Chapter 2: chapitre un: 001
An old man once told me I was the epitome of beauty, that I should cherish my stunning features now before it'll be too late. In my opinion, I was not anything he had told me. If beauty was only to be found on the outside, then I what was I on the inside? A disgrace, or perhaps I was revolting on the inside and had never paid attention. And as my mother had always taught me, beauty should only be found in the inside and if someone was called beautiful solely for the way they look on the outside, then it was a lie. Although, as I stood at the front doors of this brick apartment building, I began to contradict not only my words, but my mother's.
She, like the old man had once called me, was the epitome of beauty. With my shoulder leaned on the door frame, I watched her speak with my father. Nothing but a book and a small duffel bag in her skinny, pale hands as she greeted him with a small kiss on his bearded cheek. A slight tug upward at the corner of her lip and my eyes were only focused on her as she waved the taxi goodbye with her fingers. Her eyes scattered across the building as if she were evaluating it before she could step a foot inside.
It was only a week ago when I found out about her, my father explaining and ruining my summer all in one sentence. She'll be staying with you for the next three months. With me, for the next three months, what was there to do with me? What would I have to offer her—my life? She already had my summer in her hands, it had become hers. In the next three months to come, she'd be off without a care to me or to my father. I didn't have a say in this, I was only to comply to the words of the man who created me and keep my mouth shut. And for the next three months, that's what I'll do.
And there was my father, holding her close as if they've known each other for years. I was more than intrigued in their rather interesting relationship, for all I knew was that she would be staying with me for the summer. My father took my hand in his and showed me his charming smile, "Annalise, I would like you to meet to Olivia Rowe." The thick French accent in his voice was a quite amusing and I tried my best to be polite.
Olivia Rowe. I turned my eyes on the blonde beauty who stood in front of me. I shouldn't begrudge the green eyes that stared into mine, for I would only dislike her a little more. So rather than just standing and holding the door open for her, I smiled, "Nice to meet you." It was now that I wished my accent wasn't as thick as my father's and I cursed myself for even finding his amusing.
Little jewelry she had on, only a gold necklace around her neck and a small watch around her wrist. Her hair, the color of honey, cascaded past her shoulders and exposed the diamonds she wore on her ears. Another smile, "You too, as well." No sign of a French accent as she spoke, only leaving me to believe that she was an American. And with that, she followed my father through the darkness upstairs, discarding me at the door as if I was some doorman. The scent of her citrus perfume filling my nostrils as she turned away.
An American. She was an American. I was thankful for my mother teaching me English as a young child, otherwise me and this girl would never say a word to each other for the next three months she was here. A voice that smooth and soft, and in a way resembled a baby's skin. The many times I imagined hearing her voice, I never thought of it to sound fragile and small. If I hadn't seen her, I would say she was shy and didn't like speaking to others around her.
Sighing, I followed the path of her citrus scent that led to my apartment. The door already open and waiting for my arrival, I closed it behind me. She was to take the bedroom and I was to stay in the living room. She was fortunate that I was being generous, especially with my feelings towards her. I couldn't tell whether she was in awe of the rustic apartment or missing her home because of it as she looked out the window. "I hope I didn't bother anyone coming here." She said, her eyes looking between my father and me.
"No, Annalise doesn't mind at all." He said as soon as I opened my mouth to reply to her. He glanced my way and I knew it was at my best interest to keep my mouth quiet. It was the look that could keep me quiet for an eternity.
"You can call me Annie." I murmured.
Olivia kept her stance by the window as she recited my shortened name with a smile on her face. Anna. My name coming from her mouth was foreign, she said it with grace and elegance like no one else had. And maybe for that moment, I wished she would say it again. It was like writing something in cursive and admiring the result. She looked at the worn-out sleeper sofa, "Is there where I'll be sleeping?"
I pointed towards the bedroom, "That's where you'll be-
Quickly, she walked into the room I pointed to, not even staying another second to hear the rest of my sentence. The hem of her white little dress swaying at her thighs with each step she took, and the sound of her white tennis shoes hitting against the wooden floors was somehow infuriating. It took me by surprise how different she was. Quiet and soft with a touch of rudeness.
I rolled my eyes and looked at my father, "Je ne savais pas qu'elle allait être impolie, Victor." I whispered to him. (I didn't know she was going to be rude, Victor.)
"Allégez-vous, Annalisez, elle est nouvelle ici." (Lighten up, Annalise, she's new here.) Away he followed her into the room, leaving me to be myself once again.
Just watch and be patient, she would leave and forget what we did for her. No trace of remorse, no trace of sorrow, just a cold goodbye. Or maybe, she'll walk away in the middle of us saying goodbye, it seemed like something she'd do. I said this once and I'll say it again, my summer was now ruined because of her. If she was to be here, I would have to show her around and be the only friend she could talk to. In my country, she was foreign and didn't have a clue about anything here.
From the view of the open door, I watched her look around the room, tracing her skinny fingers across the bedsheets and starting a conversation with my father. She must've thought she was in some type of movie and she was the main character, as it seemed to me. Too invested in her own thoughts, but I was a little angry and my words tend to be a little negative when I'm angry. So, everything she was doing was annoying in my eyes.
Perhaps, I should leave them here and he could show her around my apartment. It seemed like they had known each other longer than I have expected, and I was just a simple prop at the corner watching everything going on. And though I thought about leaving, there was no way I could bring myself to doing it. I wasn't afraid, just intrigued with a girl who began to reign over my thoughts as if they were her own—and I just met her.
She was now in front of me, taking my hands in hers, "Annalise, I just want to say thank you for lending me your bedroom, I know things are last minute." Here, perchance, I was wrong about her. Polite and well-mannered she was, along with stunning features on the outside.
In this moment, all I could was nod and slip my hands from her hold. As my father bid his goodbyes, wishing her the best, I followed him through the door. If had anyone to talk to about this problem, it would be him. "Comment la connais tu?" (How do you know her?)
"La fille de l'amie de votre mère, je suis surpris que vous ne vous souveniez pas d'elle." (The daughter of your mother's friend, I'm surprised you don't remember her.)
As if I was supposed to know her—I barely even knew her name! If I had known who she was, I wouldn't be feeling so negative towards her, but I do not know her. I'm not surprised that I don't know her, either, why should I be? She was a girl from America, the only person I've spoken to from America was my mother. Not a gorgeous honey-colored hair girl with skinny fingers and a petite figure. Excuse me, father, for not remembering her like I was supposed to.
"Pourquoi est-elle en France?" (Why is she in France?)
"Je ne vais pas vous dire, demandez-lui vous-même. Faites-vous un ami, Annalisez." With a kiss on my forehead and a heavy a sigh, he began to walk down the dark staircase, "Je vais vous voir demain, assurez-vous de parler avec Elizabeth quand vous en aurez l'occasion!" (I won't tell you, ask her yourself. Make a friend, Annalise; I will see you tomorrow, make sure to speak with Elizabeth when you get the chance!)
Talk to her yourself, I wanted to yell. I watched him disappear in the darkness whilst standing at the doorway. If only he didn't just dump things on me like I was a garbage can, then maybe I wouldn't be making this experience so difficult. Alone, I would be alone with her for the rest of the day and it was only a quarter to five. Alone for three months. Was there going to be a chance of us even talking in these months to come? Or would I have to wallow in awkwardness and pretend as if none of this was real, and it was all a nightmare that I would be waking up from soon. A very long nightmare that I hoped to end.
I counted three seconds before turning on my heel and walking through the door. She was nowhere to be found in the living room or kitchen, and I when I peeked through the bedroom door, there was no sight of her there. Her white leathered duffel bag was on the floor and remained open, although the clothes folded inside seemed to be untouched. Besides the bag, were the shoes she had just worn. It was the hints of her becoming comfortable, not even an hour in, and she was already becoming comfortable.
Tentatively, I picked up her duffel bag from the floor and placed it inside, what was now, her bedroom. The book in her hands from earlier was rested on the bed, open slightly. I wondered as to what exactly she wrote in there, what secrets she kept and if they were worth knowing—not for my want or need, but for my safety, I suppose. There was the other option that I was fascinated with her and the way she acted, I found that hard to believe.
"Oh, I could've gotten that."
Within a second, I turned around to face her as if I had been caught doing something I wasn't supposed to be doing. And though, I was doing nothing wrong, I made it seem that way and with the skeptical look on her face, I wouldn't think twice if she thought I was. "It's okay, I thought you might want some help." I turned around to begin my way out, but with the touch of her hand around mine, I halted and looked at her.
A small smile tugging at her rosy, voluptuous lips, she said, "I've probably said this a million times already, but thank you, this means a lot."
Even with those words playing through my mind throughout the night I still attempted to find a reason to dislike her. Not a word said to each other since then, from what I remembered, she told me she was exhausted and just needed her rest. So, for the rest of the evening, I laid in my living room listening to her soft snores through the open door. And as I listened, I thought about everything, everything to come up in this time coming. If we were to go far, how far would we go? How long would it take it before she wasn't the subject of my acrimony anymore?
I thought of my father's words and how he told me to lighten up around her. If it were easy, I would, but it was rather difficult. Expected to know her, expected to treat and provide for her as if she were a child. I was no mother, and she was going to realize that eventually, but for now, I would have to settle for exactly that. She would want to explore, and I would have to be her guide.
*
It seemed like she wanted me to despise her. With every moment, every word, and every action—it was all maddening. Her hands on everything I owned, claiming them as if they had always been her own. She waltzed around the kitchen like she was lost, opening and closing the drawers, along with the cabinets never quite finding what she needed. There, she walked to the sink, in her short cotton dress and her hair in a ponytail, washing her hands. Every so often, she'd take a glance out the window. She possibly thought I was still asleep, but no, I wasn't--I was far from it.
In fact, I didn't sleep at all last night because she was embedded into my mind. Unfortunately for her, it made me angrier. To think about someone endlessly and not know the reason as to why was frustrating. One of these days, I was going to realize as to why, but patience will have to do for now.
Her skin, the color of a pale moonlight and her hair dripped like honey with bangs that grazed the tips of her dark eyelashes. Eyes that resembled the color of spring with hints of fall, enough to have me wanting to look into them even more. All of this, I remembered all of this from seeing her just yesterday—for the first time. Like I had once said, she was the epitome of beauty—captivating, breath-taking and made me envious.
"I hope I didn't wake you up, Anna."
There she said my name again, her eyes on me as stood in the kitchen. I looked at her from where I laid on the sofa, wishing I hadn't been so obvious. "I was already awake. Is there something you need?" Perhaps it was this blanket that was making me hot as she walked over to me, or maybe it was the fact that I was nervous around her.
I couldn't deny how easily it was to get angry with her as she got comfortable, sitting on the other side of the sofa, still in her pajamas and in white socks. Someone new to a place like mine, and she was already feeling like she lived here—it was unbelievable and amazing at once. She gave me another pretty smile, "I was looking for the coffee since I didn't want to wake you up, but it—
"I don't drink coffee." I interrupted. She was taken back by my harshness and I felt the guilt rise in the pit of my stomach. I continued, "My mother's café is across from here, I could walk you if you'd like." Once again, I cursed my French accent.
"Oh, that would be amazing!" With that, she stood from the sofa and walked into her bedroom and I watched her. I wondered if it crossed her mind that she would be bothering me at this early hour in the morning. The expression on her face explained everything I needed to know—that it didn't.
I was to buy coffee the next time I went to the store.
And it wasn't long till I complied to her wishes, leading her out of the complex and across the busy roads filled with other individuals walking to their destination. Her scent of citrus enchanting me more than it was supposed to but I didn't say a word as we walked in silence. Both of our sundresses billowing out with the wind as we made our way inside and to an open table just by the window. It was hot out today, hotter than I had expected and the beads of sweat dripping from my dark strands were now drying in the heavy air conditioning.
Smell of Roses. What was once my grandmother's café, was now my mother and father's. It was another home that would soon become mine when, God forbid, my parents were deceased. Every summer I was to work here in order to be paid, otherwise I would have to find my own way. In this life, it was not always easy.
The smell of pastries was delightful and enough to make me forget about the acrimony that filled my life within these twelve hours. Looking at Olivia, who sat across from me, it was all beginning to fade away for the couple of minutes we were here. As she stared out the window, admiring the couples and children that walked by, and the way her lips would latch on to the coffee mug. Occasionally, she'd tap her fingernails against the table in a musical way, tapping to the rhythm of the sensual music around us and ignoring the murmuring.
Her green eyes met mine and her lips tugged upwards, "How about we play a game?" She leaned in closer, "Have you ever played '21 questions'?"
I felt my eyebrows raise and set my cup of tea down on the café table, "Not that I can remember." A game I've never heard of, perhaps it was a game they played in America.
She gave me a strange look before continuing, "Where I'm from, '21 questions' is a game we play to get to know someone better. We each have 21 questions of our own to ask each other. Would you like to play?"
Now in life, all I could was nod and go along with everything she was saying. "Should I ask first?" She nodded and I continued, "Where are you from, Olivia?"
"Florida. You may or may not ask this, but your mother was staying with us before I left. I'm sure she's still at my house, which reminds me, I need to give you something when we get back home."
Home. She referred to my apartment as her home. Not even twenty-hours and she considered herself to be living with me in what she called, home. Then it hit me—my mother had never informed me about her, not once, out of our calls every day, did she say anything about a girl named Olivia.
"Since you've lived in France your entire life, what's your favorite thing to do?" She took a long sip from her coffee, looking me in the eyes once again. I could tell by the way she looked how desperate she was to know my response. It was amusing.
"Looking out the windows, it's a beautiful scenery." I took another glance out the window, as did she. "What brings you to France?"
As Olivia stared out the window, I stared at her and watched the blush creep up in her cheeks, making them rosy red. "I wanted to travel. My mom and I talked about this since I was in middle school, but she fell ill to cancer. She convinced me to come out here anyway without her."
Her words reminded me of the day my mother left to care for a friend of hers, a very close friend from what I recall. I hadn't known it was Olivia's mother, let alone the fact that this trip was for the both of them. It was now that I regretted my obnoxious thoughts towards her.
On impulse, I placed my hand on her cold one, my fingers grazing her gold charm bracelet. "I'll be sure to make this a trip you'll never forget."
For three days, our talking had stopped. No communication between the both of us, only glances and smiles. For our talking to end so suddenly had taken me had me astounded by the unexpectedness. What I once thought was starting had already ended in complete silence and vagueness. For those three days, I thought about what I had said to her, if there was a point in time that I went wrong. With every look she gave me, I became more curious. She acted as if this was normal—it was far from it. I couldn't help but think this was her way of doing things. Talk once and ignore for the rest of eternity.
She would catch my stare at times, and for a few moments, I could tell she thought about what I was thinking. Who was going to talk first? That was this game, right? Stay quiet until one of us breaks the silence. I didn't want to play another American game, this one seemed a lot more difficult than the one we started at the café. I wasn't completely sure if I was losing or not, nor on how to win—I didn't know how to play. I was lost on what was supposed to be a friendship but was now nothing between strangers, which we were once again.
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