Make Me Sin

11

When I reach the register, Trina is just finishing up with A.J. She counts his change, and hands him a receipt.

He pays in cash, I note, wondering if he has the same bias against credit cards that he does against phones and computers.

Trina says, “You’re probably looking at four or five days before they deliver. International orders take a bit longer.”

A.J. nods. “Not a problem. I was expecting that. As long as it’s there by the twenty-fifth.” He catches sight of me coming out of the back with Jamie. His face betrays nothing, but I imagine he’s holding his breath.

For the first time since I met him, I feel pity for this hostile, exasperating man. He watches me in tense silence, waiting for Quasimodo and Frankenstein’s monster to crawl from my mouth and hurl feces at him.

I’m so depressed by this thought, I want to turn right around and hide in the back again.

“All done! Thank you for your order!” chirps Trina brightly, dismissing A.J.

He doesn’t budge. His gaze on me is so burning I feel like I might combust. He shocks me with what next comes out of his mouth. “Can I have a word?” He jerks his head toward the side of the store with no customers milling around.

I freeze.

Jamie leans down to kiss my cheek. “See you at seven, bug.” Softer, only for me, he adds, “I want every single detail.” He straightens, nods at Trina, smiles at A.J., who gives a friendly chin jerk in return, and strides away, leaving me stranded with a fluttering heartbeat and a pair of clammy, shaking hands.

What on earth could he possibly have to say? How am I going to answer without speaking and making him want to puke on my shoes?

A.J. turns and walks away. I now have to decide whether to follow, or retreat like a coward into the back room. I take a fortifying breath, give myself a quick pep talk, and follow him. My pulse pounds in my temples with a sound like the crashing of waves.

We stop next to the walk-in display cooler, where he growled like an animal at me the first time we met. Now understanding the reason, I’m mortified. My face flames red.

We stand there in silence until I’m so uncomfortable I’m practically vibrating with misery. While A.J. studies me as if I’m an insect under a microscope, I stare glumly at a pink and white rose bouquet I made this morning. Finally he says, “You told Nico and Kat we agreed to a truce. Why?”

His tone isn’t hostile or accusing, only inquisitive. It takes me by surprise. I blink up at him, unused to hearing anything but contempt.

“I . . . uh . . .” Is he wincing? Is my voice making him sick? I lower my voice to a whisper, and lower my gaze to my feet. “So they wouldn’t worry.”

He waits for more, so I’m obliged to provide it. “I told you. They have too many other things to worry about. The last thing they need is to be playing referees for us.”

He absorbs that for a moment, while I continue to stare at my feet as if the meaning of life can be found in my Pradas.

He prompts, “Right. You said I was being selfish.”

I mutter something unintelligible. The next thing I know, a big hand is lifting my chin so I can no longer stare at the floor. I forget how to breathe.

“Why are you mumbling?” he demands.

He doesn’t remove his hand from beneath my chin. The heat in my cheeks spreads to my ears and down my neck. I swallow, desperate to flee, and close my eyes.

“Hey. Goldilocks. You still with me?”

Humiliated, I open my eyes and look at him. “You don’t have to be nice to me. I get it. I know why you don’t like me.”

His reaction is so strange. His eyes widen, his nostrils flare, and his lips part, exactly as if I’ve surprised him. And now I’m even more miserable, knowing that I guessed right.

With as much dignity as I can muster, I remove my chin from his hand, and cover my mouth. “Let’s just . . . I promise I won’t talk to you anymore. I don’t want to make it worse. It’s really frickin’ embarrassing, but I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”

As I watch, his expression morphs from surprised to confused. “You can’t help what?”

I want to groan. Is he enjoying torturing me? This is awful. “I know about your . . .” I make a futile hand gesture. “Thing.”

With that one word, a wall of ice slams down between us. He leans closer to me, big and male and threatening. He growls, “And what f*****g thing would that be?”

Maybe I should be scared. Or maybe I should be insulted. What I actually feel is scalding anger mixed with sweet relief, because now we can go back to hating each other and I don’t have to be so confused.

I pull myself to my full height, look him in the eye, and snap, “Your color hearing thing. I know about it. And I hope every single word I’m saying right now is making you want to barf up your breakfast, you bad-tempered, arrogant, antisocial bully!”

Silence swallows the shop. Even the noise of the compressor on the cooler seems to cringe in the wake of my outburst. I stare at A.J., breathing hard, trying to stab him with my eyes.

Understanding dawns over his face. Oddly, this makes his scathing hostility disappear in a poof as if it were never there in the first place. “You think my chromesthesia is the reason I don’t like you.”

It’s a statement, not a question. Humor underscores it. My anger falters, then fizzles, leaving me feeling even more wretched than before.