Page 15 of Under Locke & Key
Farren settles down on the plush sectional with one leg folded underneath her and I join, my nerves melting away under the comfort of the huge sofa. I mirror her position, my leg tucked under the other, holding the throw pillow I displaced in my lap.
“Comfy, right?” She smiles as if she’s had this conversation before.
“Super comfy. You’ve got a beautiful home.”
“Thank you. We lucked out. Sebastian had a big chunk saved up so we were able to put in a down payment. Most aren’t that fortunate. It helped that it was a private sale too.”
I think of my parents who made sure I had the best even though it put us all in an uncomfortable position. Even with the scholarship to Georgetown, we’re still paying off the loans to cover the rest—the interest rate killing us. The payment deducts every month, half from me, half from them. Even with my salary at Lakin-Cole it’s slower going than I’d like. D.C. is not a cheap city to live in and I’m the kind of person who prefers to enjoy the money I’ve earned. Bills first, of course, but Friday night drinks and a show at the Kennedy Center now and then—every little luxury adds up.
“So, you’re considering getting out?” Farren asks after my internal rambling stretches too long, saving me from formulating a response.
“Mm, I think it’s time. Keith got the promotion I’ve been working toward.”
Farren rolls her eyes, “Ugh, fucking Keith. He’s the ass that took up ballroom lessons, yeah? As soon as that wine is chilled we’re going to enjoy a couple glasses and get your mind off it. Sebastian might not be as forthcoming about his circumstance before he left but I’ll tell you, Lakin-Cole did a number on him. Time away from the company, setting his own hours and picking projects he actually enjoys has made such a huge difference already. He’s so much more relaxed.”
Farren’s expression flits from anger, to concern, to nauseatingly in love as she talks about the situation and Sebastian, and I get it. I can see exactly why Sebastian is all tied up in knots about her.
She’s open. What you see is what you get. And despite myself and my tendency to hide behind my careful facade, something about her feels safe enough for me to be wholly honest.
“I’ve given them everything. Years. All I got for it was them being vague about why they didn’t give me the job and then Keith hit on me at the bar when we were out celebrating afterwards.” Picking at the texture of the pillow in my lap, the statement is more choked than I expect it to be.
Farren pats my hand and stands.
“This is an emergency and I hope you don’t crucify me for it but that wine can’t wait. I’m throwing in an ice cube or two. You sit right here. Give me two minutes.”
I choke out a laugh and nod. Ángel would cuss me out if I did that, but he’s not here to see and I’d take the fuzz of a little bit of wine over decorum right now.
Glasses clink against the countertop and I hear the soft pop of the bottle being opened. The front door whooshes open and shut, the clang of keys tinkling against each other sounds as Sebastian tosses them into a bowl of some kind.
“I’m here!” he semi-shouts.
“Kitchen!” Farren responds and I’m super aware of his socked feet padding toward her.
Staring over my shoulder, I watch as he puts the pizza boxes down on the island and gathers her up into an embrace. His chest to her back as she pours, he smooches the side of her neck and she giggles, pushing him off of her.
“Your guest is here.”
I’ve never felt like more of an observer than right in this moment. Some of Sebastian’s ease drains away and he turns to give me a smile—genuine but guarded. He looks different. It takes a moment for me to put my finger on it but it’s clear.
“Hi, Rachel.”
“Hi.” I give an awkward little wave from the couch.
The dark circles and deep brackets beside his frown are gone. His shoulders aren’t bowed like they were before, the world on them and weighing him down. The last time I took him to coffee and gave him a pep talk, urging him to quit, he looked like a man on the brink of something dire.
This man looks healthy, happy, and smitten when he glances back at Farren.
“Sorry.” Whether he’s apologizing to her or me is unclear but he does have the grace to look sheepish at his display.
Farren walks over with our glasses, holding one out to me and we tap them together in cheers as she sits down onto her perch again.
“Babe, bring the box and some plates. We’ll eat over here.”
I’m back to being thirteen, at a friend's house and totally alarmed at the fact that they get to put their feet up on the sofa and eat in the living room. Even though I’ve lived on my own for years, and eat wherever there’s a free surface in my apartment, something about being a guest here reverts me back to some long-dormant state where my parents’ rules sit on me like the coat they insisted I wear out lest I catch my death at the lightest breeze.
We bite into bubbly mozzarella and crusts flecked with the kiss of high heat and flame. In between sips of wine, Farren bridges the gap between the Sebastian I knew and the one he’s been able to grow beyond.
“How did you do it? I mean, I know I pushed you to quit, but the aftermath . . .”
