Pieces of Me (4 page)

Chapter 5

Judging from her neatly made bed and color-coordinated closet, you would never know how dirty Olivia’s room really is. However, from my current position I can see that there are old socks, wadded up pieces of notebook paper, old pens missing caps, random earrings, and more hairballs than I could imagine possible hiding underneath her furniture. She somehow managed to get a dorm room all to herself which is probably a good thing since there isn’t any room for a roommate anyway.

             
It makes me wonder what life would have been like had I started college when I was supposed to instead of a year late. Sean and I had talked about getting a place together but my parents insisted that I needed to live in the dorms for at least a year to get the “real” college experience.

             
Then everything with Sean happened. I locked myself in my room for months, barely eating or drinking anything. By the time I resurfaced, I don't think my mother really cared about whether I would get the most authentic college experience—I think she was just happy that I was among the living again. She didn't even bat an eyelash when I told them I wanted to live off-campus.

             
“Can I stand up yet?” I'm beginning to get dizzy from all the blood rushing to my head.  It feels like I have been bent over at the waist for at least ten minutes while she aggressively brushes the tangles out of my thick brown hair.

             
“Almost,” she says, brushing a few more vicious strokes. “There!”

              I stand up, flipping my long, chocolate-brown hair back and fix a pointed look at her.

             
“Perfection!” she chimes cheerfully. She runs the brush through my hair a few more times touching it up in a few places so obviously it's not quite ‘perfection’ yet. I sigh loudly, cursing myself for ever agreeing to this make-over.

             
“Ready?” Olivia asks as she touches up her lip gloss.

             
“I guess. I feel weird though.” I pull at the hem of the way-too-short dress she practically forced me to wear.
              “Don't over think it.” She rolls her eyes at me. “Just look at yourself,” she says as she turns me around to face my reflection in her floor length mirror hanging on the back of her door.  She has worked wonders on my hair somehow managing to make it fall in perfectly smooth dark waves. “Admit it. Go on.”
              “Fine,” I concede. She has given my eyes a smoky look and with the clothes and the way she styled my hair, I don't even recognize myself. “Can I at least wear a jacket? I'm going to freeze to death.”
              “There's no way in hell I'm letting you hide that smokin' body behind an oversized jacket. Now let's go!” She grabs my hand and pulls me out the door.
              I seriously can't believe I actually agreed to this. But after my mom threatened to come visit unless I had something besides work and classes to tell her about, I figured I didn't have much choice in the matter.
              Kensington College is so small that there aren't any traditional fraternities or sororities but there are a couple of old houses that are considered the “party houses” so it's practically the same thing.
              Olivia told me that the house was just down the street from the dorms so we could just walk there. This suited me just fine since I'm still pretty uncomfortable getting into a car—I can manage to ride in the passenger seat if I have to but I flat out refuse to drive anymore.
              I can hear the music as soon as we step outside of Barnaby Hall so I guess she's right. The crisp autumn air is brisk and the wind has picked up since I arrived at the dorm.  Chills run down my arms and legs leaving goosebumps in their path and I silently curse her for refusing to let me wear a jacket. 
              “Do you think my bike will be okay?” I had secured it to the rack outside the red-brick dorms before heading up to her room. It was the only one in sight.
              She laughs. “Aria, no one in their right mind is going to steal that piece of shit.”
              The leaves are finally changing colors and though it's dark outside, I can see their vibrancy even in the shadows.
              Once inside the old Victorian-style house, Olivia is fluttering all over the place like a true social butterfly, and she's dragging me along with her. At some point she shoves a red cup in my  hand, which I try to refuse. She just rolls her eyes at me and continues chatting away with some guys that are flirting with her. I'm left with no choice but to hold the stupid cup. I glance around the room, realizing there isn't anyone here that I know or that I even want to talk to. Why did I let her convince me to come here?
              I start searching for a bathroom to hide away in until it's time to leave when I spot Holden leaning casually against a window, watching the newly bare tree branches dancing in the wind outside, seemingly oblivious to the girls who are desperately trying to engage him in conversation. He acknowledges them every once in a while but he always returns his gaze out the window.
              Finally the girls give up and walk away. I watch him pour the contents of his cup into an abandoned one on the end table closest to him—which is both gross and
really
weird.
              He must feel my eyes on him because he looks up and grins sheepishly at me. I wave awkwardly and he walks over to me.
              “Hi,” he says.
              “Hi,” is my lame response. “Um, what was that?”
              “What was what?” He feigns ignorance.
              I cock an eyebrow at him and wait for him to respond. He sighs loudly in defeat.
              “I'm pretty sure those girls slipped something in my drink,” he says in an attempt to justify his actions, throwing in a smirk for good measure.
              “So you decided to drug some other unsuspecting person? Nice.”
              Ignoring my question he says, “You seem like you're looking for a place to hide.”
              “Yeah, I guess this isn't really my scene.”
              “Wanna get out of here?”
              “Yeah, but I sorta came here with someone.”
              “Boyfriend?”
              I swallow painfully before shaking my head no.
              He seems to just know without me actually saying the words that 'boyfriend' isn't exactly a good topic of discussion and moves on without pause. “How do you think you're going to do in Bio this semester?”
              “Ugh. I don't know. I hate science.”
              “Really?”
              “Yeah, it doesn't really make a whole lot of sense to me so I'm dreading the first test.”
              “Well, I can help you study if you'd like.”
              “No, that's okay. I'm sure I'll manage.”
              “Hilburn can be a bit of a dick so don't hesitate to ask me if you need help, okay?”
              “Thanks, but like I said, I'm sure I'll be okay.”
              I see Olivia dancing on the make-shift dance floor in the living room with Beck. Holden follows my gaze and says, “You know, I don't think she'll even notice if you leave for a while. I could really go for some ice cream right about now.”
              “Ice cream? It's freezing outside.”
              “It's never too cold for ice cream. You in?”
              For a second, I consider taking him up on the offer, if only just to get out of this buzzing house. But I shake my head. “Nah, I think I'm just going to head home.”
              “So soon?”
              “Yeah.”
              “Do you need a ride?”
              “No, I'm just going to walk back to the dorms. My bike is there.”
              “Your bike? Didn't peg you as a biker chick. I ride a CBX.”
              “No, I mean—I'm not. Unless you count bikes of the non-motorized variety.”
              “Not quite the same thing.”
              “I didn't think so.”
              “So what exactly are we talking about here? A Schwinn?”
              In this chaotic room with warm bodies flailing around, the potent smell of every kind of alcohol you can imagine mixed in with sweat, overpowering cologne, and perfume surrounds us. The co-eds who have lost all sense of reason due to raging hormones and drunken stupidity are flirting loudly. Some are even practically fornicating on the dance floor, but despite the sensory overload and distractions, Holden stands out in the room like a smiling beacon.              
              And he's staring at me like nothing else matters. I don't know why, but I'm thinking it must be the dress. I immediately regret not fighting Olivia on the whole jacket thing. I feel naked and exposed and I want to go home now more than ever.
              “Aria?” His smooth voice breaks through my thoughts. “Are you okay?”
              “Sorry, um, distracted. What were you saying?”
              “We were establishing that you are not, in fact, a biker chick.”
              “Um, yeah, I mean—no, I'm not. It's a Schwinn.” I think about the brand new Subaru sitting in the same spot my dad parked it in nearly a month ago and I feel embarrassed not for the first time that I can't make myself sit in the driver's seat. “I mean, I do have a car but—”
              “Is it broke-down or something? I'm not an expert by any means, but I know the basics. I used to spend every summer when I was growing up with my Gran and Gramps. He had a thing for old cars. He was constantly restoring them. He taught me a thing or two—”
              “I don't need to hear your whole life story,” I interrupt.
              “Yeah, sorry, I tend to ramble when I get nervous. My whole point is that I can take a look at it if you want?” He shrugs nervously and I feel bad for snapping at him. There's really no reason for me to be rude to him—he's just making conversation.
              “No, I mean, it's fine. Drives great.” I assume so anyway.  “I just prefer riding my bike. Doing my part to cut down the air pollution and all.”
              “How green of you,” he says with a smirk. “Can I at least walk you?”
              “It's not far.”
              “I insist. It's dark and you're awfully little—how tall are you? Four-foot-nine?” Holden grins.
              “Five-foot-one and a half thank you very much.”
              “Exactly, you're tiny. Easy mugging target,” he says seriously.
              “And how do I know you aren't some crazy serial killer?” I narrow my eyes suspiciously at him.
              “Do I look like a serial killer to you?”
              “I’m sure that’s exactly what Ted Bundy said right before he lured his unsuspecting victims to a secluded location as well.”
              “Did you seriously just compare me to Ted Bundy?”
              I shrug noncommittally.
              “Well, then. I guess you have to decide whether ice cream is worth the risk that I might be a serial killer.”
              I eye him carefully before saying, “I think I'll pass. But thanks.”
              “Shot down again,” he mocks disbelief. Or maybe he really is in disbelief. I can’t imagine that he gets turned down very often. “You’re killing me, Smalls”
              “Um, sorry?” I offer apathetically. What does he want me to say?
              “You sure don't crack easily,” he says thoughtfully, “But it's okay, I can be patient.”
              “What are you talking about?”
              “I'll be patient, because I bet when you finally smile, it'll all be worth it.” He saunters away, leaving me staring in confusion in his wake.
              Why would he say something like that? I shake it off and look for Olivia on the dance floor. I don't want to interrupt Olivia's dance with Beck but I also didn't want to just bail on her either. So I tell her that I'm ready to leave so she isn’t looking for me later.
              “Are you sure?” she asks.
              “Yeah, I'm just really tired.”
              “Okay, well let me go tell Beck I'm leaving.”
              “You don't have to leave. I can walk home alone.”              “Ha! Yeah, that's not happening. Be right back!” She dances off towards Beck and whispers in his ear. He looks mildly disappointed which makes me feel bad. I really was perfectly fine walking home alone. It was only a couple of blocks and I have pepper spray.
              “All right! Let's go!” She links her arm through mine. I guess if I was going to have a friend forced upon me, I could do much worse than this bubbly, over exuberant blonde. I bet, if I let her, she might even teach me how to laugh again.

Chapter 6

I walk out of my biology class in a fog. Failed? I actually
failed
? I've never failed anything before. It's not like I was expecting to get an A or even a B but I at least hoped that I would pass. But failed? Never anticipated that. The anxiety is making me feel sick and I don't know what to do. Did I just not study enough? Is this how college is going to be? God, I hope not.
              I shove the test marked angrily in red into the side pocket of my backpack. I will look it over more thoroughly when I get home tonight. Maybe my professor will let me do some extra credit to make up for it. I doubt it, but it won't hurt to ask. Or maybe if I do ask, he'll not only deny me the chance to bring up my grade but also decide to make the rest of my semester completely miserable for having the nerve to even make such a request. That seems in-line with what I know of him so far—grumpy old man. I kind of want to kick something to take out some of my frustration. I failed? What am I going to do?
              It's Tuesday so my only morning class is my Bio lab. By the time I get to The Java Bean I'm in a seriously bad mood. I bring my biology book with me so that I can read during the down time this afternoon. Maybe if I just read and re-read the material it will finally click in my brain. Maybe if I ace the rest of the tests this semester I can at least pull off a passing grade in the class.
              As usual the afternoon is pretty much dead so I take advantage and focus on
the next unit of biology, the oh-so-exciting stages of cell reproduction. The pictures depicting interphase, prophase, metaphase, and anaphase all look exactly the same to me. I'm giving myself a headache trying to tell the difference.|
              “What are doing?”
              “Studying.”
              “Do you need any help?”
              “Are you even allowed? Wouldn't that be, like, a conflict of interest or something since you're the lab assistant?”
              “I won't tell if you won't,” he says with a smirk. “But honestly, it's perfectly ethical. That is, of course, unless you start asking me for early test questions.”
              “I think I can manage on my own. But thanks.”
              “Well, if you change your mind, just give me a call.” He writes down his number on the inside cover on my notebook.
              “Holden!” I turn toward the voice and see a woman glide in through the front door. Her blonde hair is cut short in a modern pixie style and she's wearing a rainbow colored poncho and cream-colored skinny jeans with huge silver circles dangling from her earlobes. She throws her arms around Holden and kisses his cheeks. “How has my handsome boy been?”
              “Fine, Mom. This is Aria Watkins, our new employee that Mason hired in your absence.” Holden gestures toward me.
             
Our
new employee? I quickly try to hide the notebook and books I have sprawled out around me—not exactly the best first impression to impart on my apparent boss.
              “Aria Watkins? Your name sounds familiar. Is your family from around here?” she asks with a perplexed expression.
              “No ma'am. I'm just here for school. My family is all back in Kansas.”
              “Ah, I see. Must just be one of those names,” she replies thoughtfully.
              “I guess so ma'am.”
              “Well, it’s nice to meet you Aria. I'm Suzi Whitmore, owner and founder of this fine establishment.” She holds out her hand to me.
              “Nice to meet you too, ma'am.”
              “Oh sweetie, please, call me Suzi. We'll have none of that 'ma'am' nonsense here.”
              I blush and nod. “Yes, ma'am. I mean, Suzi.”
              She smiles affectionately before turning her attention back to Holden.
              “Tell me everything I've missed.”
              He fills her in on how Mason is handling his new-found responsibilities as assistant manager and tells her about school. I try not to eavesdrop but I can't concentrate enough to study now with Suzi here so I try to keep myself busy. I wipe down the countertops and restock the creamers and sugar over on the condiments counter.               Business is dead at the moment, so of course it's quiet which makes it impossible not to catch bits and pieces of their conversation. I learn that Holden's a senior pre-med major and his classes sound a million times more intimidating than mine.              
              She makes herself a cup of coffee while listening to Holden talk. Something about his demeanor has changed since her arrival. I notice right away that he seems almost on edge when usually he's so open and friendly.
              “Have you talked to Meredith?” she asks quietly, and it's not entirely my fault that my ears perk up. Who's Meredith?
              “No.”
              “She's supposed to be in town this week so I assumed she would call. That's odd that she didn't.”
              “She did.”
              “But you said—”
              “I said I hadn't talked to her, I didn't say she hadn't tried.” His tone is biting and it's pretty obvious that whoever this Meredith chick is, she's a pretty hot topic and not one that Holden wishes to discuss.
              “I think it's time you forgive her honey.”
              He busies himself with the espresso machine, not even bothering to look back up at his mom. She finally sighs in defeat.
              “Well, I better go see what Mason has done to the books in my absence. Good to meet you, Aria.” Suzi holds up her coffee in a toast before taking a sip and heading to the back.
              When she's out of hearing range I turn to Holden. “So your mom is the owner?”
              “Yep.”
              “You work for your mom.”
              “That would be correct.”
              “Is that weird?” I ask, thinking about how I can barely stand to talk to my mom on the phone—I can't imagine having to work with her.
              He laughs. “No, not really. Well, until she starts trying to interfere in my personal life. Besides, she's rarely here. Travels a lot,” he says apathetically. It must be nice to be able to afford to travel all the time. Even if my parents had the money, I doubt my dad would want to leave the farm for very long.
              “What does your dad do?”
              “No clue.” He takes in my confused expression and sighs heavily before continuing. “Mom left him when I was a baby. I guess they had some issues.”
              “Oh.” My parents are happily married....annoying, well my mom is anyway, but happily married. I can't imagine what life would be like if they weren't together. “Do you ever see him?”
              “Um, well. No,” he says reluctantly. “He's actually in jail right now.”
              “For what?” I ask in shock, without thinking about how rude it might seem. I mean, it's not every day I talk to someone whose dad is sitting in a jail cell.
              He runs a hand nervously through his hair and coughs uncomfortably like he's trying to clear his throat.
              “I'm sorry. It's okay, I didn't mean to pry.”
              “It's okay. It's just not many people ask about him so I'm not used to talking about it.”
              “Seriously, I'm sorry. You don't have to talk about it.”
              “I—” he starts but the first customer of the evening rush walks in, effectively ending the conversation.
              The Java Bean is surprisingly packed for the rest of my shift and by the time we close for the night I'm exhausted. The idea of pedaling even the short distance to my apartment is daunting.
              “Want a ride?” Holden's voice in the quiet parking lot startles me.
              “No, it's okay. It's not—”
              “Far. Yeah, I know,” he finishes with a defeated tone. “Check ya later.”
              I watch him walk over to a vehicle a few spots down from where I'm standing. Right before he opens the door of some rusty old car that looks like it saw its prime in the sixties, he looks up at me with a smirk and I realize I've been caught staring at him.
              I try to play it off but my hands are shaking as I clumsily try to unlock the chain on my bike. It sticks so I pull hard. Apparently it was a little too hard because my left hand flies to the side forcibly hitting the hard metal of the rack. “Holy fuck!” The pain knocks me off balance and I fall to the ground landing hard on my butt.

             
“Are you okay?” Holden is at my side, taking my hand slowly into his and gingerly feeling it. “Can you move it?”
              “No!” I hiss through my teeth. Oh my God, I'm going to cry right here in front of this guy over my stupid hand.

             
“Try,” he says softly. “Just wiggle your fingers.”

             
I take a deep breath and do as he instructs. My fingers move but it hurts like hell.

             
“Good, not broken.” He seems oddly relieved considering it's not his hand. “You're going to have a killer bruise though. Let's go get you some ice.” He helps me up by my elbow, then whispers, “Never would have expected such vulgar words could come out of that pretty mouth.”

             
I just glare at him since the pain in my hand has left me unable to articulate properly for the time being. He just smirks at me in return. Jerk.

             
He forces me to lean on him like some sort of invalid as he guides me back into The Java Bean. He flips on the lights and then sits me on one of the plush arm chairs.

             
“I'll be right back,” he says and a moment later he returns with a makeshift icepack in a towel. He kneels down in front of me and gently lifts my hand up onto the arm of the chair, placing the ice pack down slowly on my already swelling hand.
              “Ow!” I exclaim, jerking my hand back away from the freezing cold sting and end up hurting myself again in the process. “I thought you said it wasn't broken.”

             
“It's not, just bruised.”

             
“Why is it swelling then?”

             
“You hit it pretty hard, but  if you can move your fingers, trust me, it's not broken. It's going to be sore for a few days though.”

             
“How do you know?”

             
“I don't know. Chuck it up to the last two years of pre-med, the numerous first aid classes I've taken and the fact that I just know.”

             
“Oh, yeah. That's right.” I blush as I realize I just admitted to eavesdropping on his conversation with his mom earlier. If he notices the slip, he doesn't acknowledge it.

             
“Yeah,” he says with a shrug as he continues examining my hand.

             
“I would've pegged you for a business major.”

             
“And why's that?” He looks up at me curiously.

             
It's my turn to shrug because I honestly don't know why I thought that. It's not like he's ever given me the impression that he is the stereotypical slacker type who doesn't know what he wants to do with his life so he just picks a generic business degree. “I guess I just assumed you were training to take over this place.”

             
“Oh, God no. I've had enough of this coffee shop to last me a life time.”

             
“What kind of doctor do you want to be?”

             
“I'm not one hundred percent sure yet,” he sighs. “Are you ready to go home?”

             
“Yeah,” I say apprehensively. How am I going to ride my bike now? I guess I can just walk.

             
He must've read my thoughts. “I'll drive you. Your bike will fit in my trunk.”

             
“Speaking of which, I thought you said you had a motorcycle— a CBS or something like that?”

             
“A CBX,” he chuckles. “And yes I do.”

             
“So you have a motorcycle and a car?”

             
“Yep.” He looks uncomfortable, like he doesn't really want to talk about it which doesn't make any sense. It's not like I asked him anything personal. He doesn't offer up any more information.

             
“I guess I'm relieved you didn't ride your bike in today.”

             
“Yeah, me too. Must be fate.”

             
“I'll blame you for hurting my hand then.”

             
“How do you figure?”

             
“Well, if it really was fate, then if you had ridden your motorcycle instead of driving your piece of crap car today, I never would've hurt my hand.”

             
“Piece of crap?” His face lit up into a shocked expression. “I’ll have you know that car’s a classic.”