continues, watching me rather defensively, “one could argue it’s more difficult for an immortal to die than it might be for a human under similar circumstances.”

  I hesitate to ensure he’s finished before I admit I don’t understand.

  “The name is a misnomer. Don’t ask what genius chose it—or why—because I couldn’t tell you, but it is what it is,” he says with a tolerant shrug. If this is a joke, he’s taking it way too far. “In any case, the main difference between humans and immortals is our ability to assume feline form.”

  He winced halfway through his last sentence, and I take solace in the fact he also
finds this conversation overwhelmingly uncomfortable. Still...

  “You can do what?”

  He smooths the front of his shirt. “As an immortal, I have the ability to transform into a cat at will.”

  When I don’t reply, he grimaces.

  “I can turn into a cat,” he says. “You know: fur, ears, tail?”

  Obviously, I know what a cat is, but this is...

  He groans, raises his hands to chest level, and flicks his wrists in a scratching motion. “Meow?”

  I force myself to nod, if only to make him stop before I die of secondhand embarrassment, but I avoid meeting his eyes directly even as he relaxes and drops his hands to his hips.

  “Cat,” he repeats dryly. “In short, immortals are shapeshifters.”

  “Shapeshifters... Is that right?”

  I glance at my lap—at the fabric of my dress balled up in my fists. Is Ice crazy? Is this some kind of game to him? Is the elaborate prank he’s been working toward for weeks finally coming to a head?

  Or is he telling the truth?

  I’m not sure after that sad display. He seems like the type who cares how others see him—that’s the impression I get, anyway—so why would he damage my perception of him like this?

  Seriously, though? A shapeshifter?

  “Tell me you’re kidding,” I say, my mouth dry.

  Our eyes meet, but he merely shrugs.

  “What could I possibly gain by lying to you?” he asks. “I’m dead serious.”

  I stand from the bed and cross my arms over my chest.

  He is several inches taller than me, and my half-assed attempt at intimidation only appears to amuse him. As my eyes narrow, his smirk grows more pronounced.

  It’s a challenge.

  I take the bait.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Oh, come on.” He groans, his frustration only feigned in part. “Surely, you’ve noticed the cat hair around the house. It doesn’t make sense considering we don’t own any cats, does it?”

  He beams down at me.

  “Or perhaps you’re not so observant?”

  I bite my tongue at the accusation because it’s true; I never saw any mysterious cat hair. Not that I went over the carpet with a magnifying glass or anything! I don’t want to admit it, though—in case it is as obvious as he thinks. Instead, I force a smile.