Disarranged Page 3

  "What took you so long?" She snaps. "I told you not to hang around them."

  "Grace is my sister, Kiera," I sigh and take my tuxedo overcoat off, throwing it on the bed. "She's family. I'm not just going to drop everything and ignore my family."

  Kiera taps her foot and crosses her arms over her chest, thinking for a moment before rolling her eyes.

  "Fine. Do what you want. But don't forget - Farlon and I are close. If you tell Grace anything, I'll know."

  I unbutton my shirt slowly and scoff. "Tell her what? That you're blackmailing me into marrying you? That I'm being a bastard to the girl I love -"

  "Used to!" Kiera shrieks. The volume startles me, and it must startle her, because she looks surprised at herself. Her eyes widen, then narrow, and she lowers her voice.

  "The girl you used to love."

  "No," I correct, and undo my last button. The cool night air tickles my stomach. "I still love her. No amount of blackmail can change that."

  I feel the antagonistic tension in the room thicken. Kiera's moods are almost tangible - even if she is a liar and an actress, she's miserable at hiding how she really feels. It taints the air with sourness and fills up the whole room with an angry cloud.

  Nothing about her is attractive to me, anymore. But sometimes, if I look hard enough, I can see the old her - the pretty girl who, even though she was spoiled, never set out to intentionally hurt anyone. She was different then, softer and less tinged with darkness. I don't know what happened to change her. Maybe that darkness was always there, and I was too naive to see it beyond the glitz and glamor that she radiated at all times. Maybe that's how she hides it. But somewhere beneath the cruelty, I still glimpse fragments of the old her, and that hurts me. She's still in there, but she's being unforgivably evil.

  Then again, I never properly broke up with her. It was a physical thing, and as far as I knew she was fine with it. And then I was sent to UCLA and met Rose. I told Kiera I was leaving, of course, but I never said I wanted the thing between us to be over, even if it was in the midst of deteriorating. I wasn't brave enough. I didn't give her a clear boundary.

  She never got a proper goodbye from me.

  She's moved now, sitting on the bed. She hugs her oversized t-shirt around her, and before she sneers, her face is utterly helpless and sad. Pathetic, almost.

  "It's too late," she says. "I'm not sorry, and it's too late. So don't even think about going there."

  She takes the right side of the bed, and buries her head under the covers.

  "Did something go wrong?" I ask lightly. "Did Grace and Rose say something you didn't like?"

  "You heard it," she snarls. "The whole restaurant heard it."

  "I didn't hear anything."

  "I know you did," she says. "She called me ugly."

  I feel my heart skip a little half-beat. Rose? Talking back? She seemed petrified of Kiera at the Christmas party last year. And she hates insulting people who aren't me. I'm almost proud of her. Kiera's usually good about not letting insults get to her, but apparently this one was a little too much for her, even if it is juvenile. She knows she's not ugly, and her confidence is through the roof, so her reaction must be because it was Rose who said it. I have to calm her down before she decides to do something to Rose.

  "But you're not ugly. Clearly," I use my best soothing voice. She throws the covers off to glare at me for a long moment, before she snorts and ducks back under.

  "You're just trying to protect her."

  I motion around the hotel room. "Marrying you. Tolerating you. Putting up with you even after you've ripped my heart. All of that is to protect her, yes."

  "Why?" She mumbles. "Why not me? Why didn't you ever feel that way about me?"

  Jealousy. It's ripe in her voice, rotting and pungent like an overdue fruit. The tiny bit of softness I had for her in my memory hardens instantly, growing spikes.

  "I don't know." My voice is icy, and it makes her flinch. A part of me celebrates that as a small victory. I made the witch flinch. "I don't know, and I'll probably never know."

  That night she doesn't try to touch me. She stays on her side of the bed. I'm free to dream about Rose as I have for the last few months, with no manicured fingers reaching into my head to twist it into something sick and poisonous.

  For tonight, I've won.

  I've won the battle, but I'm losing the war very, very badly.

  ***

  ROSE

  ***

  Grace shakes me awake at nearly noon.

  My body was static-charged with the knowledge Lee was close by in the hotel, so even though we went to bed at twelve after a few glasses of wine, I didn't fall asleep until at least three.

  "C'mon!" Grace urges. "You've got a ski lesson to get to!"

  I bolt out of bed, panic bubbling up from my stomach. I grab silk underwear to go beneath my jeans and keep me warm, and a huge sweater. The shower is already steamy from Grace, and I'm in and out and dressed warmly in less than ten minutes. She pushes a piece of toast into my hand and shoves me out the door.

  "I called the front desk! They've got a pair of rental skis for you all ready, so get down there!"

  "Thanks Grace, you're a lifesaver."

  She waves me off, and I start down the hall. The front desk hands over a pair of red skis and I pull on my jacket and waddle outside. The brochure said we'd be meeting in front of the Piroux Lodge - a massive building half-buried in snow, like a giant wooden turtle lit from within. There's a small group just outside on the west face of the lodge, and I hurry over to them as quickly as my boots allow.

  "Are you here for the beginner lesson?" A man with pale blonde hair and a winsome smile grins at me. His French accent isn't very thick, but it's still noticeable. I nod, and he motions for me to pick a spot in the circle. I wedge myself between a huge German couple and a thin redheaded woman with a severe frown. There's only a handful of us - most people who come to vacation in the Alps must choose it because they're expert skiers. There's a young girl who can't be more than thirteen, and she looks the most nervous out of all of us. I shoot her a smile, and she looks sheepishly away from me. The instructor looks around, and raises his voice.

  "Good morning, everyone! I'm Franz, and this is the beginning ski class. If I counted right, there should be six of you here now, and that's a great number because it's not too big. We'll have plenty of room on the slopes to maneuver and make mistakes! Not that you'll make mistakes - I can sense all of you are pretty gifted."

  A nervous half-second of laughter goes around the circle. The little girl shuffles her feet and stares at the snow.

  Franz pairs us up, and I end up with the little girl. He marches us off to the ski lift. The two-seaters drift lazily through the white sky, couples and serious-faced single skiers dangling their feet from the seats. The German couple gets on, and me and the little girl slide into one seat. Through her pink jacket, I can see she's trembling.

  "I'm scared of heights," I say. "So I don't like stuff like this."

  The girl's eyes widen as she looks at me. "Me n-neither."

  "Sometimes when it gets bad I focus on the sky. I just stare up at it, and it still feels like I'm on the ground, you know?"

  She nods, tentatively, and tilts her head up. The sky is completely white, locked up with snow-filled clouds waiting to drop their icy gift when it gets cold enough. The sun is a pale disc struggling to shine through the thick bank. When the lift jerks into movement and starts to ascend, the little girl grips the bar holding us in tightly in her pink mittens and keeps her eyes riveted to the sky. It seems to help, since she isn't shaking as much. The evergreen trees go from looming towers of pine needles to tiny points beneath our boots. The mountain gets bigger and bigger, the gentle slope of the beginner's course soft and smooth compared to the higher-up, more intense courses. Skiers fly down the mountain slope, making slick turns and sometimes flipping with hawk-like precision and grace.

  The lift slows and grinds to a halt at the t
op of the beginner slope. The little girl gets out and I follow. She grabs her smaller skis and looks up at me.

  "I'm Morgan. It's nice to meet you."

  "I'm Rose." I smile. "Nice to meet you, too."

  Franz claps his hands. "Alright everyone, come over here and we'll go over some basics."

  Franz walks us through some really basic forms. He teaches us how to space our feet, how to turn by tilting our toes and heels, and how to propel ourselves with ski sticks. Morgan is getting the hang of it seamlessly, while the German couple is all but flailing. Since Franz is busy trying to keep them from rolling down the slope, I ask Morgan for help. She shows me how to keep the weight in my knees instead of my midriff, and that helps with the balancing problems I'm having.

  Just as I'm about to thank her, a wave of nausea rears its ugly head. I barely have time to aim my mouth at the snow before I vomit. The white ground stains yellow with bile and melts. The German couple and the redhead woman wrinkle their nose, and Franz rushes over to me.

  "Are you alright, miss? Are you sensitive to elevation changes?"

  "I-I'm fine," I pant. "I just need water."

  He rummages around in his bag and passes me a bottle. I drink greedily, and thank him.

  "Do you need to go to the infirmary?" Franz asks nervously. I shake my head.

  "I'm fine. I think it's passing, now. Must've been something I had for breakfast."

  I flash a smile at Morgan, who looks concerned. Assured I'm fine, Franz moves on and urges the German couple and the others down the slope. Morgan looks to me.

  "You sure you're okay?" She asks, brown eyes wide. My nausea isn't totally gone, but now that I've thrown up I feel better. I nod.

  "Really, I'm definitely okay. C'mon, we can't let everyone else get ahead of us!"

  We get to the slope and look down it. It's gentle, but still looks intimidating. Morgan's started shaking again, and I nudge her.

  "Remember what I said? Just look at the sky, not your feet."

  She swallows, sets her quivering lip in a determined grimace, and pushes off. I watch her glide effortlessly down the hill, her gaze riveted up instead of down. When she comes to a stop, she turns and waves one arm at me in a signal of triumph. I give her a thumbs up, and teeter on the edge of the hill. It's way bigger than it looked from the ski lift. I take a deep breath and try looking up instead of at my feet. I push off, and for a moment it feels like I'm flying. The snow cushions my landing, and my knees buckle but don't give way. I coast down the hill and come to a stop at Morgan's side. She smiles and laughs for the first time.

  "You did a jump, sort of! That was so cool!"

  "Glad you liked it. Totally planned." I puff my chest up, and she laughs harder. Franz claps me on the back.

  "Very good, miss. You two are naturals, I must say."

  We spend the rest of the afternoon skiing. Morgan tells me about her parents - rich, habitual tourists who usually leave her with the nanny and go exploring in whatever country they've decided to visit. She sounds lonely when she explains it. When I offer to ski with her tomorrow, her face lights up and she agrees. She gives me her cellphone number, and at the end of the day, when I'm trudging into the lodge cold and wet and breathless, the knowledge that I've made a new friend warms me up from the inside out. Morgan's smiles, and her enthusiasm and bravery, helped patch holes in me I didn't know I had.

  The hotel room is empty. Grace texted me earlier she was going to be back late - the magazine is doing a midnight shoot out in the woods. Grace complained a lot about wearing next-to-nothing couture clothes while standing ankle-deep in snow, so I ask the maid for more towels and make a hot pot of tea from the coffee set by the TV. I strip my wet clothes off and cuddle under the blankets of my bed. The warm fireplace in the corner blazes bright, and I watch the flames throw shadows on the walls that dance and writhe. I'm so cozy I can barely bring myself to get out of bed.

  All my thoughts dance with the fire. I check my phone - Mom and Riley and Dad have left me a bunch of messages, all asking if I'm eating well, if I've seen the Eiffel Tower, and in Riley's case, if I've spotted any hot French girls. I snort and text him back reminding him he has a girlfriend and has had that girlfriend for almost a year now. He responds with a bunch of weird smileys and one big YOLO.

  I laugh and scroll through my phone. I accidentally go down too far, and Lee's name rests on the bottom of my screen. The last text I sent him was; "I'm sorry", and he never texted back. I don't know what I was sorry for - sorry for not being enough, sorry for not making my feelings known. If I told him I loved him, clearly and in so many words, would he have still married Kiera?

  I shake my head. I scroll through my pictures, and that always makes me feel better. Grandpa's house looms on the screen, impressive and homey as ever. Even if it's being remodeled into Kiera's dad's retirement home business thing, I still have the old house in these pictures. There are more pictures, of cute bakeries I've seen online. Now that I'm a little more than halfway through my business degree at UCLA, I can't help but feel excited. Soon I'll be out and getting the contacts I need to build up a bakery of my own. Pierre's offered to introduce me to the local bakery barons, and I'm eager to get my feet wet and start applying everything I'm studying to real life.

  I can put my energy into the bakery. That's where it needs to go. Dating is off-limits for me for a long time.

  There's a knock on the door just then, and I hurriedly throw on a robe and answer it. It's the maid with the extra towels, and a small card.

  "For you, ma'am."

  I thank her and take the towels and shut the door. The card is simple and white, with one pen-inked line in the middle;

  'Meet me on the east ballroom balcony. - L'

  My heart does a little skipping motion. It can't be. It can't be Lee. The card must've been sent to the wrong room. I throw on a shirt and a pair of jeans and take the elevator down - I have to give this back to the L person who wants someone to meet them there, so they know it was sent to the wrong room.

  The hotel is mostly quiet, winding down after the dinner rush as everyone filters back to their room. The east ballroom is a huge, marble-floor, vaulted-ceiling room with billowy curtains and French windows, and one massive balcony that overlooks the mountains. The sun still lingers in this part of the world, even at nine at night - painting pale lavender shadows across the snow and pine trees. The view is breathtaking - the mountains jutting up from the valley and spreading into the horizon, fresh snow capping each of them with a white glaze that reflects the sunset's every color shift.

  Someone stands against the wood railing. Someone tall, in a dark sweater and jeans. The skipping motion in my heart instantly becomes a gallop. I look around for any sign of Kiera, but there's no one even near the ballroom except us. He must hear my footsteps, because he turns around. His hair is mussed, the dark circles still under his eyes. When he sees me he gives a faint smile, and it makes the galloping in my heart only speed up.

  "I'm sorry," He says, voice hoarse.

  "For what?"

  "I had to see you, alone." He rubs his forehead. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have sent that to you. You just being with me - she'll see that as a threat. I'm supposed to protect you, but right now I'm doing the opposite."

  I wrinkle my eyebrows. "Lee, what the hell are you talking about?"

  He shakes his head, and takes a few tentative steps towards me. I shiver, and he quickly takes off his sweater and pulls it over my head. It smells like him - like pine needles and sweat and wood fire smoke. When I pop my head out of the collar, he flinches.

  "I have to tell you everything. It's killing me that you don't know - that you think I love her. I don't. God Rose, I don't love her at all. I pity her. I hate her. But love is the farthest thing from my mind."

  His words are everything I've ever wanted to hear.

  "Y-You proposed to her," I say. "At the Christmas charity ball you - you and her announced it. Your families were there. You agreed to marry her, Le
e -"

  He steps into me, suddenly, his body heat radiating into me as he cups my cheek.

  "Say it again," He murmurs. "My name. I want to hear it in your voice again."

  I'm shaking, but I manage to open my mouth.

  “Lee.”

  He kisses me then, fully and with enormous weight. His lips practically crush mine, his kisses bruising as he trails them across my cheek, up to my ear, and back down to my lips again. His one free hand laces around my back, and I moan and arc into him. I know it’s wrong, I know he has a fiancé and he loves her, but this is everything I’ve wanted for months. A voice in my head chants for me to stop, over and over, but he feels so right in all the wrong ways - his biceps against my back, his thick wrist and long fingers nearly tangled in my hair, his hard need pressing against my stomach through his jeans.

  "Found you!"

  The shrill voice cuts between us and Lee backs up so quickly you'd think he'd been burnt. He straightens and drops his hand, putting four feet of space between us with one stride. I look up, and Kiera's walking toward us, in wet-looking snowboarding gear and a sandy-haired guy not much older than me on her arm. She unzips her jacket and throws back her head, shaking out her golden hair from under her woolen hat.

  "Kiera," Lee pants. "I was just -"

  "Paying respects to the locals? Funny, I was doing the same thing." She motions to the guy on her arm. "Lee, this is Felix. He's a friend of my father's."

  She turns her foxlike eyes on me, a smile growing on her flushed lips.

  "Rose," she says my name with exaggerated slowness, heaviness. "Meet Felix. He's heard a lot about you."

  "I have," Felix agrees pleasantly. "Kiera's spared no detail."

  He's dressed in cold-weather clothes too, but they look almost too thin, like he packed in a hurry and just threw stuff that would work for another climate into his luggage. He's handsome, in a rugged, weightlifting sort of way. His accent is American. Something in Lee's body language shifts, tenses. He leans forward and balls his fists. Even though Lee's at least two inches taller than Felix, it almost seems like Lee's considering him a threat, or considering him as something...dangerous.