Through Glass (The Glass Series Book 1) (7 page)

“Go.”

He leaves for the second time today, and this time I don’t want him back any time soon. I’m still leaning back against the wall and soon slide to the floor. I put my head between my knees and start crying. To my surprise, I do actually have tears left. I’m not sure where they came from—I was certain I was all cried out for months, at least—but they’re there, and they really are pouring out now.

Perhaps when I calm down I will let him explain, but right now I am just too upset and emotional to deal with anything. If I do eventually give him the opportunity to tell me what that was, it had better be a damn good explanation.

What happens now? Does this mean I’m not going to work for him?

I really need this job. I really need him. I liked him a lot, and I let my guard down. This happens every time I get close to someone. They always turn out to be someone they’re not.

Maybe I’m overreacting. I mean, it is just a notebook. It’s not like he betrayed my trust and slept with another girl, although the whole thing about talking to Shay is definitely not cool. And if that’s only what I read in the first couple pages, what else could there possibly be in that notebook?

I decide I want to read it all. I’m going to demand a copy of it, and if he says no, I’m going to find a way to read it anyway.

I lock the deadbolt on my front door, strip down to my panties, and crawl into bed. It seems like a good time for a mid-morning nap. NyQuil seems to think so as well. He’s one step ahead of me, quietly asleep on my pillow.

Maybe I won’t wake up.

Chapter Fourteen

So again I bleed away my problems

I awake in a panic. I had the strangest dream; that someone was in my apartment. It was the man with the cross on his forearm. I’m not sure why I was thinking about him, but a brief search proves that it was just a dream. My heart is pounding. I wonder how long I’ve been asleep, and a glance at the time on the microwave reveals that I’ve napped for almost four hours. I guess I needed to catch up on sleep after all I’d been through in the last little while.

The notebook. That part wasn’t a dream. I really did find a book wherein Oliver had documented absolutely everything about me, it seemed. I check my phone, and to my surprise, he hasn’t texted me. No one has, actually. I even half-expected a text from Shay, because if they were as good friends as Oliver made it sound like they were, I figured he would have called her to give her the heads up about my finding the notebook.

I send Oliver a message.

I guess we need to talk. Meet for coffee?

Sure. My shop, or somewhere different?

Your shop is fine. I’d like to talk, though. In the back, maybe. No distractions.

Want me to pick you up?

No thanks, I’d like to walk and clear my head. See you soon.

When I arrive, Oliver is sitting in the back booth, as expected. I join him, and for a second I regret meeting here. Tara is working behind the bar, and I really don’t feel like interacting with anyone right now. Especially her. However, I surprise myself by politely returning a smile when she waves at me as I walk by.

Oliver already has a pumpkin spice latte waiting for me. He slides it towards me across the table.

“Laur, I am really sorry. I just write a lot, and I really like to document everything. I guess it actually is a bit weird, but I’ve always done it. It’s just me. I’m also so sorry that I grabbed your arm. I shouldn’t have done it. I just panicked. Some of the stuff in the notebook gets really personal and I really don’t want anyone else reading it. I hope you can forgive me.”

I stare at him blankly. I find I enjoy seeing him grovel a bit.

“I’m sorry, Laur,” he repeats once again.

I nod.

Tara walks over to our table and my already-shot nerves are tested even further. I’m seriously about to snap on someone and she seems like the perfect target.

“Are you guys doing okay? Would you like me to get you anything else?” Tara offers.

“We’re good, thanks,” Oliver replies.

Without another word, she’s gone to serve another table.

“I can tell you don’t like her,” he says, still staring at her.

“I don’t
not
like her. I just—okay, I don’t like her,” I confess.

“What don’t you like about her?” he asks, turning towards me to observe my body language.

“Just how she seems to throw herself at you. She’s stuck up, and pretty.”

“You’re pretty, too, Lauren. In fact, you’re gorgeous.”

He’s the only person who has ever told me I was pretty. I look away, without responding to his statement.

“Did you get any work done on your canvas, Laur?” he asks, completely changing the topic of conversation. It is as if he’s ignoring the fact that the whole notebook incident occurred.

“A bit.”

We sit in silence for a couple minutes and I’m not sure I still want to be here with him. I feel like I shouldn’t have agreed to come out. Maybe what I need right now is to just be curled up at home in the fetal position. I need this week to end. I can’t take much more.

I remember the bright orange notice I found on my door last week. I need to deal with the fact that I’m being evicted, and at this point I really don’t know what to do. This painting I’m working on, although both sincere and full of emotion, is just not the type of piece I think anyone is going to want to buy—at least not from me, anyway. Sure, if some really famous artist had created it, it would be a different story, but no one knows me—and why should they? My work has been terrible lately. Instead of beautiful silhouettes of couples with umbrellas, children, and pet portraits, I’m painting an abstract piece. I’m throwing whatever colors I feel express my thoughts onto a canvas that may as well still just be blank. It won’t be meaningful to anyone but me once it’s done. It sure as hell won’t pay my rent and I’ve got nowhere else to go.

Perhaps I should cut off my ear.

“Would you be okay with me starting work tomorrow?” I ask quietly. Oliver nods in response and squeezes my hand.

I’m hoping I get enough hours and tips to make ends meet. I still haven’t done groceries yet, and NyQuil is almost out of food.

“I’m in at 7 o’clock tomorrow morning. Could you meet me here then? I’ll go through some stuff with you and then I’ll put you on the schedule for the rest of the week.”

“Sure.”

I will have to deal with seeing a lot more of Tara.

Chapter Fifteen

I don’t belong here anymore

It’s still dark as I walk to work my first shift at Bean There. I’ve gone all out to fit in with the atmosphere, right down to the handmade headband and natural, cruelty-free deodorant.

That’s okay, I’ve got this.

Reject the mainstream. Embrace the obscure. I am wearing a flannel shirt tucked into grey skinny jeans, and I pulled out my pair of black plastic thick-rimmed glasses. My shoes are brightly colored neon Converse sneakers I used to wear in high school. All this, under a long, warm cardigan that looked like it could’ve come out of my grandma’s closet. I’ve accessorized with a bright green scarf and a knitted black beanie I made myself years ago.

I pull on the café door and it is still locked. I’m not surprised; I’m twenty minutes early. I peer through the glass and see Oliver and Tara talking behind the counter.

Why is she here so early?

I feel my jealousy rear its ugly head once again and it sends me into a mild panic mode. I debate whether or not I should knock on the glass and let them know I’m here, or continue to observe their interaction.

I chastise myself once again.

He’s not my boyfriend. I can’t feel like this.

I’m startled when Oliver unlocks the door. I didn’t realize he had noticed me watching them.

Oliver welcomes me and delegates my first task. Before the shop opens in ten minutes, I’m asked to clear yesterday’s menu from the chalkboard and list today’s specials on it. The feeling that this will be a piece of cake slowly fades when I notice that the chalkboard is about six feet by six feet, and whoever did it yesterday brilliantly had it laid out so that everything rhymed and it was written like one large poem. I feel defeated already. So I do what I do best—I draw. By the time I am done with my masterpiece, the shop has already been open for twenty minutes and there are already two patrons ordering their coffee. I hope Oliver doesn’t care. The board looks amazing. I’ve used every different color of chalk to draw detailed pictures of little lattes, muffins, and birds. It blows the actual paintings in this place right out of the water.

I realize I’m standing there, staring at the board, when Oliver comes up behind me and puts his hand around my shoulder.

“Nice work.” He grins. “Can I get you to unpack the order I just received, now?”

I nod. It’s almost a shame that this board will be erased again tomorrow.

I unpack and sort the different coffees and teas from the boxes. In between putting stuff away, I serve two customers as well. I create a toasted almond mocha so beautiful that if I had my phone, I’d Instagram it. That’s the hipster thing to do, right? I hand it to the customer and he makes small talk. He tells me his name is Skylar. I’ll bet he drives a Saab. He tips me a ten dollar bill, which I tuck neatly into the pocket of my jeans.

I get some light cleaning done—dusting the counter, and sweeping the floor—and then I’m already finished with my four hour shift.

“Thanks for your help today.” Oliver smiles.

“No problem. Sorry I couldn’t get more done. I just didn’t really know what I was doing yet, but I’ll get it,” I promise.

“You did great, Laur,” he assures me.

“Can we hang out tonight, Oliver?” I plead. I realize I sound desperate but I don’t want to be alone when I’m an exhausted, emotional wreck.

“Sure,” he agrees. “I’ll text you when I’m done work.”

He’s watching Tara wash tables while he’s talking to me, which irritates me a little bit.

The sky is grey and the weather is miserable. It snowed this morning and it looks like it’s finally going to stay on the ground. I am thankful for this; I was getting really tired of that “in between seasons” weather.

Perhaps it’s time to focus my attention on something other than him.

Chapter Sixteen

You owe me for all my pain

But I need something you can’t give

I’m unlocking the door to my apartment when I hear someone moving around behind me. I turn to see a man is holding two boxes with one hand, and trying to open the door to the apartment across from mine with the other.

“Here, let me get that,” I offer.

“Thanks!” he exclaims.

I open the door to the apartment and I see that it’s empty. For as long as I’ve lived here, I’ve never noticed anyone living there. It has probably been vacant the entire time. I don’t know why it would have ever not been rented, though. They’re actually half decent apartments and reasonably priced. It isn’t the best area to live in but it’s not easy to find affordable accommodations in this city. From where I’m standing, it looks like his apartment has been renovated recently, as well. The walls are freshly painted a neutral off-white color, and the floors are redone with laminate. His windows seem bigger and brighter than mine.

“Are you just moving in?” I ask.

“Yeah, just came up from Seattle,” he explains. “I’m Chase.”

“Lauren.” I smile warmly. I grab one of the two boxes he’s carrying and help him bring it into the empty living room.

“Would you like help moving the rest of your stuff in? I mean, I really have nothing else to do today; I just finished work and I was going to lay down for a bit but the three espresso shots I had in my coffee a couple hours ago have me feeling shaky and energetic.”

“Sure.” He laughs. “I could use the help. I don’t know anyone in the city so I’m pretty much on my own. I just finished the five hour drive here and I’m pretty tired, so it would be nice to get this done.”

Unpacking his car doesn’t take as long as I expected. He reminds me of myself; he only has a couple of totes labeled “books,” and a few bags of clothes. I wonder if he’s starting over, too, and what it is that he’s running from. Perhaps he’s got a crazy ex-girlfriend in another city. She was sleeping around on him and ended up getting pregnant. She told him the baby was his and that she had been faithful this entire time. They hadn’t been together long and he decided to step up and be a father. Not far into the pregnancy, she decides she can’t handle this change in her life and she gets an abortion. He’s devastated that she would kill his unborn child, and they fight—verbally, not physically, because he’d never hit a woman—which ends in him walking out. He stays with a friend for a couple days, and she calls his cell phone repeatedly but he won’t answer. Maybe he considers forgiving her and getting back together. Maybe he doesn’t. Sometime during this stay with his buddies, he speaks with one of her gossipy friends and learns that she has been with other men, and that she thought the baby might not be his. His already broken heart is shattered even more and he knows there’s no getting back together with her now. They cannot fix it this time. He sends her a text, telling her to lose his number for good. When she continues to call, he changes his number, resulting in her showing up at his friend’s house and pounding on the door until he ends up calling the cops, who escort her off the property. Maybe he refuses to face her again and because of that, he’s willing to just start over, without going back to the apartment they once shared to collect his belongings. He literally has a couple books and the clothes on his back.

Maybe I’m completely wrong, though.

“Where’s a good place to get some food around here?” he asks.

I snap back to reality. “What do you like?”

“Anything. I’m starving.”

“There’s a café just down the street. They have gourmet sandwiches and those cute little peanut butter and colored marshmallow squares,” I suggest.

He takes me up on my suggestion, and asks me to accompany him to Bean There. I’m wondering if this will make Oliver jealous or not.

We decide to walk, because he sat all day in the car. It’s getting dark and starting to drizzle, but neither of us seem to care. We laugh and talk the whole way, and I discover we actually have quite a bit in common. Though not professionally, he does like to draw. He doesn’t think he’s very good at it. We like the same type of music and he actually knows of my favorite band. They’re not his favorite, but I forgive him. We share a love for acoustic music and classic guitars, though neither of us can play. He’s never been fishing or camping, but he’s been to several “art crawls,” where a bunch of people interested in art meet on an online forum and then get together at several different coffee shops and pubs to share stories, drink, and discuss their favorite works. I’m beginning to think he and I could be really good friends.

“I have a cat,” he mentions.

“Really?” I guess I sound surprised. I don’t know too many bachelors who have cats. Actually, I don’t know any, come to think of it.

“Yes, really.” He laughs. “Her name is Pickles.”

The fact that I’m imagining a little kitty playdate for NyQuil and his soon-to-be-new-feline-friend, Pickles, makes me think I’m slightly insane. Sanity is overrated, anyway.

“That’s an awesome name.” I laugh.

We’re almost at the coffee shop—I can see it from here. I wonder if I should mention anything about me working there now, and that Oliver is a friend of mine. I decide against it, and we walk in.

He lets me pick the table, and we slide into a quiet booth at the back.

“What would you like? I’ll buy,” he offers. “Consider it a thank you for helping me unload the car.”

“I’m actually good for now. If I have another coffee today, I’ll be bouncing off the walls.”

“That might be entertaining,” he says, laughing.

I watch as he walks over and places his order. It’s one of the other employees manning the counter, who I don’t know very well. I don’t see Oliver anywhere. Maybe he already went home. I notice he hasn’t sent me a text message yet so he should still be here somewhere.

Chase is back at the table. He talks my ear off about why he chose to move here, and how he had such a hard time finding a place to live. He says he’s lucky to have found the vacant apartment in my building for such a great price.

“I’m a professional forklift operator,” he replies, when I ask him what he does. “I’m pretty good at lifting forks to my mouth.”

“Sounds like a good career,” I joke.

“I’m just kidding. I’m actually an electrician.”

He doesn’t look like an electrician. He looks like he could be in movies. He wears thick glasses, baggy jeans, a white shirt and a blue button up sweater. He’s clean shaven, and his hair is messy, like he just got out of bed.

“Where do you work?” he asks.

“Uh, I actually work here.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, today was my first shift. I needed a second job other than painting, and they were hiring. I always come here anyway. I may as well work here,” I explain.

“Oh, that’s awesome.”

He continues talking but I’m not listening. Oliver is watching us.

He must have been in the back room, but he was standing at the counter now, looking this way. I smile and he nods. He grabs a rag and begins cleaning off tables.

Is he jealous?

I hear Chase say something about how he has to start work tomorrow.

Oliver is cleaning the table right behind us. I wonder if he’s listening.

“I guess you’re going home to bed, then, after your long drive?” I ask Chase.

“That’s the plan. I just need to get my bed set up.”

“Where’s Pickles, right now? Did you bring her with you?”

“Not yet. I left her with my mom back home and I’m going to pick her up next weekend.”

“Hey, Laur. Sorry I hadn’t texted you yet. Are we still doing something tonight?” Oliver asks, interrupting us. From the way he is standing by our table, I think he’s about to sit down with us—but he doesn’t.

“I don’t think so. I’m pretty exhausted, Oliver. I think I’m just going to head home and call it a night,” I say. “Oh, this is Chase. Chase, this is Oliver. He’s my boss.”

I hope you’re jealous.

They shake hands and it seems almost awkward.

“Okay, well, send me a text tomorrow then, since you don’t work until the weekend, and we can get together,” Oliver suggests. He walks back over to the counter and pulls his notebook out of his messenger bag. He begins to write.

I wonder what he’s writing about.
He must be writing about me.