7 Souls by Barnabas Miller, Jordan Orlando Page A
Authors: Barnabas Miller, Jordan Orlando
Ads: Link
head. “You’re sorry; I get it. Finish your drink and let’s get out of here. We’ll get dinner somewhere else.”
“With all my stuff,” Mary added, smiling and reaching for her glass.
“Sure.” Dylan smiled. “We can find a place that’s BYOL—bring your own laundry.”
“Well—come on,” Mary said, slurring. “Let’s get this over with.”
A S D YLAN STOOD PATIENTLY beside her in the hotel elevator, Mary noticed that he didn’t seem to mind what was going on. He didn’t seem to have much of an opinion about it at all beyond mild bemusement.
When they’d arrived in front of the Peninsula on Fifth Avenue, he’d insisted on paying for the cab. Ordinarily, she would have taken things like that for granted—of course the boy pays for the cab—but for some reason it seemed different when Dylan did it, like he was going out of his way to do something nice rather than just performing his accepted role. She had thanked him, making lingering eye contact to emphasize that she meant it, but he’d just smiled that absent smile and shaken his head, wordlessly dismissing his own chivalry as the cab sped away.
A few moments later, as Mary led them beneath the billowing flags and between the entryway’s massive, over-carved columns, guided by three months’ worth of habit, Dylan continued to be unmoved by his surroundings, sparing the gilded, ornate lobby a curious glance, and not commenting. It was so different from Patrick’s behavior—from the way all the boys that she knew acted—that she was disoriented and didn’t know how to react. Dylan wasn’t behaving in a disaffected way. He wasn’t “behaving” any way at all. Right now, standing next to her in the elevator, hands in his trouser pockets, his hair resuming its natural crazy shape after his misguided attempts to comb it, he seemed so calm and centered that he was actually calming her down. She caught herself glancing at his profile, his strong nose and chin, wondering how he could be so serene.
It really was new to her.
The elevator chimed and the gold door slid open. Mary led Dylan onto the bloodred carpeting of the seventeenth-floor corridor, her throat and chest tightening again. This is the last time I’ll be here , she thought. The last time ever—I’ll walk out with garbage bags full of clothes, with the concierges watching me like I’m a homeless wastrel being ejected from the premises, and then I’ll never come back .
“This way,” she told Dylan, pointing down the dim corridor at Patrick’s suite. She took a deep, shaky breath— Let’s get this over with —and strode purposefully forward, toward whatever ugly confrontation awaited.
And then she stopped, so quickly that Dylan nearly ran into her. “Look,” she said, turning to face him. “Look, I told you before, you don’t have to do this; you don’t have to come.”
“You’re right,” Dylan said agreeably. “You told me before.”
“But—”
“If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t have come.”
Mary looked at him, trying to find any sarcasm or snark on his face that would betray his easy tone. But his eyes were clear. There was something profound about that, Mary thought. He made it sound so simple. How often could she say the same thing? How many times every week, every day , did she find herself somewhere she didn’t want to be, doing something she hated? It was like Dylan had casually revealed some secret code, some magic spell that made him immune to all that.
“Don’t worry,” Dylan said, putting his hand awkwardly on her shoulder. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
That’s not true , Mary thought automatically. It’s never true—and it’s looking especially wrong today .
“Come on.” The heat of Dylan’s hand on her shoulder made her nervous, somehow; she pulled away and continued down the wide corridor, heels sinking into the thick, expensive carpet with the green and gold threads.
This day is all wrong , she told
“With all my stuff,” Mary added, smiling and reaching for her glass.
“Sure.” Dylan smiled. “We can find a place that’s BYOL—bring your own laundry.”
“Well—come on,” Mary said, slurring. “Let’s get this over with.”
A S D YLAN STOOD PATIENTLY beside her in the hotel elevator, Mary noticed that he didn’t seem to mind what was going on. He didn’t seem to have much of an opinion about it at all beyond mild bemusement.
When they’d arrived in front of the Peninsula on Fifth Avenue, he’d insisted on paying for the cab. Ordinarily, she would have taken things like that for granted—of course the boy pays for the cab—but for some reason it seemed different when Dylan did it, like he was going out of his way to do something nice rather than just performing his accepted role. She had thanked him, making lingering eye contact to emphasize that she meant it, but he’d just smiled that absent smile and shaken his head, wordlessly dismissing his own chivalry as the cab sped away.
A few moments later, as Mary led them beneath the billowing flags and between the entryway’s massive, over-carved columns, guided by three months’ worth of habit, Dylan continued to be unmoved by his surroundings, sparing the gilded, ornate lobby a curious glance, and not commenting. It was so different from Patrick’s behavior—from the way all the boys that she knew acted—that she was disoriented and didn’t know how to react. Dylan wasn’t behaving in a disaffected way. He wasn’t “behaving” any way at all. Right now, standing next to her in the elevator, hands in his trouser pockets, his hair resuming its natural crazy shape after his misguided attempts to comb it, he seemed so calm and centered that he was actually calming her down. She caught herself glancing at his profile, his strong nose and chin, wondering how he could be so serene.
It really was new to her.
The elevator chimed and the gold door slid open. Mary led Dylan onto the bloodred carpeting of the seventeenth-floor corridor, her throat and chest tightening again. This is the last time I’ll be here , she thought. The last time ever—I’ll walk out with garbage bags full of clothes, with the concierges watching me like I’m a homeless wastrel being ejected from the premises, and then I’ll never come back .
“This way,” she told Dylan, pointing down the dim corridor at Patrick’s suite. She took a deep, shaky breath— Let’s get this over with —and strode purposefully forward, toward whatever ugly confrontation awaited.
And then she stopped, so quickly that Dylan nearly ran into her. “Look,” she said, turning to face him. “Look, I told you before, you don’t have to do this; you don’t have to come.”
“You’re right,” Dylan said agreeably. “You told me before.”
“But—”
“If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t have come.”
Mary looked at him, trying to find any sarcasm or snark on his face that would betray his easy tone. But his eyes were clear. There was something profound about that, Mary thought. He made it sound so simple. How often could she say the same thing? How many times every week, every day , did she find herself somewhere she didn’t want to be, doing something she hated? It was like Dylan had casually revealed some secret code, some magic spell that made him immune to all that.
“Don’t worry,” Dylan said, putting his hand awkwardly on her shoulder. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
That’s not true , Mary thought automatically. It’s never true—and it’s looking especially wrong today .
“Come on.” The heat of Dylan’s hand on her shoulder made her nervous, somehow; she pulled away and continued down the wide corridor, heels sinking into the thick, expensive carpet with the green and gold threads.
This day is all wrong , she told
Similar Books
