Dream Woman: Would it be politically incorrect if I said I preferred blondes? Deep brown eyes. Tall and leggy. A science-related degree a bonus. Someone serious, a must. Enjoys parties, fine wine, and taking the paths less traveled in life.
I clutched my glass of cabernet to my chest, feeling personally attacked. His dream woman happened to be the polar opposite of me. Almost like he’d designed her envisioning everything that I wasn’t.
Calm your tits, Ari. He wasn’t throwing shade. He didn’t know you existed until six hours ago.
“I know we’re supposed to hate him, but since he is going to lose this case and get a giant slice of humble pie, can you tell me if he is as gorgeous in real life as he is in the picture?” Jillian repositioned herself on my bed.
Sadly, he looked even better up close. Of course, I wasn’t gracious enough to admit that.
“He’s hideous. Barf worthy.” I flung the stupid magazine into a trash can nearby, not surprised to find Christian’s face still smirking at me from the edge of said trash can. The man was going to haunt me through this lifetime and, very likely, the next four, if reincarnation was a thing. “It’s all Photoshop. He looks like a cross between an ogre and Richard Ramirez.”
“Richard Ramirez has been dead for years.”
“Exactly.”
Jillian pursed her lips, obviously not buying this. Finally, she said, “Well, screw him, even if he looks like a demigod. If he’s after your family, I consider him an enemy too.”
“Thanks.” I drew in another deep breath, feeling marginally better from the alliance declaration. If nothing else, I’d robbed Christian Miller of the ability to date one of the finest women in Manhattan. Jilly was a catch.
“Just to be sure—does that mean I can find his number on LinkedIn?” Jillian joked.
I swatted my best friend’s shoulder. “Traitor.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
ARYA
Past
He was here.
Finally.
I could tell by the footsteps. The way they brushed against the limestone. Steady, measured, precise. His knockoff sneakers kissed the floor. I closed my eyes, balancing against a bookshelf in the library, my breath fluttering in my chest like a butterfly.
Ten months. It’s been ten long months. Come find me.
A shot of thrill rolled through my belly. I’d never done this before. Made myself unavailable to Nicholai. No matter how much I wanted to wait for him by the door, like an eager puppy, ready with all the books and stories I wanted to share with him, I didn’t. I wanted to reinvent myself this summer break. To be mysterious and alluring and all the other things I read about in the books that made heroines worth fighting for.
I was in the library, clutching a black-and-white paperback of Atonement by Ian McEwan, wearing a mint-green satin nightgown. I’d read the book in February, after stealing it from the school’s library just to feel what it was like to take what wasn’t mine, and then every month since I’d waited to tell Nicky about it. Even though we lived in the same city, we might as well be living in parallel universes. Our worlds didn’t touch, our lives orbiting around different schools, people, and events. It was only during summer break that we collided. That the universe burst with colors.
Several times throughout the year I’d found myself itching to send him a letter or an email or even pick up the phone and call. Each time, I’d had to talk myself off the ledge. He never sought me out between summers—why should I? Maybe to him we were nothing but a lame version of summer camp. Maybe we weren’t even friends. Just two kids spending the summer in one confined space, carelessly forgotten by the adults who’d made us.
Maybe he had a girlfriend now.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
So I waited. Stewed on the book. Marinated in the feelings it evoked within me. They always brought me back to him. Nicholai. My Nicky.
The footsteps grew louder, closer.
I tucked a flyaway behind my ear, willing my heart to beat slower. I’d been crushing on Nicholai Ivanov since that first day at the cemetery; I’d just never put a name to that feeling I had for him before. Not until this year, when everyone at school had seemed to pair up into couples. Having a boyfriend had somehow switched from a shameful thing only bad girls did to the height of one’s existence overnight, and I’d fallen behind on the trend. None of these couples actually talked to each other during school hours or hung out, but they had the title, and whenever there was an outing or a birthday, the couples would whisper to each other and kiss.
Kissing, too, had become a rite of passage. Something to be checked off a list. There was not one boy at school I wanted to kiss.
The only lips I wanted to feel against mine were Nicholai’s.
I flipped through the pages of Atonement, but the words kept slipping, as if falling from the pages. I was surprised there wasn’t a pile of letters at my feet. It was hopeless. Trying to concentrate on anything that wasn’t him.
And then . . . bliss. Nicholai’s body filled the doorframe in my periphery. Holey shoes, jeans ripped in all the wrong places, and a faded shirt, frayed at the edges. Each year he sharpened into something more beautiful.
I pretended not to notice him.
“Sup.” An unlit cigarette butt was tucked in the corner of his mouth. I pondered what the great Beatrice Roth would think about the fact I wanted to kiss a boy who shoved used cigarettes from the street into his mouth. Probably not much, to be honest. As long as I didn’t bring a disease into the house, she wouldn’t have minded if I sawed my own limbs off as a fashion statement.
I looked up. “Oh. Hey, Nicky.”