Page 11 of Win You Over
My heart beats erratically in his presence. His larger-than-life personality setting me on edge. But I push down the feelings and focus on my breathing and the road.
“Sweet ride, isn’t it? Just as sexy as I am,” he jokes, and I add ‘inflated ego’ to the list of his less than stellar qualities.
He takes a piece of candy from a bag in the centre console and shoves it into his mouth. “You want one? Sour Patch Kids. Grape flavor. The elite of all the flavors.” I shake my head, andRemington takes another, then puts both hands back on the wheel.
He revs the engine, pulls the car into the road, hitting the pedal and going far faster than the town’s speed limit.
“It can go a lot faster.” He gives me a quick look, maybe hoping to see amazement on my face, before turning back to the road. “Likewayfaster. It’s not built for this small town, though.” He continues rambling on about his car as if I asked and I find myself appreciating the one sided conversation, because at least he hasn’t asked me any direct questions or expected me to fill any awkward silences. In fact, he doesn’t even pause long enough for me to contemplate speaking or for silence to fall in the small space, his sentences running into each other in rapid succession.
By the time we pull up to the large white mansion that is his home, I have come to one conclusion. Remington Langford is a car nerd.
We climb out of the car and he bounds up the steps, throwing open the door and loudly announcing his arrival. “Ma, I’m home!” He waves a hand at me and I follow him through the double width front door and into a sprawling entry hall.
It’s beautifully decorated with gold accents, and a large statue of an elephant in one corner, surrounded by tall green ferns. To my left is a wall covered in photos of his family. The largest one, a portrait of four people, clearly on safari. At the back of the entry hall, there’s a wide set of stairs leading up to the next floor, and opposite them, the opening to a spacious sitting room.
A lady, who can’t be much older than late forties, walks down the stairs. Her hair is a startling white blond, neatly sitting on top of her head in a bun. She wears a black pencil skirt and a flowy yellow blouse. When she meets my eyes, her face lights up into a smile that matches Remington’s.
“You didn’t say you were bringing home a friend, Rem,” she says, reaching a hand out to me. “Charlene Langford, lovely to meet you…” Her sentence peters off in that questioning way that so often happens when people introduce themselves. I swallow thickly, my tongue sitting heavy in my mouth. I hate this part of meeting new people. The part where they expect me to tell them my name and offer standard pleasantries like ‘wow, what a beautiful home you have.’God, I wish it could be that easy.
I take her hand in mine. It’s warm and soft, her nails beautifully manicured. I offer her a smile, opening my mouth to at least attempt to give her my name. My mind races and it feels like I’m pushing a rock up my throat, the word not budging. Fucking hell, I just want to say my name.
“This is my new friend, Holden,” Remington answers for me. “We have a project to do before finals.” Then he says something to his mother in a language I don’t recognise and she responds before nodding, her beautiful smile still radiating on her face.
“Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Holden. I’ll leave you two to it.” She turns to Remington. “There's lasagne in the fridge if you and Holden get hungry. Dad and I are going to the movies.”
“Thanks Mom.” He kisses her cheek before grabbing my arm and pulling me towards the stairs. He stops at the bottom of them, then turns to me.
“You wanna work in the kitchen, or my room?” My gaze flitters up the stairs and then to his face. He’s all boyish charm and innocence, with startling blue eyes that crinkle on the edges when he smiles. He tips his head, waiting for my reply, and I contemplate the options, feeling more at ease in his space than I expected.
I nod my head towards the stairs, signalling my choice. For all the nerves I had about being alone with him, I’ve concluded that if he wanted to hurt me, the choice of where we are in this large empty house wouldn't make much of a difference.
“Okay,” he says and I follow him up, coming to a landing that leads to a corridor of plush cream carpets, the walls once again decorated with family photos. His home is warm and welcoming and nothing at all like I expected. As much as I hate the way the people in this town judge me, I’m hit with the realisation that I may not be any better than them, given I expected to walk into a home brimming with maids and butlers and not an ounce of warmth or personality.
When he shows me through a door and into a room halfway down the long corridor, it’s very clear from my first glance that it’s his. His entire personality – the parts I’ve glimmered so far – are pasted all over his walls. Trophies and photos from kickboxing competitions, posters of supercars, a calendar of firefighters on his desk, still three months behind, and an entire shelf of remote controlled cars neatly lined up in an order I don’t have the knowledge to decipher. There’s a collage of photos above a mahogany desk, and I recognise a few of the people in them, including quite a number of photos with Finn.
A large yellow, pink and blue flag that I’ve seen before, but don’t know the meaning of hangs above his bed, the tape on one end peeling so that the flag moves gently in the breeze coming from the open window that looks out onto a rolling lawn. Beneath the glass sits a bench lined with cushions and to the right of it, a bookshelf filled with a mixture of non-fiction and fiction texts, and notably, a large collection of Agatha Christie novels.
“Welcome to my kingdom,” he says, sweeping his hand around the room. He pulls out a chair from his desk. “Sit. Do you want a drink? Food?” I shake my head and lay my bag on the smooth wood, then pull out my laptop and sticky notes.
What language were you and your mom speaking? And what did you say about me?I scribble on one and hand it to him before taking the offered seat.
He flops down on his bed, his head hanging over the edge, a picture of casual, carefree youth. His t-shirt rides up to reveal a thin line of light brown hair leading to the waistband of his jeans. I don’t know why I notice it, but I do, and enough to startle when he answers my question, my cheeks burning at the thought of him noticing my staring.
“Afrikaans. It’s a language from South Africa. That’s where my mom’s from. She taught my sister and I when we were younger. She said it was important we learnt some of our heritage. Our grandmother hates it, so we make a habit of speaking it around her.” He chuckles, then runs a hand through his hair. His cheeks are red, presumably from the blood rushing to his face while his head is tipped off the bed. “And I told her you're shy.”
With my laptop on, I open a blank document to start our assignment, then write out another sticky note for Remington. I’m surprised that he hasn’t asked me about my silence yet – it’s something so many ask me the minute they realise I can’t converse like they do. Always inquisitive about why I don’t speak. When did it start? What caused it? Can I change it? So many questions that I either don’t want to answer or simply can’t.
But not Remington.
Standing, I walk over to his bed and hand him the note.
Don’t you want to know why I don’t talk?
“I mean, Iwantto know. But I figure you'll tell me when we're better friends.” He smirks, looking at me upside down.
Oh. That's…unexpected? Sweet?
I shake my head both as a reminder to him about us not being friends and as a reminder to myself not to fall for his charm.
