Limerence: A Dark Romance (Fated Fixation Book 1)
Limerence: Chapter 16

Somewhere between the end of my swim lesson and discovering the out-of-order showers in the girls’ locker room, I end up back at Adrian’s dorm room.

Naked.

However, that second part has little to do with Adrian and everything to do with his state-of-the-art thermostatic shower system, which has not one or two but six different shower heads that shoot, pulse, and steam at the turn of a knob.

It’s a far-cry from the single shower head in my dorm room, which seems permanently stuck on the warm setting no matter how much I fiddle with the knob.

So, I take my time reveling in the luxury of temperature-controlled water long after I’m done rinsing off the chlorine.

And then I start snooping.

To little surprise, the shower shelf is stocked with expensive products that appear to be custom made for Adrian’s hair and skin.

The cabinet under the polished wooden sink isn’t any more interesting, though I do spot a hair diffuser, which confirms that Adrian’s gorgeous curls aren’t only the work of God.

I try the cabinet above the sink next, expecting to replace more expensive skin or hair-care but –

Well, that’s interesting.

It’s a bottle of medical-grade scar cream.

Not entirely what I expected, but I suppose Adrian is as susceptible to acne scars as anyone else. I go to shift the bottle, to see what else he might keep up here, my breath catching when I see what’s behind the cream.

More scar cream.

And not just one or two bottles, but at least ten different scar creams, gels, and serums of varying brands and strengths.

REMOVES OLD & FADED BODY SCARS, one bottle reads.

So, not for acne scars.

For a moment, I can’t imagine what kind of bodily scar Adrian could have that he’d want to get rid of so badly, but then it hits me.

The ankle scars.

I hadn’t given those thin, faded scars on his left ankle much thought since the day I spotted them at the pool, but now I’m curious. Is that what all this stuff is for?

Granted, they aren’t my scars, but it seems a little overkill for something you wouldn’t even notice unless you’re up close and squinting right at them.

But this is also Adrian, whose perfectionism seems to bleed into everything he does, and I’m guessing his body is no exception.

My curiosity sated, I close the cabinet door.

***

I don’t know how it happens, but I keep spending time with Adrian.

On Wednesday, we have another swim lesson and there are no near-death experiences this time.

On Thursday, he convinces me to go see some foreign three-hour film noir showing at Cedarsville’s local movie theater with him. I can’t say I was planning to spend the better part of my afternoon squinting at English subtitles in a dark room, but I have nothing better to do, so I agree on the condition that he pays for tickets.

At 2 PM on a weekday, the only thing to suggest the theater isn’t a total ghost town is the greasy fifteen-year-old working the concession stand. I’ve never been to this movie theater, but it has the same charm that all small-town movie theaters seem to have: the smell of artificial butter leaking through every crevice and drab Galaxy carpet littered with popcorn kernels.

I’m wearing one of my favorite tops, a long-sleeved Blue henley, that flatters my waist and chest, and somehow, still makes me look entirely underdressed next to Adrian’s forest green pull-over.

I wonder if he even owns a t-shirt.

As the fifteen-year-old prints out our tickets, Adrian asks, “Do you want any popcorn?”

“Oh, no. That’s alright.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really? You’ve been staring at the machine for as long as we’ve been standing here.”

“I just like seeing how it’s made,” I lie because I do want popcorn, but if my mother’s ingrained one rule into me over the past eighteen years, it’s this: you don’t buy the outrageously priced snacks at the movie theater. That eight-dollar popcorn could be a carton of eggs and milk. A pack of Rick’s favorite cigarettes.

“If you say so,” Adrian shrugs and then calls out to the worker. “We’ll need one large popcorn too.”

My forehead crinkles. “What are you –”

“You’re a terrible liar, you know,” he cuts me off. “When you want something, it’s written all over your face.”

“It is not,” I argue and then frown. “Is it?”

The kid hands over the popcorn and tickets and mutters, “Enjoy your date.”

I can’t help the flush that creeps up my neck as we walk away from the booth.

Do people really think we’re on a date?

I mean, I guess that would be the logical assumption to make about two teenagers slinking into the movies in the middle of the afternoon.

If Adrian hears the comment, he doesn’t acknowledge it, and we replace our seats in the dark, empty theater. And why would he? I imagine his actual dating pool is chock-full of models and socialities. Nobody at Lionswood – let alone someone of Adrian’s caliber – has ever looked twice at me.

And yes, I’m self-aware enough to admit my physical attraction to Adrian, but that’s all it is: a physical reaction. A few raging hormones.

Because I’d sooner cuddle up to a viper than I would pursue Adrian.

***

Adrian spends most of the stroll back to campus deconstructing the movie’s themes and motifs, and I offer enough well-timed nods to fool him into thinking I understand.

“I found the long camera shots to be a little obvious but –” Mid-sentence, he pauses and digs his phone out of his sweater pocket and frowns at the screen.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

Adrian tosses his phone – definitely the newest, sleekest iPhone model – right at me.

I handle it gingerly, eyebrows raising when I see what’s on the screen. “It’s Sophie.” Well, it’s a selfie of Sophie. Lips puckered, lashes fanned, and manicured nails holding up a pair of rose-shaped earrings. The message below her picture reads: Think these would look good on me? I just need a special occasion to wear them at.

“Let me guess. This is her indirect way of asking if you’ll take her to the dance?”

“Almost,” he says with the ghost of an amused smile. “It’s her indirect way of asking if I’ll take her to the dance via purchasing those earrings for her. And, regardless of how I respond, I’m sure she’ll expect to see them in her locker come Monday morning.”

I give the earrings another glance – gorgeous but outrageously expensive if the diamond-encrusted center is any indication. “Will you?”

I’m not sure why my stomach turns at the thought of Sophie showing up to the St. Benedict dance on Adrian’s arm, a pair of rose earrings dangling from her ears.

I’m sure it’s just concern I’m feeling. For her. She doesn’t know how dangerous he is.

“I don’t know. Should I?” Adrian asks teasingly.

I fidget with the fraying hem of my shirt. “Uh…I mean…I don’t know. Sophie seems to like you a lot, and maybe you like her, so I don’t –”

“Sophie doesn’t like me,” he interjects.

My head swivels. “We’re talking about the same Sophie, right?”

He rolls his eyes. “Sophie may think she likes me, but it’s the idea of me that she likes. The possibility of what I could do for her. What being attached to a family like mine would mean for hers.”

“I see.” My shoes crunch over some dead leaves piled onto the sidewalk.

Of course, it’s the idea of him that she likes.

She’d probably run screaming in the opposite direction if she knew what he was really like.

“People like Sophie – people like us – we’re raised to make connections. Our friends, our partners, they’re only as good as what they can do for us and our families. And that’s what I am to her: the ultimate connection. Short of curing cancer, I’m not sure there’s a thing Sophie could do that’d make her family as proud as they’d be if she married me.”

I’m not sure why it makes me sad for Sophie. Maybe it’s because, as many issues as I have with my mother, she’s never put me under that kind of pressure.

The bar is pretty low for me, all things considered.

“You never answered my question,” Adrian’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Should I take her?” There’s that teasing edge to his voice again – one that makes me suspect he’s already made up his mind.

“Well, it depends. Are you looking to make a connection with her?” I pretend as if I’m not already searching his face for the answer.

He scoffs like I’ve insulted him. “Please. I have no desire to make a connection with Sophie or take her to the dance. Granted, Sophie’s family is old money, and nobody would be upset if I made that particular connection, but…” His dark eyes rove over me. “I think you can tell by now that I don’t care much for people. Most people – their presence does nothing for me. At best, they’re an obligation. At worst, they’re a problem to be dealt with.” He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t need to.

At worst is what happened to Mickey.

I have a lot of questions, starting with: what did Mickey do to end up in that second category? And ending with: How can I avoid ending up in that second category?

“Besides,” Adrian continues. “I couldn’t care less about replaceing the right connection to please my family. I have aspirations that exceed spending half the year in Santorini and funneling my trust fund into ouzo.”

“Are you sure? That sounds pretty good to me.”

Another eye-roll. “To you, perhaps, but I’m going to be a doctor.”

I can’t help it. I laugh. “You’re fucking with me.”

He arches a brow. “I’m not.”

“You just said you don’t care much for people. You sure you want to get into the business of saving lives?”

I guess all the medical textbooks piled around his dorm room make sense now, but the idea still seems ludicrous.

“It’s not about helping people,” he explains. “If that were the case, I’d just spend the day writing checks from my father’s penthouse office. I like the objectivity of medicine. It doesn’t matter what someone does in real life. When we’re cut open and flesh peeled away, we’re all the same vulnerable mound of muscle and blood and nerves underneath. I like that. And I like knowing that, for a little while, someone’s life completely depends on how well I’m able to wield the cold steel in my hand.”

I’m not sure if it’s his words or the darkness in his voice that accompanies them, but a chill slinks down my spine all the same.

I suppose it’s a good thing he’s channeling his ambition into eight years of schooling.

God only knows what he’d do if he was spending half the year lounging in Santorini, drunk on ouzo.

Still, only Adrian could make one of the world’s noblest professions sound like a job description fit for serial killers and adrenaline junkies.

The worst part is, when I think about it, I can picture him being a good doctor. More than good. Excellent. He had all the intelligence, precise control and charming bedside manner you’d want in a doctor – assuming he actually saved the lives that ended up on his table.

“What about you?” He asks.

“What about me?” A breeze ruffles my hair, and I tuck it behind my ears, the skin already reddening from the cold.

“What ambitions do you have for the future?” He appears genuinely interested in my answer, which is more than I can say for Lionswood’s career counselor.

I rub the back of my neck, a sudden spurt of awkwardness taking over. “I want to go to Pratt. I’m hoping, with an education from Lionswood, I’ll be able to get a hefty scholarship there next year.”

“And then?”

“I’ll get my fine arts degree. Make some connections there. Work enough shitty jobs till I can support myself as an artist full-time.”

To my surprise, he doesn’t look at me the way most people look at me when I tell them this, which is like I’ve suggested joining the circus. “I see.”

“You can tell me it’s ridiculous. I know that it sounds ridiculous.”

“I don’t think it sounds ridiculous.”

I offer him a skeptical glance. “You don’t?”

“Not necessarily.” He shrugs but doesn’t bother to elaborate.

“Well, I think you’d be the first,” I admit, and I don’t even mean to say this next part, but it comes tumbling out, anyway. “And I get it. I get the skepticism. I’m supposed to be practical. I don’t have a trust fund or family connections or, well, anything. I’m betting on myself.” I suck in a breath. “If I fail, it’s a long road south…but I know I can do it. Nobody else knows that I can do it, but I know that I can do it.”

His expression’s more contemplative than judgmental. “Do you?”

“I do.” I nod sincerely. “Because I also know I’m prepared to do just about anything for it. People get hung up on their own doubts, the fear of failure, but when you’ve got nothing to lose…” My face momentarily darkens. “The future’s mine. I’m not afraid to take it.”

My determination lasts for all of three seconds before the moment clears, embarrassment trickles in, and I realize I’ve just divulged a part of myself I didn’t mean to.

Silence stretches between us, and I suddenly feel like one of his future patients. Cut open. Organs on display.

“Look at you.” His voice is soft, and my breath catches.

His eyes…they’re – dare I say – almost warm. Like a splash of red or green thrown into black paint. “Opening up. Like we’re friends.”

Friends.

The word hits me like a punch to the gut.

Is that what we’ve become? We certainly look like it. Going to breakfast together. The swim lessons. The movie. Opening up about our lives.

Which means I’ve done something worse than stand by and allow a killer to walk free. I’ve willingly spent time with him. Laughed with him. Treated him like he’s any other harmless eighteen-year-old boy when I know full-well he’s anything but.

And the awful, terrible part is that I’m enjoying myself.

It wasn’t so long ago that I feared for my life whenever he entered my proximity, and now I’m almost having fun.

Guilt curdles the butter-drenched popcorn in my stomach, but I’m worried I’ve been silent too long – so I clear my throat and deflect with some forced sarcasm. “Well, according to you, people only fall into one of two categories: obligations or problems. Does that make me an obligatory friend?”

As the sidewalk slopes upward, and Lionswood’s imposing iron gate peeks into view, I feel the full weight of his suffocating stare. “I’m not quite sure what that makes you.”

I’m not sure either.