Page 4 of Heathens
Blinking rapidly, I shake my head. “No. I changed my mind.”
He shrugs and throws it up into the air, catching it easily before tossing it into his cart. His eyes wander down my body briefly. “I’m Benedict.”
“Lily,” I reply, holding my hand out. My smile wavers as he grips my hand. My stomach sinks and I can’t think of anything other than the fact that I found him without looking.
I want to scream.
The notion makes me want to scream.
“I like your overalls,” he says, smirking.
Wrinkling my nose, I give him a genuine smile. “I was in a darkroom all day,” I admit, smoothing out the lines in the baggy pants.
“You’re a photographer?” His voice is laced with seduction. He doesn’t give two shits about photography. He’s a guy, and he wants what they all want. I nod, and his smile builds slowly. “What kind of pictures do you take?”
“Dark ones,” I blurt. “Mixed media stuff. Lots of black and swirls and blurred lines.”
I gleefully take in his shocked expression. “Interesting,” he responds. I can tell he’s debating whether or not I’m worth the chase.
Nodding, I feel my ponytail tickle the back of my neck. “Well, I should go. Nice meeting you, Benedict.” Might as well make his decision easy. Besides, as bile creeps up my throat, I realize that it’s probably a blessing in disguise. He dodged a bullet.
I turn to grab my basket, but he reaches out and grips my wrist. “Would you want to grab a bite to eat tonight?”
My eyes wander to where he holds me and then back up to his eyes.
His.
Eyes.
Calm down.
I need to sit down. I shouldn’t be here with him. Someone else—any sane person—wouldn’t be doing this. He caught me off guard. Caught me before I was ready. How do I respond?
“Sure!” I answer, overly enthusiastic. My delayed response only spurs him on. He thinks I’m nervous. Bringing a shaky hand to my forehead, I take a step away from him, away from the close proximity. “There’s this great falafel place called L’As du Falafel in the Marais. Want to say nine-thirty?”
His vaguely familiar, wolfish smile is all the confirmation I need.
I have the right guy.
“I love that place. See you there, Lily.” Sauntering off, he doesn’t bother with formalities and only offers me a wink over his shoulder as he unloads his cart at the register.
I’m doing this, then.
I’m really doing this.
I wait until he’s gone to finish my shopping—spying through the gaps in the white, metal shelving, hiding behind the large pallets of restocking boxes, ignoring the ding of the cash register until I’mpositivehe’s not here anymore. After paying, I carry the two bags down the broad avenue to my apartment, juggling a cigarette in my lips and trying not to pay attention to the sweat dripping down my back. The familiar melancholy fills me, the aching guilt a close friend.
I loved it here once. Who couldn’t love Paris? It’s impossible. But now, after everything that happened, it is my refuge and my hell, all packaged up in a neatly wrapped box. Everyone’s dream—and yet, it is my undoing.
The Edwardian building is just old enough to be a cliché—too dilapidated to be expensive, too new to be historically beautiful. I nudge the front gate open with my hip and walk up the three flights of stairs, cursing the lack of airflow in this city and dropping ash on the carpet from the dangling cigarette. Our hallways already smell like cigarettes, and they’re littered with old ash anyway.
“This heat feels like the devil’s asshole,” my elderly neighbor, Rosemary, mutters from her folding chair. I smile. She’s holding a portable fan, and the door to her apartment is open.
“That’s an excellent description,” I answer, amused. I set my groceries down and hand her a cigarette, lighting it for her.
“Thanks, doll face.” Rosemary is precisely one-hundred years old, British, and has the filthiest mouth out of anyone I’ve ever met. She also loves to pretend our communal hallway is her private front porch and swears the breeze is better here than in her apartment.
“You got a package,” she adds, nodding her head toward my doorway.
