The Devil & Me

Chapter Twelve: The Morning's Star (cont.)

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We left the apartment, went down the stairs, and found his car, which was black with tinted windows. I sat in the passenger's side, while he threw my bag into the backseat. He slid into the driver's side. He started to drive.

After a while, I spoke. "Thank you," I said. "I know this is strange."

"It's nothing. I was surprised you accepted my help," he said. "I mean, it's so late⁠⁠."

"Does it bother you?" I asked.

He glanced at me and tapped his chin. "What happened there?"

"I fell."

"You needed help because you fell?"

"Yeah."

He turned his eyes back to the road. "Oh. Well. I have bandages at the house. It looks like your fall cut your chin." I sniffled. Snot was threatened to drip down to my lip. "There are tissues in the glove box."

"Thanks."

We drove into Manhattan, then Tribeca. I knew The Ambroses had money, so I wasn't surprised. Having gone to Fortuna this many years, I wasn't shocked to see my classmates lived well. That's just how it was between the haves and the have-nots.

"Do your parents mind?" I asked.

"They're not even in town," he said. "They flew out to go to a friend's renewing of their vows. It's just me and my sister." He parked on the street. "My parents own an apartment here."

"Penthouse?"

"No. My parents think they're gaudy. It's five bedrooms. It's a nice space." He carried my things without me asking. I folded my arms around myself.

"Is your sister in?" I asked. She wouldn't be happy to see me. I was invading their space.

"She's out tonight." Cassius grinned.

"Oh, at the party you were at?"

"Different one. Black tie on a Friday night isn't Liliana."

Cassius said hello to the doorman on the way up, and if they thought it was strange he was dragging a half-dressed, swollen-faced girl behind him, he said nothing. We waited in the elevator, to the sound of his whistling, as we traveled up the floors.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"No."

"There's a pork roast in the fridge."

"I'm not hungry."

"All right." We stopped on a floor that had just two doors on it, one on either side, despite the fact that we stood in a long hallway. He fiddled with his keys, until he found the right one, and unlocked his door.

The apartment was cozy looking, movie-looking. Throw pillows on the couches, an open kitchen, a family portrait hanging above the mantle. The air smelled like lavender and...yellow rice.

"Did you have takeout?"

He looked at me with a turned head, before he smelled the air and the knot in his eyebrows softened. "It's my mother's cooking."

I can't lie⁠⁠⁠⁠—I was surprised that a white woman was making yellow rice. And since my shock showed in my face (which was unfortunately an open book), he knew too. He pointed to the portrait on the wall, where a deeply tanned woman with curly, black hair stood behind him and his sister.

"She's part Puerto Rican."

"Oh. I never knew."

He shrugged. "You've never seen her. And I take after my Dad, I guess."