“You’re right here.”
It took no time at all to get her here once her three drunk friends were left off at their apartments.
“I’m right here.” She giggles.
“Here here. Like—on campus?”
“Not quite.” She’s laughing as she unbuckles the seat belt of my truck—which used to be my brother’s truck—shooting me a glance over her shoulder as she shoves the passenger side door open. “Are you coming or not?”
Am I?
I am. Have to if I’m going to kill time and avoid going back to the rugby house, shirking all my responsibilities before they’ve begun. I simply cannot let them know yet how horrible I am at the game.
“Oh, right.”
I trail along after Kaylee, and there are already lights on inside the place, glowing from what’s probably the sitting room with the telly in it.
“Do you have flatmates?”
“Two.”
She doesn’t need a key to let herself in; either that, or they’re terrible about locking up.
She leads me up to a side door and we go in through the kitchen, a tiny little room with only the necessities. It’s small but really nice—well-appointed, if I must admit, and not so stereotypical as all the rest. A bit like my place though not as large, and I really do have to wonder who owns this house because it’s not typical of anything I have seen.
The counters are stone, and not Formica. The floors? Hardwood. The appliances? Stainless.
I remove my shoes from force of habit and mentally give myself a face palm; I have no idea if I’m staying, let alone leaving the kitchen—is it necessary to remove them? A tad presumptuous if I do say so myself.
“Kaylee?” A voice calls from a room off the kitchen—I presume it to be the sitting room, a soft glow spilling out along with the sounds of the telly.
“Hey!” the blonde calls. “Just got back—I have a guest.” She giggles.
“What kind of guest?” the voice volleys back.
A female voice.
Pleasant.
She’s chewing something.
Kaylee laughs, unbuckling the heels tethered to her ankles. “The male kind of guest.”
The pronouncement is followed by silence.
My stomach growls, and I wonder what the girl in the sitting room is munching on.
Kaylee tugs me along by the sleeve, and I’m about to find out.
Rounding the corner, we enter a quaint little room with a leather sofa, oriental rug, two occasional chairs, and a coffee table. There’s also a brick fireplace, telly hanging above it.
Nice.
Real nice.
“Eliza, this is Jack—Jack, my roommate Eliza.”
It’s then that I take in the girl—no, she’s a young woman—resting in the corner of the leather davenport, legs tucked beneath her, what appears to be a sketch pad in her lap.
She’s writing…or sketching, pencil pinched between her thumb and forefinger.
It gives a jaunty twirl. “Hi.”
She’s uninterested in me. Not the least bit impressed by my presence.
Droll, even.
The differences between Kaylee and the roommate are like comparing apples to oranges.
One is blonde, the other has dark hair.
One is dolled up and coifed to the extreme, the other…is wearing casual joggers and has bare feet, hair swept up and piled high on her head, strands falling out everywhere errantly.
A pair of black-rimmed glasses perch on the bridge of her nose.
Her university sweatshirt looks as if she’s had it for years, ripped at the sleeve, faded.
She looks decidedly comfortable, at ease.
At least—until I walked into the room.
“Give me a few minutes, I’m going to change,” Kaylee tells me, giving my forearm a squeeze, and I take my attention off the girl seated in the corner of the room.
It’s not good manners nor wise to ogle a woman in her own home.
I nod to the blonde—why I keep calling her that, I have no idea—not really giving a care what she’s going to do once she leaves the room, only caring that I waste as much time here as possible lest I have to go back to the rugby house for that blasted meeting.
“What are you working on?” I inquire, one part curiosity, one part polite.
Eliza is silent for a few seconds before responding, which I understand; I’m a stranger and a bloke, invading her space and now asking personal questions. Plus, it’s late and well past a time for polite company.
How stodgy does that sound? Ugh.
“Just dabbling.”
Well that gives nothing away, does it? “Are you writing something or sketching something?”
Eliza heaves a sigh.
I’m inconveniencing her. “Both.”
Both.
“Which means what exactly?”
She gives me the side-eye. “What do you care? In two seconds, Kay is going to come traipsing back into the room and the two of you can be on your merry way, and you won’t ever see me again, will you.”
Whoa.
Down girl, I was just making conversation.
Although, she is speaking matter-of-factly and not bitterly, expression well-schooled.
Hmm.
What is this girl’s story, and what is she working on?
On the telly, a green-skinned, muscular humanoid skulks around, a gamma ray transforming Dr. Banner into the Hulk, his shirt tearing away from his body and lying in tatters on the ground.