I really shouldn’t pepperherwith any questions because it won't help any of this, but I can’t stop myself. “Oh yeah? She like it?”
“Yep,” Celia says briskly. “Sounds like it’s basically her dream job.”
A warm, bittersweet ache pangs at my sternum, and a smile forces its way across my face. “That’s awesome. I’m glad to hear it.”
Celia nods absently, her cell phone hanging from her hand at the level of her shoulder while she eyeballs me. “Awjeezus.” She scoffs just as the door closes. “Are you for real right now?”
My brow pulls low. “What?”
She glances around the elevator as if checking for bystanders despite us being the only people inside. “You freakinglike her.”
Celia totally just called me out, but fuck me sideways if I let on to that. Instead, I roll my eyes and then arch an eyebrow with total snark. “Ohyeah. I totallylike her.” I make a big show of patting my pockets and pretending to look for something. “Hey, I wrote her this note in study hall. You think you could give it to her after school for me?” Cupping my hand around my mouth, I whisper-yell, “I totally want to take her to homecoming.”
Celia gives me a stink-eye. “Douchebag,” she mutters, turning away from me and moving to stand right next to the doors as she pulls out her phone.
I absently stare at the descending numbers, but the screen of her phone is right in my line of sight, and now I can’t tear my eyes away, because Elle’s name is right there at the top.
Elle Kissinger: It’s all women. I love it.
Elle Kissinger: Like I can’t ever remember being in such a supportive/uplifting environment.
Elle Kissinger: I’ve honestly cried about 5 times today.
Celia Huckabee: awww girl. I freakin love it for you.
Celia Huckabee: Also kinda jealous b/c C. is being even more of a db than usual.
Celia Huckabee: I hate working here.
Elle Kissinger: Really? What’s going on now?
Celia Huckabee: Idk he said family stuff.
Elle Kissinger: Oh.
The elevator dings as we arrive at the ground floor, and I snap my gaze back up to the numbers and wait for Celia to step out before I do.
I resist the urge to say anything in reference to Elle and settle for a snarky, “Good-bye, Celia.”
She saunters away for a couple of paces before whirling around. “Bye, Colin. I’ll make sure to not tellyou know whothat you smiled like a lovesick idiot when you heard about her awesome new job.”
“Ohyeah.” Apparently, my feelings are writtenall overmy face, and that’s slightly horrifying. I attempt to play off my unwitting faux pas by pointing two finger guns at her. “And see if you can find out what color flowers she wants for the corsage.”
“Psh.” Celia swings her mass of long braids over her shoulder as she turns back around leaves the building.
The exchange was annoying, but again, I’ve got bigger problems right now. And honestly, knowing Elle is so happy about her new job that she’s beencryingall day makes me feel a little better amidst my bigger problems. The knowledge that she’s been weeping with joy produces a picture in my mind of day two of our weekend together when she cried in a similar manner about Ernesto verbally agreeing to the deal. Mental pictures are all I’ve got left of her, and I let that one marinate all the way back to my apartment.
Allowing it to marinate for the twenty minutes it takes me to get back homealmosthas me feeling better, but the second I push my door open, the marginal good feeling disintegrates into the atmosphere.
Archeris in myapartment.
And one glance at him screams at me that this mother fucker is high off his ass.
He’s speed-walking around the open-concept living room and kitchen, taking detours to do laps around the coffee table, winding his way around the overstuffed chair that’s adjacent to the sofa, marching to the kitchen to hook around the bar and island, and all the while he’s chattering maniacally in Spanish to someone on the phone.
The only thing in life that Archer has on me was his effortless ability to absorb and learn Spanish just by hanging out with the Reyeses, so I obviously have no idea what he’s saying. I’d venture to guess that even if I knew Spanish, I wouldn’t be able to understand him because of the rapid slurring of his words together.
He’s even lankier than usual, and his complexion is sporting a pinkish hue like he’s spent several days exposing his Irish skin to the sun. His sandy brown hair is greasy and at least three weeks overdue for a cut. Despite the fact that, for some reason, Archer’s never been able to grow facial hair to save his life, there’s a patchy, light brown shadow on his jaw and upper lip like he hasn’t shaved in weeks.
