“Nice to meet you too,” I say, letting go. “Senior sent me here to pick up some clothes.”
“Come on in,” Juliet says, stepping back to let me in. Behind her, the hallway is quiet and cool, like a tomb.
“Do you want me to take my shoes off?”
“Don’t worry about it.” She gestures for me to follow her. “I don’t have the box of clothes out at the moment, so you’ll have to bear with me. It’s been a busy morning. I had a spinning class just a few hours ago, and we had a replacement instructor who went hard even though the class was supposed to be for beginners, so then…”
Juliet continues to chatter while I nod and make sounds of agreement.
At breakfast this morning, Senior told me to walk over and pick up a box of clothes. It’s a good opportunity to get some fresh air, explore the neighbourhood, he said. I tried to think of an excuse because there was no way I wanted to risk running into Jasper, but then he mentioned the clothes were for me. Which I still don’t understand. I have my own clothes.
I tried to decline, but Senior insisted, and I couldn’t refuse coming over without sounding like an ungrateful asshole. So now I just have to hope I don’t see Jasper. I think I have a good chance of that, since this house is so big, I doubt we’ll cross paths.
“Jasper!” Juliet suddenly shouts. “Where are you?”
Well, there goes that plan.
The hallway spits us out into a humongous living room, including a kitchen, dining room and lounge room. There’s a fake fireplace surrounded by a fluffy couch.
“Jasper!” Juliet screeches again.
“I’m coming.” It’s Jasper’s familiar grumble, and he appears in a doorway, wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, holding a mop in his hand.
His face pales when he sees me.
“Got the clothes Senior was talking about?” Juliet asks him.
“Oh.” He rips his gaze from me to his sister. “Yeah. I thought Senior was picking them up.”
“Obviously not,” Juliet says. She looks at me. “Follow Jasper, he’ll help you.” With that, she walks behind the kitchen bench and starts throwing greens into a smoothie machine.
I watch her, taking a moment to comprehend what’s going on. “Yeah, alright,” I manage, and approach Jasper.
“They’re in my room.” He leans the mop against the bucket and doesn’t look at me as he leads me up a staircase. I glance behind me and see the shine of the floor he’s been cleaning. I figured rich people like him would have hired maids, but guess not.
When we arrive in his bedroom, I school my features. Open doors lead to an en-suite and walk-in wardrobe. The king bed he mentioned is pushed against the middle of the back wall, with a large flat-screen TV attached to the wall opposite it. There’s also a wooden desk with a desktop computer on it, and a calendar hanging on the wall, covered in handwritten notes.
Jasper rubs the back of his neck. “It’s here,” he says, leading me into the walk-in wardrobe. On the ground is a wooden box, half filled with clothing. Next to it is a pile of fabric.
Jasper kneels and starts folding up a sweater. “I didn’t finish packing. Senior said he wouldn’t come until the evening to pick it up.” He puts the sweater into the box.
“Are these your clothes?” I ask.
Jasper looks at me. “They were.”
I’m stupid. Of course, the clothes I’m being given are Jasper’s — we’re about the same size, and Jasper’s clothes, even if they’re second hand, are nicer than mine. I spot a Ralph Lauren logo on a long-sleeve polo.
“Something wrong?” Jasper says. Surprisingly, his voice isn’t sly. He sounds genuinely concerned.
“No. Nothing.” Sick of standing while he’s kneeling, I get down and start folding clothes too, as quickly as I can. I’ll take the box to be polite, but as soon as Senior gets back tonight, I’m telling him that there’s no way I’m wearing this stuff. I know he means well, but why would he think this a good idea?
“I don’t need this stuff anymore, so don’t worry about taking it,” Jasper adds.
“I’m not worried.”
We finish folding and Jasper closes the top of the box, sliding the four slides under and on top of each other so the box won’t open. Once he’s finished, he holds onto it with one hand, and bites the nail of his thumb of the other nail.
“What?” I ask, reaching out to take the box. He doesn’t let go, which pisses me off. I want to get the hell out of this multi-million dollar house. “Thinking of an insult before I go?”
