How did we end up here?
When Dominic called me earlier on to bring his bottle to the restaurant, because he forgot to take it from me when we eventually got rescued from the elevator, I firstly contemplated going back home and pretending to have hit my head on the way back to said home and losing memory of not only him but everything. I had an entire persona planned.
Except that seemed a little too farfetched, so instead of doing that, I just hurried over to the restaurant to give him his bottle and then I'd leave.
Taylor has already sent me a message and a picture of her and Yang Jin, and it seems like they're having the time of their lives.
I just hope they don't finish the snacks before I arrive. Yes, I may not deserve them for ditching my best friend with my brother who may or may not have a crush on her, but who's going to stop me? The answer to that is fate. The same fate that has never liked me.
When I arrived at said restaurant, I managed to sneak in through the back. In the dining area, this is where I found the man of the moment dining with his future wife and her parents.
When I see Jodie's parents for the first time in a long time, I do a double-take.
Kelsey still looks like she did two years ago, except for the fact that she dyed her ginger, curly locks into a darker, bolder red that has been ironed flat. I have to say, she looks beautiful. Mason on the other hand looks like he may have done something to alter his face. Plus, his teeth are extremely white. It cannot possibly be normal. Nevertheless, he still looks like Jodie's father.
"Dominic," I hiss over at him.
I am not surprised when he doesn't turn around. Laughter sounds from the table after he has said something and Jodie turns to grin at him, eyes glimmering with an unknown emotion that makes me frown momentarily.
Instead of making a fool of myself some more by trying to get his attention this way, I pull my phone out and send him a text. A text which produces a soft chime and makes him fish his device out under the table as the family keeps spurting out chuckles to stop laughing.
"Excuse me," I see his mouth moving and I can barely hear him over the chatter that is currently taking place in the restaurant. "I need to take this call outside."
Jodie says something back to him and he smiles at her. He fucking smiles at her.
What the hell is it that Jodie has that makes Dominic so smitten with her?
Genuinely, I am very curious now. My perception has long shifted from he wants to shag her to him, honest to God, having sincere feelings for her. Maybe even loves her, who knows? A scowl curls my lips downwards and I realise the thought I just had does not sit well with me. Not because I suddenly liked him again, but because when I did like him, he did not like me back.
Why is Jodie so special?
What is it about her?
What does she have that I don't?
Tits?
Yeah, fair enough.
My phone vibrates, pulling me out of my thoughts and I read the text from him, Meet me in the neutral restroom. Hurry.
I head over to the restrooms which are in the back, keeping my head bowed deep into my bosom as I pass by Jodie and her parents. Fortunately for me, they do not recognise me. I don't know whether I should be grateful for that or offended that they didn't notice me. Forget her parents, Jodie should know what I look like with her eyes closed. It's just weird sometimes to realise that someone you thought was your best friend, really was not.
When I arrive, I rattle the door with a soft knock. "I have your stupid bottle. Open the door."
He does and quickly tugs me inside, locking the door immediately. As I stumble into the opposite wall, I purse my lip in irritation and do not resist the urge to roll my eyes at the familiarity of the situation. He's always grabbing me and shoving me around like his ragdoll.
I turn around swiftly and take a seat on the lid of the toilet. After taking a look around, I have to say, this cubicle is more luxurious than the bathroom at home. Then again, anywhere is more luxurious than my home.
"By the way, you're killing it out there," I tell him. "They seem to like you."
"Correction, her mum likes me. The dad, not so much," he answers, turning around to face me after leaning back into the door leisurely. "Once I give him the bottle, though, he'll be eating out of the palm of my hand just like his wife is."
"Okay, we don't want to control her parents' minds here, Dominic."
"Speak for yourself."
He holds out his hand and with a hint of reluctance, I place the not-so-nicely wrapped bottle in his grasp. He pulls it out of the brown paper bag and after holding it up at eye level, he glances at it with admiration. It makes me wonder if he has drunk alcohol before. How does he know that this specific bottle is the one that is going to woo her parents? Does he know its taste? Is Dominic someone who drinks illegally or even drinks at all?
Alcohol is just too bitter for me to enjoy. I would have to be drunk to enjoy drinking.
"This right here, this is the good stuff," he tells me and my brows dip in curiosity. "My dad used this very bottle to tame my mother's father. Now they are like two peas in a pod."
"With the way you're going all out, you'd swear you were gonna marry her."
"Maybe I might. Who knows?" he mutters audibly.
After dropping that bombshell on me, he decides that it's the appropriate time to spin on his heels and leave the restroom. Just like that. As if he didn't say what he just said.
He has decided he wants to marry her now? What has actually come of this world? Who has taken possession of his body and is now pressing the "show emotion" button? Why does he like Jodie so much? I do not get it. I don't think she's his type nor is he her type. Granted, I know nothing about what Dominic's type is but I do know Jodie's. She dates model wannabes.
"Fuck," I hear him murmuring ominously and my gaze travels from his toes all the way up his frame.
When he doesn't say anything else afterwards, I tilt my head to the side to try and catch a glimpse of what he's cussing about. "What?"
Slowly, he turns around and reveals the thing he was cussing about in his hand.
"Is that the door handle?" I muse, furrowing my brows in bemusement.
"Uh… yeah."
"You broke it?"
"I didn't break it. It… broke."
"For fuck's sake, Dominic," I murmur exasperatedly, narrowing my eyes at him flatly for this. "I hope you know I'm not paying for that."
"It's not my fault. It just came right off."
"Just get out of the way. I want to leave."
I do not even wait for him to step out of my way. I simply place my hand on the door, pushing against it. The door, however, does not budge. Not one bit. I try again with an infinite amount of force and it still produces the same result. Worriedly, I ask him why the door isn't opening, and he tells me to move out of the way so that he can tackle the issue. Except it's only opening a door. It's not rocket science. I should know how to open a door.
Voicing my thoughts, I defiantly state, "I know how to open a door, Dominic."
He comes up from behind me and before I know it, I'm being dragged away from the door by him. He shoves my shoulder backwards and I unceremoniously fall on the toilet lid, derrière stinging a little from my uncomfortable landing.
My eyes throw daggers up at the back of his head, hoping to drill holes through his skull and just like every single time he has tossed me around like his plaything essentially, he does not apologise. With a frustrated grunt, he bangs his shoulder into the door as if that's going to help.
"Maybe it's pull; not push," I suggest to him.
"And how the hell am I supposed to pull if the door handle is in my hand?" he questions angrily, throwing said handle on the floor. It falls with a loud clank. Then he buries his face into his palms and releases a deep, exhausted sigh.
My arms cross over as I hug myself when a breeze whispers coolly into my bones and I try to create as much distance between myself and the other maniac in the room. Why is it growing colder in here? My still damp jean jacket is not going to be able to keep me warm for however long we will be stuck in here.
When that thought hits me, my eyes grow large in size, shocked.
No, there is no way we are stuck.
We are not stuck in here.
We can't be.
What the fuck is this game that fate is playing with me? I cannot be stuck in a small, albeit well refurbished restroom with this demon. I was already stuck with him in an elevator and that was not enjoyable. What makes fate think I wanted a reiteration of that in a different setting?
When he releases a groan, I glance up to catch him rubbing his eyes in what seems to be mental pain. He slides down the door and then buries his face between his knees. Has he given up already? No, he can't give up. I need to leave about an hour ago. Taylor is not going to forgive me for this. In her mind, I ditched our first sleepover to spend the night with Dominic Lachowski. I cannot be stuck in here. I need to leave. I need to leave now.
As if sensing my panic, he glances up at me and suggests, "Maybe if I yell loud enough Jodie will come and save me."
"Yeah, she'll find me in here with you and will totally gloss over that."
At my sarcastic response, he buries his face into his arms again.
"Dominic, I have a sleepover that I need to get back to."
"And I have a date with Jodie and her parents that I need to get back to," he grumbles into his arms and I can just imagine him angrily puncturing a glower into me. "So, shut the fuck up about your petty problems."
This fucking guy.
If that's the sort of game he wants to play, then two can play at that.
"Ninety nine bottles of beer on the wall. Ninety nine bottles of beer."
Slowly, his head rises from his arms and his gaze travels over me with a dangerous glow. "What are doing, Starr?"
"Take one down. Pass it around."
"Stop it."
"Ninety eight bottles of beer on the wall."
"I said stop it!"
His exclaim might not have deterred me from singing again, but what cuts me off is his hovering over me, hand squeezing my arm almost painfully. His dark eyes stab into me angrily as if it is my fault that we are stuck in here in the first place. If anyone is to blame really, it's him. He shouldn't have let me hold his bottle of alcohol. He shouldn't have called me over here. He shouldn't have blackmailed me with my stuff.
"Ninety eight bottles of beer on the wall. Ninety eight bottles of beer. Take one down, pass it around. Ninety seven bottles of beer—"
"Oh, my fucking God. If you're really real, just kill me right now," he mutters daringly, staring up at the heavens pleadingly. After digging in his pocket clumsily, he almost rips his phone out and aggressively dials someone on the device.
I contemplate singing again.
"C'mon, pick up your phone. Pick up your pho—Dinah, I need you."
Dinah? Who the hell is Dinah?
"Not like that, you idiot. I need you to come to my mum's Italian restaurant."
Of course, his mum owns this place too.
Why am I not surprised?
"What do you mean you're too busy? I'll pay you. Just name your amount." He pauses with a desperation shining in his browns. "Yeah, whatever, I'll give it to you. Just get over here as quickly as you possibly can. We're in one of the cubicles in the neutral restroom." He listens to what the person on the other end of the device has to say. "Okay. And hurry."
After he has hung up and pocketed his phone, I open my mouth to ask, "Who's Dinah?"
"An acquaintance," he answers unwillingly.
"What time are they going to be here?"
"It's probably going to take them thirty minutes or so. I don't know."
"For the time being, can I sing ninety nine bottles of beer?"
"How about we play a game instead?" he muses, impassive and all. "How about Starr keeps his mouth shut until we can get out of here?"
"What's the prize?"
"Getting out of here… away from you," he responds, the last bit being grumbled under his breath quietly.
"I have a much better game than that," I dispute.
His jaw clenches in frustration and I have to purse my lips to keep myself from letting out a peal of laughter from the pained look on his face. "What better game is that?"
"Let's play that Twenty One Questions game."
"What?"
"Twenty One Questions," I reiterate and when his expression does not change, I add to explain, "It's a game people who don't know each other play so that they can get to know each other."
"I know what Twenty One Questions is, you idiot," he snaps and after taking a seat on the marbled counter near the basin, he squints at me in annoyance.
I squint right back.
If he knew what I was talking about then why did he look at me as if he was confused about what I was talking about when I suggested that we play the game? To me, it seemed as though he did not have a scooby about what I was talking about.
With a deep exhale emitting from him, he asks me softly, "Will it keep you from singing that song?"
"Well, I can't sing and ask questions at the same time so yes, it will keep me from singing however many bottles of beer on the wall," I answer with an amused grin tugging onto my lips. "So, will you play with me?"
Reluctance runs through his chocolate brown eyes and after taking a glance around the stark white cubicle, his gaze lands on the bottle of alcohol now resting on the counter near the basin. He must have some kind of eureka moment because after releasing a sigh of defeat he says, "Fine, let's play the stupid game but you can opt out of answering a question by taking a sip of this wine."
"You sure you don't want to save that for Jodie's parents?"
"You really think they're going to sit in there, waiting for thirty minutes?"
"Probably not," I agree and then with a smile of triumph enlarging on my lips, I shuffle over to his side, sitting beside him.
He groans, wrinkling his nose from the proximity between us now.
For a second, I wonder if I should just go back to sitting on the toilet, but then I shake my head, thinking of the trip I will have to make back to the toilet. No thanks. I am far too lazy for that.
"Okay, first question of the day," I start and begin to smirk with a light mischievousness playing in my eyes, "What's your favourite colour?"
He stares at me blankly.
I press my lips together, a chuckle almost spluttering past my lips but I manage to mask it behind a bit of a cough.
"Blue," he eventually says, catching me slightly off guard.
"Not black?"
"Black isn't even a colour," he answers. "If you were stuck on a deserted island with terrible service, what would your plan be?"
After contemplating his question for a second, I muse, "Do I have a bottle?"
His brows furrow in confusion and after shrugging nonchalantly, he says, "Sure..."
"I would write out my final words in a will and then I would put the rolled up paper in the bottle and toss it out at sea, hoping for it to find my loved ones someday," I reply honestly.
"You wouldn't have paper or anything to write with."
"Oh," I echo in realisation and then I muse, "Do I have a piece of paper and a quill with some ink?"
"No, why are you trying to change my question?"
"Alright, then, I wouldn't plan to do anything. I'd just die."
"That's not even an answer," he says indignantly. "You're definitely taking a drink for that."
Before I can object, he reaches for the bottle of wine between us and proceeds to open it with a pop. The cork bounces off the other side of the wall, causing me to instinctively hide my face under my arms to avoid getting hit in the face. Once I am sure that I'm out of harm's way, I turn to look at him, wondering if he was actually being serious.
Stubbornly, he holds the bottle out to me, urging me to take a drink.
After a moment, I hesitantly reach out and curl my fingers around the bottle. It feels heavy in my hand and after holding it up to study the dark liquid sloshing around within the glass, the light casting ruby red highlights on my skin, I glance back at him again. There is something in his eyes, a spark of something that I can't quite place. Intrigue, perhaps.
Slowly, I bring the bottle to my lips, the rich, earthy aroma filling my senses. The first sip travels in my mouth like smooth velvet, the flavour blooming on my tongue. In the beginning, the taste of the wine is a symphony of tannins and fruit with a hint of spice that lingers pleasantly.
Then I swallow, and a shudder escapes me.
Scrunching my face, I pull the bottle away and a disgusted noise escapes me almost unwittingly. "That's grim."
After taking the bottle from me, he nods with a tiny amused grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"What would you like to do someday?" I ask him, feeling the warmth of the wine spreading through me, easing some of the tension that was coiled in my muscles.
"Skydiving," he finally replies to my relief, nodding as he thinks his answer over. He sees how I instantaneously grimace in disagreement at his response and adds in a convincing tone, "I hear that it's an exhilarating experience, so I wanna try it. You should do it too. With me. So, I can help you through it all since you look as pale as a ghost right now just from thinking about it."
I am not convinced.
I scoff at his suggestion, giving him a look of more disapproval. "Yeah, messing around with dangerous heights and jumping off an aeroplane or whatever is not something I see myself doing. I'd rather stay firmly rooted on the ground where the only thing I have to worry about is earthquakes, floods, tornadoes, hurricanes and you know, the usual natural disasters that affect me indirectly. Let's not add the whole altitude thing into the mix."
"It's a sad life you lead."
His comment is ironic because I think it's a sad life that he leads. He does not open himself up to people and pulls this impassive façade so beautifully that it's not only shocking but freaking scary. It's also sad that no one has ever taken the initiative to get to know him and pull him out of that bubble of loneliness and seclusion. I did try to like three years ago, but I can't help feeling like it was the conceited teenager within me.
When I see him pulling his dress jacket off and placing it on his lap with a huffed breath I'm broken from my thoughts and I really take a look at him.
Even though it's freezing in here from the air conditioner, beads of sweat are trailing down his temple. Does he have a fever? Is he feeling that hot in here? But even if he is, the air conditioner is on. It's actually cold in here. I already have goosebumps rising all over my entire body.
While he's busy messing around with his cufflinks in frustration, I decide to take the jacket from him and throw it over my slightly shivering body. He does not argue with me. When it becomes even more obvious that he's struggling to unbutton his cuffs, I simply grab his wrist without even thinking about it twice and do it for him instead. He glances over at me weirdly, but when I grin up at him brightly, he does not object to my actions.
When I'm done doing that, I roll them up a bit as he questions, "What is your dream destination, something you'd want to do?"
"Well," I roll my bottom lip into my mouth thoughtfully and I take a glance up at him before I continue to roll his other sleeve up, "I would love to go camping someday with all of my friends. Just for a week or two where we'll discard technology entirely, sleep in tents or use sleeping bags. Go paddling. Swimming in the mud. Burning marshmallows. You know that sort of wildlife adventure."
When I'm done rolling up his sleeves, I slowly withdraw my hands from his surprisingly taut forearm and hug myself to enjoy the warmth that his jacket provides me, hating the cold air which is being recycled all around us. Also, I think he used some cologne on himself for the second time now. It smells nice. It seems to be a mix between forest breeze and spice. The scent washes over me as I secretly inhale.
No chlorine this time around.
"So basically, you want to sleep outside where it'll be freezing as fuck in this season, probably get multiple mosquito bites and you better hope those don't carry Malaria and have bad odour from a lack of proper hygiene?" he asks, incredulously.
I nod in affirmation and confidence at his quirked eyebrows.
"Why would you want that? It'll only be you, Edward, and Taylor, because they are the only friends you have. Those two will probably be going at it like rabbits and you'll just be a third wheel."
"First of all, I'm a winter baby, and winter babies are accustomed to the cold." That is a lie, but I'm trying to prove a point here. "And second of all, the Anopheles mosquito which carries Malaria does not reside in these parts of the UK. And it won't just be Taylor and Edward. I would invite Damien, Analys, maybe Christian, and Fleance. You could also come. It would be fun."
"Please, exclude me from that list of camp goers because I am most definitely not going to be sleeping outside with bugs and shit. Why leave a perfectly comfortable, soft bed at home with little to no possibility of getting any mosquito bites and not smelling and feeling like shit for a terrible experience like that?"
"But you'd skydive? Where the chances of anything going wrong are extremely high? Like your parachute having a hole torn into it or falling into a pole and slashing your mid-section open? Yeah, I have watched too many episodes of 1000 Ways to Die, mate."
He looks up in thought, puckering his lips during the whole process. It's an immediate bad move on his part because, for some unknown reason, my wandering eyes flicker down onto them. I notice for the very first time that his lips are slightly chapped, almost like he could use some water to dampen them or lipbalm to moisturise them.
I wonder how they would feel. Would they feel as callous and rough as they appear? How much strength would he put into the kiss? Would he be harsh and dominating or soft and submissive? Why doesn't he put lipbalm on? Looking after my lips is always my number one priority, which is why I have my lipbalm in my pocket even now.
"Why are you staring at my lips?"
That's how I'm fearfully snapped out of my openly gawking. "Hmm?"
"What are you doing?"
My awkward, widened eyes meet his suspicious gaze. I strain a smile on my face and quickly shake my head from side to side to dispute whatever assumptions must be going through his head.
Like the fact that I maybe, possibly, might want to kiss him, because I don't want to do it in a way that says that I'm attracted to him, but in a way that says I am simply curious to feel how dry his lips are. He will probably take it in the way that, at the end of the day, I simply want to kiss him still.
"I-I wasn't… staring at your lips. Why would I stare at your lips?" I chuckle nervously and quite loudly at the end. Well, laughing like that is definitely not going to convince him.
His thinned gaze stays on me almost like he is trying to peel off the layers which are hiding the thoughts swarming around inside my head. He wants to know what I was thinking about when I was staring at his lips. How I think his chapped lips look hilarious. How I want to kiss those dry lips to check how they would feel against mine. How it's merely a platonic kiss of curiosity.
The way his dark eyes narrow in on me almost makes me want to spill out my thoughts to him. Fortunately, I can purse my lips shut. The awkward silence stretches on for a longer period and I almost want to break it by whistling and glancing around the empty space.
After a while, he looks away.
And it grows awfully quiet and way too awkward.
"When did you have your first kiss?" I ask him before I can drown in the depths of the silence and when my question hits me, I mentally berate myself for it.
His gaze quickly shifts towards me and the air around us suddenly becomes tense. It is immediately evident from his frown that he's not inclined to answer my question about his first kiss. The awkward silence that persists is palpable and uncomfortable, and I find myself regretting having brought up the topic in the first place.