Antilove

Quattro

CAPITOLO QUATTRO

the discovery of a fear

***

SUNLIGHT FLOODS THE FLOOR of Lucien's bedroom and pierces its way right into the center of Rose's brain. With a groan, she's the first to move from her position, taken up on the settee Gray left behind, a silk shawl over her shoulders. The dress she wore the night before is slipping down her arms and the jewelry she donned is a noose around her neck.

    "Hope you don't mind but you seemed content on that."

    The voice is hushed but it still ricochets around her head as she registers this. A rub to her temple allows her to see that it's Lucien. He's upright on the center of his bed, already showered and changed, a plate of toast in his hands. The sharp smell of his shampoo floods her nose and she covers her face with the shawl.

    "You are," she mutters, "the most high-functioning drunkard I've ever met."

    It's too early to be boasting laughter but he does it anyways. It's brazen, the way he holds himself and so beyond that, it merges with arrogance—but not quite because guys like him don't have to flaunt to capture attention.

    "Why didn't you change me?" she asks, feeling sticky in the outfit they adventured in.

    "Did you want me to?"

    All amusement drains from his face and it's replaced with digging intensity. It reminds her of his dad, the impression he left upon her, but not because they're father and son but because such looks hold promises of lasting impulses. Such looks only belong on those who have the world to offer and heaven to lose; such looks don't belong in the mundane rut of Rose Kaufman's life.

    She shakes her head and drags herself to the bathroom. I need a bath, she chants but she recalls her previous commitment to take Lucien to La Jolla and the drive would take at least two hours without traffic. When she's out of shower, she hears peals of animated conversation coming from the kitchen—an atypical sound in the typically barren household of Kaufman. It's Lucian entertaining the other roommate, whose name Rose doesn't even remember. After two days, he's become a better host than she ever was, even when she threw numerous soirées and afterparties.

***

A SMALL TIDE CREEPS up Rose's legs and it does nothing but tell her that she's cold. She's in her swimsuit but barely, a playsuit over her two piece whereas Lucien walks on her right, sinking into the wet sand and foam.

    "You don't like it," he says.

    "There's a place up ahead we did a photoshoot on," Rose says, choosing to ignore his statement. He's right, she doesn't prefer the sleepier atmosphere nor did she prefer the drive down.

    They've been walking for a while now, the sun hitting higher and it suffocates her breathing for a while when she sees it reflect on the surface—a real life imitation of a swimming pool—and it turns her blood buzzing for a minute—a real life imitation of alcohol. Rose doesn't think that any other rendezvous will have the same effect, even if she was on a fake high half the night. Maybe the stars shine brighter in San Diego and that's what's beckoning Lucien here.

    They hike up to the crevice, where water congregates in small dents made by feet. Straight out ahead is a rocky platform but Rose prefers not to go because of the narrow drop she'd have to venture through, where she can't tell how to place her feet and where she doesn't know how deep it goes. Lucien, of course, starts making his way to it.