Page 18 of Rooke
“Sasha.”
The sound of my name stills my hand on the cracked snow globe I was inspecting. Rooke’s voice is hushed in the narrow, cramped space of the shop, but it seems to fill the place up from top to bottom, settling heavily into the corners of the room. I turn around and he’s standing in front of the velvet curtain with his hands in the pockets of his ripped jeans. Seconds ago I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea of him working here. It’s funny how an idea can alter so rapidly in the space between heartbeats. Hedoesbelong here. The relaxed, calm way he holds himself says he spends long hours here. This is his natural habitat. It doesn’t matter that Lebenfeld and Schein Antique Jewelry, Watch Repair & Curios is packed to the rafters with antiques and curios that are probably three or four times older than Rooke. He fits in here in the most unexpected way that I can’t seem to put my finger on.
“Hi.” I just stand there, staring at him. There’s a good fifteen feet of space between us, not to mention one very tired, beaten up desk, and yet it feels like he’s looming over me anyway. He smiles incredibly slowly, averting his eyes as he looks down at the floor.
“I kind of remember you screaming that you didn’t ever want to see me again less than twelve hours ago. You can see how you showing up here might be a little confusing.”
I nod slowly. “I can see that. I guess I just...” All desire to embarrass him and make him feel bad goes out of the window. I look at him properly for the first time since we met in the hallway outside Oscar’s office, and I can tell he’s holding his breath a little. He’s arrogant. He’s a bully in a lot of ways, but he’s also a twenty-three-year-old just trying to figure out his shit.
“You just…what?” he asks. “You came here to apologize for yelling at me?”
“Yeah. I did. I’m sorry.”
Rooke shakes his head. “It was a dick move, showing up at your place like that. I should haveacted with a little more decorum.” He speaks as if he’s borrowing the words from someone else, as if he’s heard that phrase a couple of times before. “I promise I won’t show up unannounced again.” He rocks on his heels, giving me a tight smile.
“I’m not…I’m not even used to talking to guys anymore, Rooke,” I rush out. “It’s not something I’ve ever been good at. And you’re…”
“So young?” The look on his face is bitter now.
“Yes. Youareyoung. A hell of a lot younger than me. You coming to the house, you having read that stupid book…and then saying what you did…it threw me off balance for a second. Okay, more than a second. It threw me off balance until just now, actually.”
Rooke sighs. He leans forward, placing his elbows on the desk, resting his chin on his fists. He’s wearing yet another black button-down shirt, this time in washed out faded denim. I pay more attention to his tattoos this time; it looks like there are a pair of matching compasses on the undersides of his forearms, both etched in black with intricate geometric patterns spiraling out from them. “Well, I’m glad to hear you’re not suffering from vertigo anymore,” he says softly. “What happened a second ago to make the room stop spinning? Just to settle my curiosity.”
I force out a faintly nervous laugh. He seems so serious right now that I don’t know how to take him. “I just realized that, I don’t know…I was being stupid. You’re not a threatening person. You’re harmless. You’re just a young guy, having fun, and for a really brief moment the idea ofmewas probably interesting to you.”
He stands up straight, his back rigid, his brow creased all of a sudden. “I have more than a five second attention span, y’know. I’m not a child, Sasha. I’m not some adolescent who gets distracted by shiny, pretty things every other second of the day.”
I’ve offended him. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that you’re a guy, and you’re hardly going grey, are you? I know what it’s like to be twenty-three, Rooke.”
He folds his arms across his chest. I try not to notice how strong and corded with muscle they are, or how ridiculously big his biceps are. “What was it like when you were twenty-three?” he demands.
“Well. Guys seemed to take a lot less care of themselves than they do these days.”
“I mean what were you doing? You’d finished college, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you’d had serious relationships with guys, right?”
My stomach rolls unpleasantly. “Yes.”
Rooke tips his head to one side, studying me intensely. “You were well on your way to being married, I’m betting. You probably already owned that fancy house of yours. Were you working at the museum when you were twenty-three?” I don’t answer him. I don’t want to admit that he’s right. About any of it. He sees the truth in my eyes, though, and he continues. “And you’re here, making out that I’m incapable of maintaining focus for more than a minute? I think you’ve just forgotten what being twenty-three is like. If this was eighteen sixty-three, I’d probably have been married for seven years, and I’d have three kids.”
“If this was eighteen sixty-three, your poor wife would have to put up with you sleeping with three or four mistresses and she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. And you’d also probably be dead from syphilis.”
This seems to amuse him. “So now I’m riddled with STIs?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I’m not. Just so you know.”
“Good for you, Rooke. Good for you.” Our conversation seems to be taking a turn for the worst. I felt magnanimous toward him a moment ago, but I’m feeling less and less generous as the seconds tick by. How old does he actually think I am? How can he say I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be twenty-three? That’s fucking preposterous. “Anyway. I’m sorry I shouted at you, okay?” I say in a clipped manner. “I have to get to work now. Goodbye, Rooke.”
“If you don’t think I’m a threat, you won’t mind going on a date with me then, will you?” He casually tosses the words out there, stopping me in my tracks as I head for the door.
“What?”
“A date, Sasha. Dinner, specifically.”
