My door opened.
A hand gripped my arm at the shoulder and tugged. “Get out.”
A male voice.
I slid toward the open door, then cautiously placed a foot outside. When I found the ground, my other foot followed and I stepped out of the vehicle. The arm tightened, squeezed, then the hood came off.
The sun faded in the distance. The thick clouds above were painted strange oranges and reds.
We were parked in a circular paved driveway. There were three more white SUVs in front of us, and four others parked in a small lot on the right. A winding driveway disappeared into the trees behind me.
A house, larger than any I had ever seen, lay in front of me. Bigger than our apartment building, maybe bigger than two. Three looming stories sheathed in stone. Some kind of tower capped the right end of the house, and a glass atrium occupied the far left. The windows, at least a dozen just in the front, were all covered with black wrought iron bars.
The house, and surrounding front yard, ended at a wall of at least ten feet made of the same stone as the house and capped with black metal spikes. The front lawn was at least two acres in size and expertly manicured. A fountain chortled at the center of the round drive, white foamy water spraying from the top.
I looked around for Ms. Oliver and finally found her standing at the front door, speaking to someone inside. This went on for a few minutes. Then the door closed, and she returned to the SUV. “Stella will see you shortly. You can wait in the foyer.”
She turned and started back toward the house.
The man released my shoulder.
I glanced at him, and he nodded at Oliver. I chased after her.
A woman in a white coat identical to the others opened the right side of the large, double oak doors as we approached. Her eyes met mine, but she said nothing.
I followed Oliver into the house.
The ceiling of the round foyer soared two stories with an enormous crystal chandelier at the center. My ratty tennis shoes squeaked against the marble floor as I took in the rich dark oak wainscoting on the outer walls. A table sat at the center of the room, with a single white lily in a vase at the middle.
I glanced down at my watch and realized it stopped at 6:42 p.m. I had no idea how long ago that was. Oh hell, my shirt smelled. Diner stink wafted up at me and assaulted my nose—a lingering combination of food and dishwater. A grease stain covered the middle of my chest, probably from working the grill during the dinner rush. I had another mystery stain on my jeans: red and crusty, maybe ketchup or strawberry jam. I picked at it with my fingernail, bits flaked off and fell to the marble around me.
“My God, you are a dirty, filthy boy. Time changes many things, but that, I’m afraid, is not one of them.”
When I glanced back up and my eyes found Stella standing at the back of the long hallway, my breath caught in my throat. An audible gasp slipped from my lips before I could stop it, and had I not gained some semblance of control, my mouth would have surely fallen open, agape in utter awe.
She was beautiful.
Beyond beautiful.
She might have been the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.
Her hair was as I remembered: long and brown, flowing down in waves and curls over her shoulders and back, framing a face of porcelain smooth skin, flawless in every way. Her chestnut eyes glistened in the waning light, filled with wonder and curiosity. Her lips were full, and the deepest of reds. Her shoulders were bare in a black dress that fell halfway to her knees. She stood there with such casual elegance in matching black heels, such ease and comfort.
This was the girl I remembered, the girl I drew hundreds of times, but she had matured into a young woman in the years since I last saw her.
When I finally remembered to breathe, I smelled a hint of vanilla on the air, and I knew it came from her. I had never been so self-conscious of my own appearance in all my life.
She took a step closer to me, her long legs moving with the care and grace of someone so accustomed to heels they became second nature. I thought briefly of Gerdy from the diner, the one time I saw her in heels—her clumsy movements, the uncomfortable grimace on her face as she took each step, no different from any of the other girls I knew from school or work. They so desperately wanted to grow up.
Stella was different, though.
She was so different.
Shehadgrown up—she was the girl, the young woman they all strived to be.
When Stella reached me, she looked me up and down, and I wanted to run. I wanted to push back out those doors and run as far away as I possibly could rather than let her see me in my current state—my cheap, stained clothes, the kitchen grease weighing down my hair. I couldn’t move, though. I was frozen, afraid my wobbly legs might drop out from under me if I called on them to do anything.
My cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
