Thus begins another evening of avoiding boys, keeping secrets, and bettering myself. Juxtaposition queen.
Chapter Four
If you want a character arc, the character has to be a little frustrating at the beginning of the book.
Roman
I’m on my hands and knees scrubbing kitchen tile when the front door to Sweet & Salty Uptown creaks open. Elodie’s keys jangle where they hang from her ginormous bag as the door clangs shut behind her and she comes down the hall toward me.
I sit back on my heels, wiping sweat from my forehead as I watch the kitchen door swing open and her worn-out face fills my vision, blue eyes wandering before they lock on me, expressionless.
I frown.
She peers at me on the floor, face blank, then shrugs, lugs her bag to a pristine countertop and drops it there before hopping up beside it. She leans to the side, closing her eyes and falling until her head hits her bag, a lumpy pillow. “Wake me up when you’re ready to leave,” she mutters. “My bike’s in front of the shop. I know you said to bring it in, but I saw you’d already mopped and didn’t want to mess it up.”
My frown deepens, and I glance at the clock above the door. Nearly nine o’clock.
“Have you eaten?” I ask, resting my gaze on her prone form.
Her only reply is the movement of one shoulder, barely visible through a riot of curly, golden hair, which I take to be a big, fat,No, Roman, please feed me.
I rise, toss my soapy scrub brush into a bucket of equallysoapy water, and dry my hands on my apron. Approaching the industrial fridge, I shoot a look at Elodie, who appears to be nearly snoring on the counter.
Oof.
I grab her a muffaletta on ciabatta and a bottle of water, close the fridge, and bring them over to her.
“Sit up, Sweet,” I murmur. “You gotta eat something.”
She groans, turning her head further into her bag.
“I’m sleeping. Go away.”
I snort, set her food beside her, then slip my hand into the soft strands falling over her face. Careful not to let my fingers get caught in the tangle of her curls, I sweep the locks over her shoulders, admiring the way the blonde splays against the stainless steel countertop. So pretty. So sweet.
I love Elodie’s hair. It’s representative of her—wild, soft, and absolutely gorgeous. Unwilling to be tamed. The only difference between her and her hair, really, is that she cares for her hair significantly better than she does the rest of her person. We share a bathroom. I’ve seen her literal bucket of hair care supplies. Her collection of conditioners alone could last me five years.
Then, at night, she’ll sometimes drift downstairs in one of her bonnets—many of which I bought her, because she only had plain black ones when she moved in, and Elodie Sage is not a plain black bonnet type of girl. She’s a butterflies, flowers, polka dots, and bows type of girl. As evidenced by the fact that she accepted my gift of pretty bonnets with barely any suspicion, squirreling them away in her room immediately, lest I change my mind.
“Elodie,” I murmur, “come on. You can sleep after you eat.”
My eyes travel a path from the ends of her hair to her eyes, and I find her squinting at me, lips downturned. “I can eat tomorrow,” she grumps. “At breakfast.”
“Have you had anything since you left work?” I ask, dubious about this plan.
She averts her eyes.
Uh huh. Right.
“If you don’t sit up and eat this sandwich, I’m going to sit you up and feed it to you myself.”
She harrumphs, digging her face deeper into her bag as her arms wind around it. “I’m tired, Salty. Calories can wait.”
Calories cannot wait. Calories give us the fuel we need to make it through the day, and for someone who works on their feet and exercises regularly, the more the merrier. I don’t know how far Elodie had to bike to get to whatever class she had tonight—juggling cacti and other pointy objects?—but judging by the sheen on her skin and the tint of pink on her usually pale arms, it was at least far enough for the midsummer heat to get to her. She can’t afford to forgo a meal normally, and she definitely can’t afford to forgo one after biking through the city under the blistering sun.
And yet, here she lies, unwilling to take care of the problem.
I tsk. I did warn her.
