The Rearranged Life (3 page)

“What’s your name, beautiful?” says the boy next to me.

He’s talking to me!

Sophia gives me a discreet nod and turns away to give us a second. He’s tall, dark, and handsome, with a tribal tattoo around a built bicep he shows off out of his tank top sleeve. Tattoos are usually a turnoff, but I’m feeling a little dangerous. Maybe I won’t be unkissed tonight. Maybe this is my chance to prove Sejal wrong–different cultures can do just fine.

“Nithya.” I say, with a confident toss of my hair and a grin.

“Nit-ya.” The first syllable rhymes with
wit
, not
with
, but I ignore it. “I’m Jack.” He says this like I need to remember his name from now on. “Want a drink?”

“Sure, I’ll have a Pepsi.” I trail him and his sweet smile into the crowded kitchen.

“Nithya!” A hand touches my elbow, and there’s Luca, waiting for a big hug.

“Luca! Tell me what’s been going on! Sophia’s out back with some friends she just made.” I roll my eyes at the social butterfly we both love. He does the same.

“Oh, you know, this and that. Senior year means no work.” He pumps his fist into the air.

“Speak for yourself, homie, you’re a communications major,” I mock-growl. I’m not jealous his twelve-credit workload lets him do whatever he wants. At least, I tell myself that.

“Hey, I worked hard. I put in my time,” he protests, laughingly.

“I gotta say, you chose your major perfectly. Good looks, salesperson qualities, sweet talker… you’ve got this made.”

“My good looks being number one on the list of things I use to manipulate and get what I want.” He gives me a smoldering look right out of GQ, and I laugh with him.

“Hey, my roommate is here, so I’m going to go find him.” He pats me on the shoulder as he walks off. “You guys should meet.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good,” I mumble, half-listening as he takes off. I blink twice, hard, in an attempt to refocus my blurry vision.

Jack waits next to me, his arm protectively around my waist. This wouldn’t normally feel comfortable, but right now I’m thankful for the support. I might faint. My legs are about to give out.

I’ve been drugged.

y eyelids flutter open. The light pouring through the window makes me close them again. Everything from my neck to my toes throbs like it has been hit with a baseball bat. I am filled with the kind of ache you get when you have the flu and every muscle is a rubber band drawn too tight. I roll over and begin to fall asleep again.

The whiff of cologne jolts me awake.

There can’t be cologne on my bed. I’ve never been on a date. Sleeping with a boy in my bed is out of question… but then, is this even my bed? My sheets are pastel blue, and these are black.

Where the hell am I?

I remember dancing and feeling happy. I recall a guy, but his face is blurry. Sitting up too quickly makes me queasy, but when I grab the wall for support, I note that my shirt is still thankfully on. It raises questions about if anything else is amiss, though. I take a deep breath to steel myself before looking down to check that my jeans are place. They are, as far as I can tell.

I stumble down the hallway as though wading through molasses.
What if he’s still here? Did we have sex? Who was he?
I need to leave. My shaky legs cause me to run into the corner as I round the bend into the living room. The impact of my head meeting the wall creates a loud
thud
and I cry out before biting my tongue.
He’ll hear me.

Movement in the corner of my eye stops me dead in my tracks.

The man, my attacker, pushes a barstool under the counter. When he gazes at me, my blood freezes. He has eerily familiar, startlingly green eyes.

His steps toward me are tentative. I shrink back instinctively, hitting the wall. He stops.

“Nithya.”

Just hearing my name from someone capable of this makes me want to vomit.

“How could you do this to me?” My voice slurs.

He looks bewildered then horrified.

“I didn’t,” he protests firmly, not raising his voice. “I swear to God.”

He takes two slow strides forward, his hands in the air, as if to say he won’t hurt me. I stay rooted to my spot. I don’t know why–my minimal logical processes tell me to run like hell, but something in his eyes makes me want to hear him out. He is my only witness, the only way to piece together the events of last night.

“Luca and Sophia wanted to introduce us yesterday. He’s my roommate. They pointed you out, but you were with some guy. I left to get a drink and saw you again near the kitchen. You were a little wobbly. The way he was manhandling you just didn’t sit right. I’ve seen… anyway, it just didn’t look right. I followed and saw him push you onto the bed. I asked if you were okay, and you hardly moved. It was obvious you weren’t even awake, so I got up in his face to get him to back the hell off. He bolted, so I ended up bringing you here. I couldn’t find Sophia and Luca, or I would have taken you home.”

It’s surreal, hearing what you did and drawing a blank. When my wisdom teeth were removed, my dentist told me a patient who is under anesthesia is still able to follow directions to open their mouth wider or to swallow. At the time, it was a puzzle to imagine a person could be unconscious and still follow another person’s orders. It seemed like a mindfuck. Not anymore.

“So, I didn’t do anything… with anyone…” I stumble a little bit. Part relief. Part heartbreak. I need to hear him say nothing was taken from me.

“No. I mean, maybe in the past. That I don’t know. Not last night though,” he tries to joke, and in spite of myself, I smile.

Despite the lighthearted moment, my eyes fill with tears, which always makes things worse. Then I get angry I’m crying in front of this stranger. Sliding down the wall with my head in my hands, I wrestle the heaving sobs wracking my body.

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay. Nothing happened. Here, let me get you some water.”

He gently takes my hands, lifts me to my feet, and helps me to the counter. When he lets go, the tingle he leaves there is like a static shock winging through my palm.

“Want to talk about something else? Like… oh, hey, how about that chemistry homework?”

I laugh again, through tears. “What’s your name?” Sniffle, sniffle.

“James.” He grins. And in that second, I know his is a name I will remember forever.

ames offers me something to eat when I stop crying, a feat that takes a good ten minutes. When I look at him incredulously, he says it’s better to have something in my belly and then playfully adds that he also doesn’t want me throwing up in his apartment.

“My first morning-after breakfast, and I didn’t do anything.” I am less burdened now by all the things I feared had happened and relief from all the things that didn’t.

“Yikes, now I’m going to feel bad it’s only Cheerios.”

As we eat, he ignores the occasional hiccup I croak out, and talks to me like I’m an old friend–caring and vigilant, like when Sophia has a cold and I make sure she’s stocked up on Vicks and tissues. He insists on driving me back to my place, even though it’s less than half a mile away from the Meridian, the apartment building we’re in now.

“A BMW?!”
Who is this guy?
My old, well-loved Ford Taurus, parked in the driveway at home, doesn’t hold a candle to our ride.

“High school graduation gift.” His cheeks turn pink. He reminds me of the down-to-earth celebrities in grocery tabloids who have been snapped by paparazzi, their heads ducking out of the spotlight. “A St. Clair tradition.”

“Your full name is James St. Clair?”

“Yes.”

“That’s pretentious.” The words roll out before I can stop them as I picture estates and British nobles with three middle names. My hands fly to my mouth.

James looks at me in astonishment and I cringe, repeating, “Oh. My. God. I am so sorry!” Over and over again. Then he bursts out laughing. It’s a delightful sound.

“Let’s just pretend the drugs were behind that comment.” He chuckles as we drive out.

“I am such a jerk, I am so sorry.”

“It’s okay. You’re probably right,” he replies, cheerfully.

I say nothing in response. I am warm from humiliation and because the memory of his laugh makes me want to hear it again. I don’t know how I feel about that. We proceed in comfortable silence for two blocks. As we pull up and he parallel parks on College Avenue, I turn to him.