Chapter 4: “Sasha’s Birthday” Pt. IV

“You’re a sky, you’re a sky full of stars~.”

As soon as we enter the store, Coldplay hits me with my favorite song. 

I exhale, buffeted by the air conditioner. Oof. I should’ve brought a cardigan or something, but whatever. We won’t be long anyway. Boey breaks away from us, beelining for the cafè while I amble forward, my mind already wandering to the Manga section in the back corner. I wanna check out what new Shoujo stuff came in. I've been addicted to My Dress-Up Darling ever since the anime came out– 

Tati’s firm grip on my arm stops me, reeling me back to his side. “Hold on. Let’s get some drinks first. The books aren’t going anywhere.”

Yay! Hard to argue with free drinks. 

I grin, allowing him to wrap his arm around my shoulders and tug me into his loose one-armed embrace. Now I can lean on him for balance as I teeter on these damn Tyrannosaurus heels. I smooch his cheek, expressing my gratitude only to be tickled by his prickly facial hair. I giggle, and his mischievous look causes me to giggle even more. It’s hard to stop once it starts, and it gets worse after he asks me “what’s so funny?” because that’s the worst question to ask someone who’s lost in a giggling fit. 

I force myself to calm down, matching pace with his broader, leisurely strides by some miracle while cradling the wrist which hangs loose off my bare shoulder. His body feels like an aromatic hot furnace, protecting me against the creeping cold, and holy crap, it gets worse once we step into the cafè. Now I know why. It’s that damn air vent blasting above us. 

I find Romeo soon enough, fascinated by his body language as he leans against the pick-up counter, peering at Aya around the makeshift wall of steaming espresso machines and morning-brewed tea pitchers. It’s so hard to see her when she’s so tiny, flitting to and fro quicker than a hummingbird. Once she pops into view, sliding the tray full of iced drinks over to the pack of young women eager for their daily fix, I raise my hand in greeting, hoping to catch her attention. 

Boey must have said something funny, because Aya giggles, charmed by his roguish smile. 

I roll my eyes. Those two are hopeless in each other’s presence.

Ayaka Celeste Sasaki.

Boey’s (only) best friend, our next-door-neighbor, and the love of his life. 

She’s a precious little thing, homely and cute. I envy her round, heart-shaped face and adorable, high-pitched voice and even her girly fashion choices. She wears a frilly white blouse and high-waisted pleated skirt beneath her apron, the satin black ribbon cinched high above her collarbone. I can't see her whole body, but knowing her, she wears white stockings and black maid shoes to complete the look. A pure cinnamon roll who can rival the likes of Sunnie. 

I find it funny how they’re both half-Japanese who also love the same kind of nerdy stuff I do, except they're way more extreme, obsessed with collecting anime figurines and limited-time merch. For that reason, I like to tease them for being long-lost siblings separated at birth, and they wholeheartedly embrace it, calling each other "brother/sister from another mother."

Joking aside, Aya does have an older sister who's Boey's age, and they share a complicated relationship that's borderline biblical. It doesn't help that they've been stuck in a vicious love triangle with my heartthrob of a dumbass brother for years. Boey loves Aya. Aya’s totally oblivious. Erika hates Boey even though she likes him, too, trapped in her own denial, and he absolutely hates her guts. It’s honestly poetic. Erika's the social butterfly and rebel child, Aya’s the wallflower and parents' favorite, and Boey’s the Bad Boy That Daddy Hates. 

Copyright that shit, because movies got nothing on real life. 

Oh, and I’m the "wild child unfit for marriage"; that's what their old-fashioned father thinks of me. I know, because he underestimates my knowledge of anime-inspired Japanese. Dr. Sasaki doesn’t like me, either, but at least he acts civil enough to tolerate my existence, yet when it comes to Boey, they burned their bridges a long time ago, including the whole village and the fertile fields surrounding it. No seeds can be sown in that hostile environment. I simply wish Boey didn’t feel the need to feed Aya’s victim complex. 

Now that we’re all teenagers, requiring less dictatorial supervision, I don’t see their dad around as much anymore, which makes it easier to kidnap Aya in our daily misadventures. Their mom’s a pretty chill person, actually, and it’s thanks to her that we have been able to steal her for “girls only” sleepovers at our place using me as a buffer. Yet I can never keep track of that man’s schedule, whether or not he happens to be on-call or scheduled for the hospital, so it’s almost impossible to coax Good Girl Aya to sneak out without her conscience cockblocking us. 

If I were her, I would’ve left a long time ago, struck out on my own or eloped with the person I loved, anything to be happy–

“Here.” Tati hands me a twenty dollar bill, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. “Buy me that mango thing. You know the one. Boey?” He detaches from my side, tapping his shoulder. “You want anything?”

“The Mocha Cookie Crumble. Venti.”

“Make mine medium. I’m gonna go check out the movies and stuff.”

“I’ll go with you.” Boey straightens in place, gesturing towards the opposite side of the store. “Come find us when you’re done.”

“Okay. I see how it is.” I give them cheek as they walk away. 

Figures that they’d saddle me off to collect the goods. Oh, well. Can’t complain. I can keep Aya company instead. The line’s empty now, better time than ever. “Finally! I thought that guy would never leave.” I backtrack to the register, winking at Aya once she meets me there. She giggles, and I smile wider in triumph. Girls are always cuter when they laugh. 

“Godzilla Fairy with extra sweetener and fruit, right?” 

“Yup. You know the one.”

She scribbles my order in black marker on a trenta cup– the 'Godzilla Fairy' our affectionate nickname for the Passion Iced Tea Lemonade, because of its monstrous size and crazy amount of sweetness. I catch sight of the “new” pair of earrings that now grace her ears, twin clusters of ivory jasmine blossoms that totally give off Hawaiian vibes. She had been born there– forgot which island– before her family moved to California twelve years ago. Has it really been that long? She'd been five years old, and I just turned six… Yeah, sounds about right.

I know exactly who gave it to her, so I feign ignorance, eager to see her reaction. “Also, love those earrings. What’re they supposed to be, jasmine flowers?”

“Yeah. Boey bought them for my birthday.” Aya beams, blushing from happiness. 

If only she knew how desperate Boey looked asking me for reassurance– me of all people. I’ve never seen him act so nervous in my entire life, completely embarrassed to express his awkward romantic side, so I decided to cut him a break. But that doesn’t mean I’ll withhold that juicy bit of blackmail forever. I’m gonna bide my time, wait for when the moment’s ripe, heh heh heh…

“I’ve gotten so many compliments already,” Aya says, reeling me out of my evil gremlin thoughts. “They’re my new favorite.”

"I bet." I smirk, remembering to insert my card. 

I can’t with these two. Boey keeps spoiling her with expensive gifts and obvious romantic gestures, yet Aya sucks at taking the hint. I feel like their view of friendship got skewed along the way, only worsened by their super awkward and introverted personalities. While Aya wants to be friends, her communication skills reminiscent of Komi-san, Boey doesn’t want friends, preferring to keep his schoolmates within the realm of school, at arm’s length. 

Outside my group of guy friends and Facebook buddies, I find their social life absolutely depressing in comparison.

"I love your earrings, too! They're so pretty. Your parents always have such amazing taste." Aya gushes, and I grin, brushing off her compliment with a flat “thanks,” conscious of her low-key jealousy. She’s not the first person to marvel at my “movie fairy tale” parents, and she won’t be the last. It’s not always sunshine and rainbows with us, either, but nobody wants to believe us. 

Although Tati supervises Maika's expenses with a strict eye, he's not above treating his own children whenever we ask for stuff, extending that same generosity to our friends. Boey and I are always mindful of asking too much, of course, because we still suffer from the cold, distant memory of Lelya’s bitter contempt. LelyaTranslation: “aunt” Elena never missed a single opportunity to demean us during her visits from the East Coast, always accusing us of being selfish brats who only loved our parents for their riches. 

To this day, Boey and I believe she felt jealous of her younger sister’s success and positive personality, so she made us feel like crap because we were too young and powerless to understand. Once Tati found out, he struck her out of pure outrage, deaf to her frightened pleas as he swore he would kill her if he ever caught her talking shit to us again. Instead of defending her, Maika forbade her from visiting our house ever again, appalled by the fact she would treat her own family like that. Honestly, that woman should never be allowed to have kids, but alas, I speak to my cousins every week. 

You know what, I can see Lelya and Dr. Sasaki having lunch over the subject of rearing “ungrateful” kids. 

“…him today?”

“Wha?” I snap out of my thoughts. “Come again?”

“The gorgeous British guy! Did you see him? He picked out a different book today.”

“Uh, no.” I frown, annoyed by my stupid chip. Malfunction? I start slapping it against the screen, hoping the tap feature works. “How riveting. He bought another book. Did he wax poetry and promise to write you a dusty love novel worthy of Shakespeare? Watch out, RM, there’s a new man in town~.”

“No!” Aya blurts out, vehement, waving her hand between us in fluttering panic. “Iie iie iie–!” Translation (Japanese): “No no no”

I laugh out loud, because she acts like one of those cute anime characters in her favorite slice-of-life rom-coms, and I find that adorable. I almost succumb to the urge to cry out “Kawaii desu~”Translation (Japanese): “Cute”; also associated with anime culture while making kissy faces at her. Lucky for her, the counter and plastic barrier protects her from my overzealous, cringey love.

“Where do you come up with this stuff? No, I’m saying he bought a book different from the others.”

“How so?”

“It was a self-help book.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s it called? Why Men Love Bitches?”

“No! Gosh, stop it with your potty mouth, it’s embarrassing–.”

“Make me.” I smirk, winking at her– and burst into laughter when her face blushes brighter than a crayon-colored tomato. Oh man, I love to mess with people. Nothing cleanses my pores, purges my demons, waters my soul, or pays for my passage in the river of Styx better than good ol’ comedy gold. I love watching people’s reactions to my jokes, because I find ‘em funny, and it results in the added bonus of deepening our bond. How else do you think I managed to crack Aya’s turtle shell? By seducing her with my eloquence and charm.

“Stop~!” She sounds cute when she whines, and it’s even funnier to watch her sweat. “Now you sound like Boey. You’re both perverts–.”

“Okay, I’ll stop, but only because you compared me to a loser. What’s the title?”

“…oh, right.” She takes a moment to recollect herself, clearing her throat. I’ll give her a moment, because I know I’m that breathtaking. “So you know that book I bought a couple weeks ago called The Little Book of Lykke?” 

I don’t, but I nod along– didn’t I struggle to pronounce that word, actually? Lychee? Loo-keh? Leek? Hmm– staring at the frozen pin pad in disbelief. Don’t tell me it’s lagging again. I groan. Internally. I hate when it gets like this, especially when Aya starts rattling off about books and people of interest. Whelp, better let it out of her system…

“It’s by the same author. It’s called The Art of Making Memories, and he read it all in one sitting. I mean, it’s a small book, so I understand why it probably wasn’t challenging for him, but anyway, I wonder why he wanted to read it. Do you think he’s experiencing loneliness or maybe a difficult time in his life?”

“I don’t know.” I sigh. Like I care. Still, she’s getting too serious about a complete stranger. What better way to recover from this awkward lull in conversation than by cracking a joke. I smirk, proud of my incoming punchline. “Sounds like a personal problem.”

“Geez.” Aya pouts, suppressing her giggle in time to chastise me. “You’re so mean.”

“And you’re snoopy. Snoopy Dog~.”

Once I hear the cute little ding ding ding, I remove my card and clear the way, conscious of the line forming behind me. "I'm gonna wait over there. Hurry up and finish your shift. Sushi's calling our names~"

“Then play the Song of Time. Make my day go faster!” She grins and waves.

I find a spot to stand at the crowded counter and sigh through my nose, knowing my drink will take awhile. Man, I wish I could sit down and rest my aching feet. It requires every ounce of my willpower not to brace myself against the countertop of sugar packets and napkins and kick off these damn shoes. 

All the tables are occupied by college students equipped with headphones and laptops, regulars reading through their compulsive piles of window-shopped books, and families waiting for something to happen while immersed in animated conversation. I scope through the crowd, looking for the “gorgeous British guy” Aya’s been obsessed with. 

Hmm… Oh! I recognize that old guy he’s always with. He always attends him like a butler on his off-day, a character straight out of Downton Abbey. Bespectacled and suited in all his statuesque glory, he sits by himself at their usual table near the emergency door with a pocket book in hand. I spot a navy blue blazer draped across the back of the empty seat opposite him, so that means Aya’s crush must be around somewhere…

This supposed gentleman and his shadow have been haunting this cafè for the past two weeks, and Aya would not stop gushing about him. According to her and all the other baristas, he visits the store every day like clockwork, ten o'clock on the dot. He always stops by the cafè first to order a tall cup of hot tea before heading to the Classics section in search of a novel to read. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already read through the entire bucket list and simply enjoys rereading them in his down time.

He handpicks Jane Austen and Victor Hugo titles more than any other. He alternates between English Breakfast and Chamomile tea, and pairs them with his choice of the tiramisu cup or honey almond croissant. Despite all the details Aya’s gathered of him from their fleeting conversations and her peripheral lurking, she still swoons over his mystery. I don’t get it. What’s so attractive about someone you barely know? “Just talk to the guy”– I keep telling her, but she never listens to me, content to live inside her own world. 

I like to call him The Statue, because once he sits down and opens a book, he will not move for hours. Not even for a single bathroom break until supper time. He never has to worry about going hungry, either, because his manservant fetches all his meals from the cafè’s selection of soup and sandwiches. I think he’s vegetarian, because I never see him eat meat. Whenever we hung out in the cafè to play some card games– you know, Yu-Gi-Oh!, Magic, Poke’mon, etc– or read manga, I would observe him and watch for any chinks in his armor. Honestly, his focus and self-discipline impresses me. 

Ezra proved more aggressive in his curiosity, always approaching him to initiate conversation, weaponizing his killer smile and comedic charm only to be met with constant polite rejection. I enjoyed watching him slink back to our table with downtrodden feet just so I could mock him upon his return. Ezra loves to brag that he could befriend anyone, annoying me sometimes, but I think he failed with this one for the sole reason he talks too much, jokes too much, and asks too many questions. 

I think this man thirsts for intelligent conversation, if his equally stoic companion The Chatterbox ain’t obvious enough. Or maybe he dislikes people and prefers solitude. Who knows? I’d be lying if I said I felt no curiosity getting to know him, but I can’t stay interested for long if he refuses to reciprocate the sentiment. Communication functions like a two-way street, and I ain’t got the time nor energy for the snobbish, silent types.

The boring, mellow song that plays overhead finally ends, and I sigh, bored. Does this place ever play anything that people actually listen to? Coldplay did play for a little bit when we walked into the store, so that's something. Oh, but the acoustic guitar riffs and male vocals don't sound too bad in this one. I pull out my phone from my Flynn Rider leather satchel and open up my Shazam app. 

'Be Somebody,' huh… and it's from some album called 'Here's Looking At You, Kid.' Wait, where've I heard that before? It sounds hella corny, like something straight out of Maika's favorite black-and-white films. Oh, Brett Dennen's from Central California, too. Nice. Tati might like this song. I'll show it to him later. I hum along, pocketing my phone. Before I can turn back around to watch Aya work, windswept by the hyperactive family of three parents and their five children rushing by, I catch him in my periphery. 

The Statue enters the cafè from the direction of the front registers, carrying a single hardcover in hand. He leads with the crown of his head, his stride led by incredible posture. I stare, spellbound. It’s my first time seeing him outside his rigid mold, and you know what? He radiates presence. I face away from him, acting casual and feeling annoyed by his effortless looks. He’s even prettier than most women. Tch.

Outside of Hollywood celebrities and their beloved movie caricatures, Maika’s the only other person in real life who can seduce a person just by existing, and this man exudes the exact same glamorous aura. While she glides on stellar stilettos and flowy maxi dresses like a Slavic Marilyn Monroe reincarnated, he carries himself with the style and sophistication of a young James Bond.   

Nope. I can’t. Nuh-uh. Nada. I’m not gonna let myself be swayed by another impossible human being.

“Would you care for another cup of tea? I might try one of their iconic ‘refreshers’ everyone seems to love raving about.” He regards his elder companion at their table now, and the Beanstalk softens just a little to give his curt reply.

“No need. My thirst is quite quenched, thank you.”

I like the sound of his voice, so light and soft-spoken that it betrays his brooding face. Hey, I can agree with Aya on that much: British accents are sexy. I enjoy listening to him speak in French, too, since I can at least understand it in the realm of casual conversation. Thank you, oh awful parents, for torturing me to learn three languages in our multilingual household.

I watch as The Statue becomes The Thinker, peering up at the blackboard full of chalk-written items from the end of the line. Aya’s coworker, Jessamine, returns from break or lunch or whatever that spirited her away, making quick work of the queue while Aya bulldozes through shaken expressos, toasted sandwiches, and minor spills. Too bad she missed her chance to ring him up. I can’t hear him above the growing cacophony of conversation, but he eventually pays with his watch. I squint, confused. 

Wait a second– if that’s the same watch he’s always worn, then that can’t be right. I always thought it was analogue. What the hell? I’m far-sighted, so once he drops his arm to his side, I can see the distinct Apple Pay screen flash to an analogue display, bamboozling my brain. It looks like real black titanium! It’s even got three different time zones displayed in gold filigree next to a really fancy logo– Wait. Montblanc. No wonder. It’s Swiss-made, practically imported from the future. If Tati saw that thing, he would piss his pants. Normally a frugal man, even he loves his luxury watch collection.

Now The Gargoyle walks over to stand in the empty space beside me, his hands clasped at his back and his eyes fixed forward. 

Peeking at him through my periphery, I trace the constellation points of his wealth. 

The Statue wears golden cufflinks emblazoned with the letter B– so bourgeois, very mafioso– and the aforementioned Montblanc watch on his left wrist, which gleams too bright for my plebeian eyes. Even his clothes come from expensive household names that spike my blood pressure. I can always tell at a glance, because Maika went through painstaking, grueling lengths to educate me, her tomboyish daughter, on haute couture to avoid death by association and secondhand embarrassment.

White dress shirt and blue vest combo? Ralph Laurens. Those blue khakis designed to look like dress pants? Martin Greenfield. And that glossy pair of leather oxfords? Edward Green, for sure. He screams Cambridge student. Or Manchester. Point is, if Maika saw this man now, she would push me to marry him. 

I mean, he is handsome. Objectively speaking. I tilt my head to appraise him.

He’s got angular features and strong cheekbones. Not surprising, given his blessed Anglo-Saxon ancestry. No, it’s the presence of his South-Eastern Asian roots that I find more attractive. Dark complexion? Check. Almond-shaped eyes? Double check. He doesn’t seem very tall, though, now that I’m standing this close to him; even on heels, and these are five inches. We practically stand at eye level. If I can hazard a guess, hmm… He’s probably five-foot-ten while I’m short of five-foot-six. Not bad. Well, I like men closer to my height anyway– 

“Greetings.”

I jolt, caught guilty. Crap, we made eye contact. 

“Uh, hi. Nice face you got there.”

I meant to say ‘watch,’ you know, something like ‘hey, nice watch you got there,’ but nope, never mind, I sealed my fate. I watch, mortified by my own embarrassment as his pleasant smile crumbles into a stunned gape, his dark cheeks flaring scarlet. He averts his eyes, covering his mouth with a delicate twist of his wrist.

“Th-That is, what I meant to say is…” I clear my throat, feeling parched. Where is my damn drink? “I admire your style! Yeah. Very metrosexual. I like it.”

He manages to compose himself quick enough to look back at me, lowering his hand. “Metrosexual?”

“Yeah. It means you’re a city boy with an incredible fashion sense. You know, hygienic, most likely liberal minded. Impossibly attractive.” Dammit, what’s with my motor mouth today? I’ve been hanging out with Ezra too much. I’m never embarrassed when I flirt with girls, but I guess flirting with guys vibes in a different way.

He chuckles, blushing still, his eyes misty from emotion. “Thank you. I appreciate the compliment, however blasé you chose to put it, Miss…” 

He drops his gaze to my chest, and I glare, astounded by his audacity. Look, I know I picked a low cut dress to express my femininity, but c’mon. I’m standing right here, pervert. At least admire my assets with discretion. Before I can blurt out a smartass remark, his eyes return to my face soon enough and he smiles. 

“Alexandria. What a lovely name.”

Wha…? Oh! My necklace. I touch my collarbone, embarrassed. Now I’m the one who’s the pervert and the asshole. Good job, me. “Y-Yeah. That’s me. I don’t like being called Alex, so, uh…” I trail off, dropping my arm once I realize I’ve been fidgeting with my pendant. Ugh, what the hell’s wrong with me? Get your shit together, Sasha. 

“I prefer my companions to call me ‘Sasha,’” I say, recovering my composure as well as my humor, fighting to keep a straight face as I bow with an elegant wave of my arm. “And I shall allow you the same courtesy, good sir. ‘Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

Okay, I feel utterly ridiculous– and to my delight, it works! 

“Pfft.” He muffles the sound behind his fist, clearing his throat to mask the sound. 

“Trenta Passion Iced Tea Lemonade!” Ooh, that’s mine. 

I lunge for my drink and stab a straw through the hole, gulping it down halfway until I  pause to heave a breathless sigh. That hits the spot. 

“Tall Passion Iced Tea Lemonade for Laurent!” 

Hold up, Laurent? That’s so old-school– Who names their kid Laurent?

I watch, stunned, as he seizes his cup with much more patience and poise, lifting the bottom up by his fingertips while his other hand holds it by the rim, like how one would handle a hot cup of tea. He’s Laurent? Damn, I feel bad for him. He's got the dustiest name you could ever give to a Gen Z adult. I'm even more surprised Laurent ordered the same drink as mine, except in a much more economical size. I continue watching him in between gulps, amused by his slow, cautious sip and too distracted by his grimace to point out he’s staining his vest.

“Cold…”

“You must be far from home,” I blurt out, desperate to crack a joke and break the silence, “if the temperature does not agree with you.”

He chuckles, chastened by my comment. “Yes, I… I prefer my drinks at room temperature.” 

“If you don’t like cold drinks, then why’d you go for it?”

He smiles, his eyes flickering to stare down at his drink, rubbing his thumb across the lid. “I wanted to try something different, I suppose…”

Oh. Such an innocent confession strikes a chord in me. He gets it.  

“I don’t normally dress like this.” I admit, twiddling the hem of my dress in one hand, swaying my hips to dispel my nervous energy. He dared to express a vulnerable sentiment, so I suppose a little honesty wouldn’t hurt. “Today, I just felt like it.”

“You look beautiful nonetheless.” He smiles, earnest. “I would have never guessed.” 

“Thanks!” I giggle, grinning, heat blooming in my cheeks. Shyness seizes my tongue, allowing room for silence to fall between us. I peer up at him, fiddling with my straw and losing the nerve to reciprocate his sincere compliment. Gah! That hit me out of nowhere. I giggle again when I catch him looking away, amused by his inability to hold eye contact for more than two seconds. 

“Laurent, right?”

“Ah. How remiss of me not to introduce myself.” He straightens a little, composing himself quick enough to place a hand over his heart, his smile now brimming with pride. “I am Laurent. Laurent Augustus Seymour Bevelle.”

I deadpan, overwhelmed by his sense of self-entitlement. 

“Bless you.”

“What?”

“Sorry. I thought you sneezed. I didn’t realize I was standing in the presence of royalty.”

“Hardly.” He chuckles at that, humbling himself. “I am merely the son of an aristocrat, so you may drop the formalities. My father serves as a member of the UK Parliament– the House of Commons, to be specific– while I am a student devoted to the study of History. I hold no substantive titles of my own as of yet, only those my father holds by courtesy.”

“Uh-huh.” Whatever that means, but I pretend to nod along. 

“He is the primary reason I find myself here, in fact. He expressed an unnecessary amount of concern over my academic pursuits, so he commanded that I take a reprieve from Cambridge University. ‘To enjoy my youth more,’ as he put it. If not for his meddling, I would be working towards my PhD in World History right now. Frankly, I am at a loss what to do...”

Although this man screams narcissist in bold capital letters, I latch onto his noble dilemma with false sympathy. “And here I thought you were building a library collection in your American vacation house.”

He quirks an eyebrow, his smile slow to form. “How did you know?” 

At least he’s willing to play along. That’s already a good sign. Opinion improved.

“What else would you be doing? You look like the sort who’s inexperienced in the way of real fun.”

“Perhaps in the eyes of the common folk. I like to believe my interests are far too sophisticated for your ken.”

I narrow my eyes, my skeptical expression lightening after the realization: “You’re joking, right?”

“I will have you know, I am quite serious.”

“Uh-huh.”

You are reading story For You, Lyubov at novel35.com

“I meant every word.”

“Right.”

“Truly.”

“Okay, your lordship.”

At first, I found his serious face intimidating, but Laurent seems to enjoy wit and humor as much as measured silence. He reminds me of Tati, who’s also the silent type. Not shy, simply expressive in comfortable company. Laurent stares at me for a moment, and I stare back, curious of the nature of his thoughts. I wonder what he’s thinking, if he enjoys our silly conversation. He averts his eyes like I expected (I find it funny that he tries), stifling his bashful smile behind a slow sip of his iced tea. 

“You Americans are surprisingly friendly. Approaching complete strangers in public without preamble.”

I didn’t approach him or initiate conversation before today, so he must be referring to Ezra, the culprit in question. I’m sure he’s noticed us together plenty of times before making that assumption. “What? Is that weird?”

“Well, normally when one goes about their business, I consider it disrespectful to disturb them. Do you not agree?”

“I don’t know what to say.” I shrug, unbothered by his opinion. I can’t speak for people or America in general, so I’ll stick to myself and my culture, the way I know it best. “We– as in my family– we’re Bulgarian, so we're sociable and friendly by nature, but that explains why you’re so aloof.”

“You are Bulgarian?” His eyes light up, no doubt bolstered by his curious nature. “It is truly a pleasure. I have met a few Bulgarian dignitaries in my father’s estate. Delightful people. They are very expressive, if not boisterous. I should not be surprised. They have an insatiable desire to jest, just like you.”

“Um, thanks?” Well, at least I met someone who actually knows that the country exists. We’re lucky to be confused for Russians.

“Do you speak the language?”

“Yes, with my family. Nothing fancy, though. I’m born here, and I prefer English.”

 “Understandable.” He pauses to sip his drink. I watch his eyebrows scrunch up in distaste, amused by his silent decision to place it on the counter, his noble admission conquered by the American palette. He peers at my face now, and my cheeks flare hot, self-conscious of his intensity. "They say that Bulgarian women are among the most beautiful in the world. I can see that now, after meeting you, those words are no mere exaggeration."

What the freak?! His words whip me speechless, and I laugh out loud, embarrassed, my face blushing beet red. I can’t believe he said that with a straight face! How? "According to who, a dusty Google article? Thanks!" I beam, compelled to reciprocate the compliment. Now comes the chance to redeem myself. I gotta fluster him twice as hard. "You've got quite the pretty face yourself. The prettiest face I’ve ever seen on a guy. What's your race?"

He stares, perhaps caught off guard by the bluntness of my question. "I am half Filipino on my mother's side."

"Ooh. I'm surprised. Filipinos have round faces, but yours is all angular with a slender nose. You've got the eyes, for sure."

"Yes, well, I owe that to my father. I am often told I inherited his facial features."

"Well, the way I see it, you inherited the best of both worlds." I grin, and he averts his eyes– for the umpteenth time– his cheeks burning wine red. Yes! Success. I love flustering this guy. He’s got the funniest reactions. You know what, he kind of reminds me of Maurizzio Gucci from The House of Gucci, a shy bookish rich guy unequipped to handle the casual flirtations of a foxy waif. Before I can fluster him further, I shiver from the presence of someone’s gaze boring into my side. Who’s blazing holes through me like swiss cheese? You wanna fight? 

I turn around to challenge the mean-mugger and Aya squeaks in panic, ducking behind the counter. What the– Lighten up, woman. It’s not my fault you can’t act normal around men, let alone this guy. As soon as Jessamine gives her the green light to clock out, Aya makes a swift retreat, dashing past us. 

“I’ll only be a minute–.”

“Don’t trip.”

And she almost does, because she’s a menace to herself. Not counting me and my current fashion choices, of course. I watch as Aya nearly bumps into a random woman coming out of the Diet Cookbooks section, and now she leads the beseeching woman to a nearby computer, stuck with helping her find a book.

“Your friend?”

“Yeah. We’re hanging out today. Actually…” 

The clock has officially begun to tick. As much as I want to continue this riveting conversation, I face the indecision of parting ways. I don’t want our chance encounter to end, so only one choice lies before me. And Aya will love me for this if I manage to succeed.

“Hey, Laurent.”

“Yes?”

I toss my empty cup and clasp my hands behind me, swaying my hips, overcome by a moment of bashfulness. Thinking back on our first real interaction, he’s not half-bad. He reeks of privilege, but he’s not arrogant about it; at least he’s not boring to talk to despite his medieval vocabulary. I flash him my brightest smile, emboldened by my newfound attraction to him. “Since you're not from around here, why don’t you come and hang out with us?”

He hums, pensive, holding his chin between his thumb and index finger. I imagine he wages a war inside himself, torn between his comfort zone and my call to adventure. C’mon, be my friend, I beg of you, don’t break my heart– 

“Under whose decree?” 

His curiosity wins over caution, and I channel my utter joy to the flare of my arms. “Mine! For I am the birthday girl, and I cordially invite you to walk the Streets of Brentwood!”

I rein in my excitement now, trying to play it cool, resting a hand on my hip while I steal the rest of his abandoned iced tea to slurp it down. Can’t have my favorite drink go to waste. The way I see it, I’m doing him a favor. Laurent stares, scandalized by my gall or the indirect contact of our lips or both. I don’t know, but his expression of mute shock is priceless. I almost lose it. Be cool, be cool–

“We plan to shop around before dinner, check out my favorite places, you know, that kind of stuff.”

“Oh, what fun.”

I hum, amused. He recovered quick. Impressive, but that’s no fun. I take a moment to study him now, to suss out his sincerity. His smile seems genuine enough… and then I notice his older companion in the background glaring daggers at me, threatening to petrify me on the spot. Yeesh. Calm down there, Medusa. 

“Oh, and of course, your grandpa’s invited, too. My dad’s with us, so he won’t feel alone being the only adult there.”

“My grandfather…? Ah, you mean LeBlanc. You need not pay him any mind.”

“You have an escort? How fancy.” I toss the drink away after I make quick work of it, resisting the urge to sneeze. Oof, I’m feeling it… “Well, my offer still stands. You fine, esteemed gentlemen are welcome to celebrate my name day with Japanese fine dining and youthful delights, and I shall not take no for an answer!”

He chuckles, his eyes twinkling at my terrible posh impression. “If you insist.” 

Take that, Ezra. I defrosted the Ice King.

Speaking of cold, now my goosebumps are starting to get goosebumps. I can’t stop the shiver that suddenly overtakes me, and I sneeze. Horrendously. Like an elephant stranded in the middle of a snowstorm. Ugh. So graceful. I snatch a napkin from the counter to wipe my wet, snotty nose. I can’t win today.

“Bless you.”

“Thanks.” I sniff.

“Does the chill bother you?”

“Yes, it’s Antarctica.”

“Then, allow me. LeBlanc.” He snaps his fingers once and The Beanstalk transforms into a ninja, presenting his blazer in hand like a holy garment. 

“Here you are, young master.”

“Thank you.”

I balk, frozen in disbelief. Did I just witness movie magic? Am I in the Twilight Zone? Before I can refuse his chivalry within the rustiest of polite terms, he steps forward to sweep it on top of my shoulders, securing it over my arms, before retracting his step. I finger the inner coat fabric, sweating from the expensive silk.

“Uh, thanks.”

“You are very welcome.” He preens.

I suppress my laugh. He honestly looks so proud of himself. 

“You know, I would’ve been more impressed if you had given me your jacket personally, but you made LeBlanc– LeBlanc, right? Cool name, I like it– Anyway, you made LeBlanc do all the work. Thank you, LeBlanc.” I bow my head a little, giving him what I believe to be a prim and proper smile. LeBlanc sharpens his stiff upper lip. Not appreciated. Okay. 

Laurent clasps his hands behind him, regarding me with a pursed frown. I stare back, undaunted by his calculating gaze, and then he averts his eyes, throwing me off guard with his formality. “LeBlanc serves as my valet, courtesy of my lord father. He does as I command.”

“Sure. But your table’s right there. It’s not far. You could’ve grabbed it yourself.”

“And leave you unattended?”

“I’m not a Pomeranian.” I giggle, amused despite his stern look. Oops, I think I’m starting to offend him. “Hey, look. I’m not trying to be mean. I’m just saying. It’s nice that you offered, but it’s a small thing you didn’t need to bother LeBlanc with.”

“I see. Well, I shall ruminate upon that.”

Aw, man. He’s sulking now. I hope he’s not sensitive to criticism. I gotta lift his spirits somehow–

“What’s taking so long? Is my drink still good?” 

Tati sidles to my side, reaching around me for his neglected Mango Refresher. Oops. I forgot all about their drinks. I don’t even remember hearing their orders. When were they ready? The ice looks already half melted, the plastic slick from gross condensation; I don’t even want to look at Boey’s disgusting concoction. I would’ve moved to grab Tati’s mango drink for him, but the weight of Laurent’s blazer has me frozen in awkward indecision. Dammit, I’m out of my element here.

“What’s going on? Aya texted me panicking that you’re flirting with her future husband.” Boey reaches us, snarking in Bulgarian and snatching his Mocha Cookie milkshake in contempt. “When I read that, I couldn’t believe it. You? Flirting? I had to see this for myself.”

“What’s this? You have a new boyfriend?” Tati grins, entertained by the confused look on Laurent’s face. “He even gave you this really nice jacket. Damn, girlie. You’re a natural, just like your mother.”

“No,” I say with a huff, rolling my eyes. “We just met.” 

These two get so gossipy at my expense, always eager to throw me into the deepest pit of despair for their own amusement, but too bad for them, I’m immune to their trolling today. I have bigger priorities. In light of my new friendship with this beautiful Englishman, I must seize the opportunity to seal the deal. I clap my palms together, peering up at Tati with pleading eyes. “Actually, I invited them to join us for dinner. Is that okay?”

I mind my place, since Tati’s the one paying for everybody. Adding two strangers might be asking for too much. However, to my immense relief, he shrugs. “If that’s what you want. It’s your birthday.”

“Yay! Merci! Mnogo obicham te~.” I lunge to hug him, blushing hot when I almost slip on my heel, forcing Tati to steady me. Calming down, I straighten myself, re-securing his blazer on my shoulders before beginning proper introductions. “Okay, so, this is Laurent. He’s from the UK, and he’s on vacation from university for the whole year. This is his family butler, LeBlanc.”

“Valet.” Laurent corrects me, before the man beside him rips me apart for the mistake.

“Right. Yes. My bad. Laurent, LeBlanc, this is my father and my brother.” I gesture to the surly men flanking my side. 

“It’s nice to meet you both.” Tati acts first by extending his hand, coaxing LeBlanc to reciprocate through stubborn eye contact. 

“Salutations.”

Laurent stares, regarding the elder man before him in rapt silence. I wonder if he feels intimidated by his presence. Could it be his bold eye contact? His animal tattoos? His mafia boss aura? Depending on his next reaction will either make it or break it for me, because I can’t hang out with a guy who’s too afraid to act normal around my padre.

“So you are the father. A pleasure.” He clasps the hand Tati holds out to him, faltering from the strength of his firm grip. It's like watching kebapchetaWikipedia: a Bulgarian dish of grilled minced meat with spices (black pepper, cumin, and salt). The meat’s shaped similar to a hot dog, and made with a mix of pork and beef, or only pork. A typical addition to a kebapche meal are chips (French fries), often covered with grated sirene (fresh white cheese similar to feta); lyutenitsa is sometimes used as a dip, and beer is the preferred drink. shake a noodle arm. Hilarious. Laurent manages to recompose himself afterwards, smiling. “May I ask for your full name, sir?”

“Well, if you’d really like to know…” I withhold my giddy smile, giggling at his gruff annoyance. Tati hates being formal. “Yuri Stoyanov Pavlov. Me and my children carry my wife’s name.”

I peer up at him in awe. It's rare to hear him say the name he signed off on the immigration papers. To this day, we still don't know his birth name no matter how many times I've poked him about it (I even begged Maika for details, but her gossipy lips remain surprisingly tight-lipped). All I know is that he chose the most common names, even erasing the name of his tsiganiCultural note: one of the terms Bulgarians use to call the Romani people; it’s more common for locals to call them by the racial slur “gypsies” father, to wash his hands clean of the past, promising the runaway rich girl and Maxim model he impregnated that he would raise a proper family with her. 

"Fascinating…" 

Yes, interesting. I don’t sense an ounce of fear or anxiety in Laurent, only curiosity, which surprises me given his preppy Good Boy attitude. His thoughts remain a mystery to me, but he gets a pass, easy. It’s safe to say I like him. Now I’m eager to introduce him to my best friends, to show off the fact I managed to thaw his wintry disposition. Aya will totally spaz–

“The name’s Boey. Don’t call me anything else.” Boey crosses his arms, being an asshole as usual.

“I hope you like Japanese food, because that’s all this girl ever eats.” Tati smirks, crossing his arms and jabbing a thumb in my direction.

“No, I don’t.” I would slap his arm if I could move it without risk of dropping Laurent’s thousand dollar suit, so I settle for a pout instead. “Oh, and just to let you know, I consider it a crime if you don’t like Japanese food. At least tell me you’re okay with sushi. Or ramen. Or bento box meals.”

“I have partaken once or twice.” Laurent smiles, amused by my haughty proclamation. “Only when my mother experiences a sudden craving for it, really, so I shall follow your lead on that front.”

“That shall suffice.” I smile with an upturn of my nose, imitating Maika. “Now that we’ve got that settled… Let’s swap numbers! I’ll text you the address.” I struggle to withdraw my phone, nervous of the shifting fabric. It feels so delicate and slippery, damn it!

“I do not have a personal cell.” 

I stare, suspending my disbelief. Come again? 

“However, LeBlanc handles my personal tablet. You may consult with him on all matters concerning communication.” 

Um, no thanks. LeBlanc looks like the human personification of Parental Control, my worst nightmare. I bet you he’ll screen through ninety-nine point nine percent of my existence, because I’m made of sugar, spice, and everything not-nice. I won’t lie: I will corrupt this pure man with the internet’s treasure trove of memes, and he’ll thank me for my wisdom–

“Oh. I can page you on my watch, can I? Hold a moment…” 

I suppress my snicker. Page? Holy cow, who says that? Only boomers, that’s who, like my parents. Does he even have a Facebook? I doubt it. He acts so out of touch with everything, it’s a wonder how he’s lived this whole time. He reminds me of a princess stuck inside her ivory tower, isolated from the world– like Rapunzel, or Jasmine. He definitely gives me “I want to break out of the mold” vibes. 

“Aha. I have an email attached to my Viber account. Are you ready?” 

“Yup. I’ll give you my Facebook, too, so you have my full permission to stalk me.”

“I prefer the term investigate. Carries a less negative connotation.”

“Sure. Whatever floats your boat. Yacht? Cruise?” 

I crack a joke, hoping to appeal to his sense of wit and wealth, yet he only stares, uncertain how to respond. I look away, scratching my nose. Oof. Tough crowd. LeBlanc in particular looks super dour and depressed, like he swallowed a whole grapefruit up the butt. I glare. What now? After a moment of surprisingly zero complaint, the realization strikes me like divine lightning. I get it now. LeBlanc can’t intercept his young master’s desire for anything once he sets his sights on it, because the moment Laurent says the word, he’s duty-bound to indulge him. I suppress my evil smile, internally rubbing my hands together. Yessss, perfect~

“Don’t forget: Streets of Brentwood. It’s got a movie theater and lots of restaurants, and the place we’re eating at is called Shirasoni. It’s actually down the street from here, but we’ll be coming back afterwards.”

“Duly noted.” Laurent nods, focused on his watch, his brow furrowing deeper under the weight of his increasing frustration. Even when annoyance sharpens his features, he looks no less pretty and elegant than his pleasant smile. I resent the fact he’s so blessed with a photogenic face while I’m stuck with goblin-ugly forms of expression. “LeBlanc, can you record everything? I am currently struggling with this accursed contraption.”

He responds with a crisp and dutiful nod, withdrawing it from the leather case strapped around his side. Now he folds in his left arm to balance the iPad Pro on his bicep, fingers tapping across the screen like a master keyboardist. Whoa, look at that speed. “Streets of Brentwood, confirmed. Shirasoni– How do you spell that?”

“S-H-I-R-A-S-O-N-I. I think. I’ll double check. My full name on Facebook is Alexandria Teodorova Pavlova. Teodorova without the H. I’ll text you, hold on–.”

That’s when it hits me. It’s happening. It’s actually happening. I’m on autopilot now, feeling numb and overwhelmed by this surreal moment. We’re swapping contact info. He wants to hang out with me. It honestly feels like a movie. I’m surprised Ezra or Aya didn’t crack him first, considering their obsession to befriend him. He surprises me even further by asking for Tati’s info next, his smile glowing with delight after he complies with a shrug. “In case of emergencies,” Laurent says, as if justifying himself. Right. Uh-huh. I believe you– 

And he doesn’t even stop there, going so far as to ask Boey, too! 

My eyes pop out of their sockets, watching this man conduct himself like a happy little camper. He asked not out of obligation or even as a polite afterthought. He genuinely wants his phone number. That’s… pretty nice of him, actually. Yet Boey hits him with a blunt “Why? You already have theirs. You don’t need mine,” which makes me cringe, because damn, that’s mean. Lighten up, bro. To his credit, Laurent doesn't seem disappointed at all. If anything, he sounds even more determined to curry his favor, his whole face brimming with reserved excitement as he delights in the idea of the challenge. 

“Then, I shall endeavor to earn your friendship.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Mad respect. Anyone who wishes to be Boey’s friend deserves my deepest sympathy. 

Watching him ask for my family’s numbers… I don’t know how to describe the feeling, but I'm drowning in fuzzy feels right now. Now I can’t wait to see my best friends’ reaction to this pure and wholesome man. It will be historical, like the first Thanksgiving Dinner. Imagine thc culture shock–

“If that is all, then we shall depart first.” Laurent smiles, reeling me back to reality. 

Wow. Everything happened so fast, I need a moment to reorient myself. “Alright. You drive safe! Oh, wait, your jacket–” I begin to shrug it off, lamenting its silky warm cover, yet he stops me with an elegant, firm raise of his hand. Damn, I’m not free of this danger to my heart. Now Aya’s gonna roast me for this, I already know it and I’m absolutely dreading it. Because she’s going to jump to conclusions and blow it out of proportion, and I’ll want to scream–

"Consider it on loan, as a gesture of good faith. When we part ways at the end of the night, I shall retrieve it."

"How chivalrous of you." I smirk, mindful of creasing it as I hug it between my arms.

"On the contrary.” Laurent smiles, dismissing my sarcasm with grace, his hands clasped at his back. “Missing an article of clothing that comprises my favorite suit will surely haunt me in my dreams."

"A noble sacrifice. I promise to take care of it, my lord." 

I curtsy at the last moment, pleased when he decides to humor me with a bow, his hand hovering above his heart. 

“I trust you.” He chuckles, straightening in place. “Farewell, my lady. Until we meet again.”

“Arrivederci~.”

He chuckles, tickled by my enthusiastic response. “Au revoir.”

Laurent pivots on his heel and LeBlanc follows suit, pausing to collect his leather brown messenger bag from their small table– okay, how did I not notice that Smythson Burlington bag? He takes “stinking rich” to a whole new level– before heading to the front entrance. He departed as smoothly as he crossed my path, a whirlwind of emotion and pomp, and I’m left breathless. I can’t explain the dangerous effect rich, cultured people have on normal human beings, but they do, and I hate it. Laurent acts like a real-life Disney prince from the 1900s, and my heart can’t handle it. He shouldn’t even exist outside the pages of a Bridgerton novel. No wonder Aya’s blinded. He radiates brilliance.

“What was that?”

My brain cells crash back into reality, anchored by the sound of Boey’s disbelief. I’ve never been more grateful for his sourpuss presence until today, and as much as it pains me to say so, I agree with him, even though I never want to agree with him about anything. I opt to respond with scathing sarcasm instead, to conceal the embarrassing fact of my momentary weakness. He is attractive, for an annoying gentleman. “Don’t you have eyes or are you a blind idiot? We’re friends now. That’s how you make friends.”

He makes a face. “I don’t know about that guy. He looks like a pansy.”

"C'mon, be nice, you two." Tati chastises us, sobering up from his humor. "Especially you, Boyan. He wanted to be friends with you."

"Yeah, right. He was just being nice." 

Boey brushes him off, tossing his cup once he downs the whole thing. He's such a fast drinker (and eater) that I get dizzy watching him sometimes, impressed by the mach speed of his gluttonous consumption. And he never gains weight! Unlike me, Miss Piggy Thighs. Grr. "It's obvious he had a boner for Sasha."

"Nah, I'm pretty sure he had a boner for you. Didn't you hear him? 'I shall endeavor to earn your friendship' or some shit like that. Honestly, it made me blush." 

It's my turn to brush him off, disguising my annoyance behind the motion of donning Laurent's fancy blazer. Whoa, is this a small or medium? It fits so snuggly and it smells nice, too, like a pear-scented candle; sweet and fruity, yet subtle. It's making me sleepy… Anyway, how much longer do we have to wait? It's freezing. Hurry up, Aya. Save me from your idiot.

"Whatever." Heh. Boey’s go-to response when he has nothing smart to say. "And don't tell Aya that, or else she'll start shipping us and I'll never hear the end of it."

I smirk. Now that's an idea. Maybe I will. "Oh, yeah? What's in it for me?"

"You get to live another day."

"Lame~."