Page 20 of Vicious Sentiments

A couple disappears into the doors before us, dripping in sophistication, their attire something similar to a prom or wedding. I absently run my hands down my body, feeling unworthy, but my hands are met with the luxurious silk dress that hugs my body and reveals just a kiss of my hip. I remember my hair, how it looked in the mirror at the salon, and try to raise my chin. Inside, I may not belong here, but on the outside, I look every bit the part.

I notice Julian eyeing me patiently, his hand hovering behind my lower back but not touching it. He gives me a tiny nod, and I take a steadying breath before stepping forward.

Inside, we’re led to a hushed third level on the opposite end of the building. It has the same glass windows but overlooks the dark ocean below. Thanks to the silk dress, I slip easily into the curved leather booth that makes an almond shape with both ends open. There are two short candles that are flickering in the center of the table. Theybounce their reflection off the glass window in a whimsical rhythm that matches the flutter of my heart.

Julian hesitates at the end of the table, looking at the space next to me and then across from me. He readjusts his sleeves, and after a second, takes the booth across from me.

I try to sit up straighter, place my hands in my lap, and keep my legs in their lady-like position. It’s immediately exhausting. I wonder how long I can keep this up, especially with my rib aching in agony.

“Drinks?” A waiter appears out of nowhere. He has a cloth hanging over one arm and is dressed head to toe in black. He can’t be more than a couple years older than me but his face is placid and devoid of personality, as if his job has chiseled away it.

“Yes,” Julian says. “We’ll have a bottle of Chateau Margaux. Whatever the sommelier recommends.” He quirks a brow at me with a sly smile.

“Of course.” The waiter makes to leave.

“Um,” I speak up, and he pauses. “May I have a water?” My throat is so dry after the minor breakdown I had in the car.

A flicker of confusion crosses his face but it disappears quickly and he nods. “Of course, Miss,” he says and steps away.

In his absence, I catch the eye of an older woman a table away. She’s sitting with two other women and she’s scowling at me. I avert my eyes and pull at the scrap of fabric that’s revealing my high leg, tucking it between my thighs.

“Did you enjoy the salon?” Julian asks me.

I touch the freshly trimmed pieces of my hair and smile but then I think of how much it probably cost, coupled with the pedicure. “I did but I…”

“But what?” He leans in.

“I probably shouldn’t have accepted it.”

His face creases. “But you enjoyed it?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, that’s all that matters.”

The waiter reappears quickly with a dark wine bottle and two glasses, one of which he places in front of me.

“1983 vintage,” he says as he uncorks it with a pop.

A different waitress appears beside him with a pitcher of ice water filled with lemons. She expertly slips around him and fills two glasses before disappearing.

The male waiter pours the wine over his clothed arm, filling both our glasses, nods, and then backs away.

Julian has an amused smile as he eyes my glass.

“Might take the edge off.” He nods at it.

“I don’t think the waiter realized I’m underage.”

“I’m sure he did, but that’s none of his business when a customer orders a fifteen-hundred dollar bottle.”

My bottom lip falls open. Fifteen-hundred dollars? The bottles of alcohol my dad brought home every night were only fifteen dollars. He never spared a drop though, as if it cost him his whole life’s earnings. The glass in front of me is worth twenty times that. I’m torn between having a sip, curious as to what something so expensive tastes like, and politely pushing it away because the idea of having something so costly seems wasted on me. I wouldn’t know if it had all the special notes that it’s supposed to have or be able to appreciate it like Julian.

The most alcohol I’ve ever tried was a beer that I took numbly from my teacher’s blood tinged hand—that was only moments before digging inside me to open me up. He had the beers warm and hidden in the last drawer of his desk. He popped the top and pushed it at me, mumbling something about it helping with any pain I might have.

It did not help. I threw it up ten minutes later in the girls’ bathroom after trying to clean the blood from my underwear.

Remembering makes the inside of my cheeks water and I have to suppress the urge to throw up. I reach for the glass of water instead.

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