Page 50 of Pieces of Ash
“I forgive you,” I say, feeling terrible.
“Thank you, Julian.”
She stands up, leans down, and picks up my bowl. Then, without looking at me, she walks back into the kitchen.
And me?
I’m left staring at her perfect fucking ass before the porch door slams shut, wondering why I feel like I just kicked the shit out of a chicken ’n’ biscuits angel kitten when all I’m trying to do is protect myself.
ASHLEY
I place the bowls on the marble counter, head to the stairs, and make it up to my room before I allow a single tear to touch my cheek.
I didn’t mean to upset or offend him, but I have a knack for alienating myself from other people, and it’s happened yet again. I have no idea what I did, but he obviously hates me. Lucky me, now I get to live here for an undetermined amount of time enduring his daily scorn.
“What did I ever do to you anyway?” I mutter softly, sitting down on my bed as I swipe away a tear.
Through my window, I watch him walk back to the barn, standing at the door for a minute, then turning around, like he’sabout to walk back to the house, then pivoting back toward the barn, yanking open the door and letting it slam behind him.
“It was just a little pasta,” I whisper.
Except it wasn’t. If I’m honest with myself, I know it wasn’t.
It was, though not ill-intentioned, a bribe.
Especially after our short conversation on Sunday, I was hoping that Julian could be my friend.
I was trying to buy a friend with food.
“You’re pathetic, Ashley. Completely pathetic.”
I see the barn door open again, and he steps outside with Bruno at his heels. Without even glancing at the house, they turn toward the meadow. Bruno races toward the woods with Julian following. They’ll be gone for an hour or so.
Without making a conscious decision, I slip downstairs into the living room and through the small dining room, but instead of turning left into the kitchen, I turn right, down a short hallway that leads to Julian’s bedroom and bathroom.
I know precious little about my housemate, but I’d like to know why he decided to dress me down today. Maybe his room will hold clues about who he is and why he’s so desperate to have nothing to do with me.
Gus told me that he used to be in some sort of law enforcement before moving up here last summer. I know he has a sister. I can see he loves his dog. I suspect that he speaks French, though I’m not positive. Based on Gus’s descriptions of the type of glass he blows, I feel like I can identify which pieces in the house are his. They’re good—exceptional, even. He has an eye for color and a gift for unusual beauty.
“But he’s moody as h—heck,” I add, turning the bathroom knob and peeking inside.
I was about to sayhell, which surprises me.
I’m no stranger to cursing, of course. Tig had a mouth like a trucker, and Mosier swore in several different languages,including English, but it’s been years since I’ve muttered anything worse than “Fudge!”
“Fudge!” I say, reaching left and running my hand along the wall, feeling for the light switch.
I flick it on, look at my face in the mirror, and watch my lips form the wordfuck.
Fuuuck.
I only think it, but Lord above, it is such afoulword. It makes me giggle.
I find a container of deodorant beside the sink and lift it to my nose. The container reads NATIVE in bold letters, and when I take off the cap, it smells like woods and spice. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, my bare toes curling on the tile floor because it smells so good.
I replace the cap and exchange the deodorant for a bar of soap. The word BEEKMAN is barely visible after multiple uses, but the bar itself smells like sweetgrass, and I sigh softly, murmuring, “Fuuuck,” as I replace the soap in its little silver dish beside the sink.
There isn’t much else in the pristine bathroom, a bottle of Pert shampoo/conditioner in the shower and a white towel hanging on the back of the door. It’s clean and tidy, unremarkable even, except for the scents that have captivated me.
