Chapter 2

“You should have seen it, he was staring at her the whole time. He even smirked," Luna narrates to Quen. We met up with Quen after class for coffee, I was convinced I’d become delirious because I couldn’t have it this morning.

Luna is busy telling an adulterated version of what happened this morning and Quen is sitting there eating it up.

"Luna, you’re over stretching it now. When did he smirk?!" I question looking pointedly at her. He didn’t smirk at me, did he?

Oh God! I don’t know, I was too out of it to remember.

"He definitely did," Luna responds like she can hear my thoughts and turns to Quen who’s busy casually pouring tea into her cup from a kettle. Don’t ask how she’s having tea in a coffee shop. She’s Quen, she just does.

"You needed to experience it Quen, he looked at her and smirked like he was this sly fox and then Claire coughed into her hand like she was a dumb, weak bunny. It was like something out of a book," I can confirm Luna has gone completely cray-cray now.

I look over to Quen, "You can not be buying this bullshit,"

She shrugs, "I’m not."

"So, maybe I exaggerated a bit but there was definitely tension." Luna continues, I wish I could just tape her mouth shut.

"Tension with your lecturer?" Quen interjects as her eyebrows archs towards me in mock disbelief.

"I wouldn’t blame her, he’s hot as hell," Luna whispers to Quen.

"You can’t be taking her seriously, she only started saying that after I told I’d spilled coffee on him," I ramble on arguing my case.

"You spilled coffee on your professor?" Quen asks laughing at me now. I slump back into my chair, a defeated sigh leaving my lips. This is madness.

Quen perks up beside me. "So, how hot are we talking? Dilf type of hot or Granddaddy type of hot?" She asks Luna as she wiggles her eyebrows. She’s truly trying to get on my nerves. I can tell.

"Honey, that man is not a day over thirty. I’m willing to bet he’s 27," Luna whispers to Quen for some reason and then Quen gasps.

"Hot, young and an academic. Sister, I think you’ve hit the jackpot," Quen says to me still wiggling her eyebrows. I want to face palm her but I remember she has a full beat. Lucky sucker.

"Guys, it doesn’t matter if he’s hot or not, I’m pretty sure he’s going to make life hell for me," I pull my legs up on the chair and wrap my arms around myself.

"What do you mean?" Quen asks, I turn to her my cheek on my knee. “I swore at him, very angrily too."

“And the plot thickens!" Luna proclaims. I groan and drop my face between my knees.

"Why? What happened?" It’s Quen’s voice. "It doesn’t even matter, you didn’t know he was your professor then. Plus, I’m pretty sure he provoked you." How does she know me like that? We’ve lived together for years, yes. But still, it’s almost like I’ve had her all my life.

Some minutes later Luna realizes she’s late for her class and hastily bolts off.

Quen sips her tea. I’m sulking with the biggest pout ever.

“You have that date, today right?” The expression on her face is sympathetic. I roll my eyes, I hate when she pities me like that.

“I don’t even know what to wear,” I say looking away from her. My arranged marriage to the Crouthers has loomed and I’ve dreaded it since I turned eighteen. I had to deal with this the same year my sister ran away, amidst personal turmoil. The contract mandates I marry at 23, after college.

Which is this year. I’ll be turned into a baby making machine at the beck and call of my husband. Such a bleak future to look forward to.

“We should go shopping don’t you think? Retail therapy and that,” she says, a Cheshire grin on her face. I shake my head in laughter, “That’s your solution every single time?”

Quen looks like she’s taken aback, her hand on her chest, “I’m confused, it doesn’t work?”

“I don’t even really need a dress anyway,” I say as she gets up and gets her bag, “I’m going to the restroom honey, when I get back we’re leaving to the nearest store. Excuse me.”

Aaand, she’s gone.

This, is one of the things you have to come to terms with when your best friend is an only child. She never takes no as an answer.

My phone rings. I take my it out of my bag and see it’s my mom calling.

There was a time she was less predictable.

I have not spoken with my mom in two months and today she’s calling. Hm, I wonder why.

“Oh, hey mom. It’s nice to finally hear from you again.” I say in a voice void of cheer when I answer. I’m not particularly happy with her.

“Claire, the phone works both ways. You didn’t check in the last two months. You’re not a saint either. Anyway, that’s besides the point. I just wanted to remind you of your meeting with that Crouther boy. I really hope you did not forget by any chance.” Her voice is a soft whisper, my mom.

I’d always admired her, I still do in a way but ever since that night mom and dad came into my room and basically forced me to sign that contract, she’s begun to morph into a person I can no longer recognize.

A beat passes. “Is that really the only thing you care about? The arrangement?” I ask earnestly.

“Claire honey, why would you think that? I care very much about you, about our family. That’s why I do the things I do. I want to- I want us to win.” She says this in that annoying singsong voice she uses when she exaggerates affection. It breaks me.

A sigh escapes my lips. “I’ll let you know how the date goes.” She says something but I don’t let her finish before I hang up. I can feel my eyes watering up so I look up and sniff, trying to stop them from falling.

I finally understand why Ms. Winterfell’s resignation stung so much. She was one of the only lecturers that sought to connect with her students and she personally sought me out when I lagged last year. At the time I’d been annoyed and wanted her to just go away.

She didn’t, she pushed to my limit. At some point, I started picking up just because I didn’t want to disappoint her. She said she was persistent because she knew I had it in me. I’d told her it was a corny thing to say but what she did made me feel seen. I wonder if I’d even crossed her mind for a second when she made the decision to resign.

Quen comes out the restroom and she walks over to me briskly, “Are you ready?” She asks putting forth her hand for me to take. I take it in mine.

***

It’s nighttime and we’re back at the apartment. Quen is glamming me up after our spree at Dior. I’d gotten a short black dress and Quen had way more bags than I did. ‘Twas ridiculous.

She’s seated crossed legged on her vanity while I sit on her chair and my face is raised towards her. I’d already dressed up to leave but Quen apparently wasn’t satisfied with how I looked.

“I really don’t know why we have to go extra with the makeup,” I tell Quen, she has me pouting my mouth to a side as she applies contour to my cheek.

“This isn’t extra at all! This is the lightest beat you’re going to get. Stop being so whiny, and remember you are not doing this to impress anybody. Repeat after me. Look good…”

I roll my eyes at her and begrudgingly reply, “Feel good.”

“Exactement! You look good, you’re going to feel good. If he gets weird, you can just text me and I’ll call and you can say your house caught on fire.” She says matter-of-factly. I let out a chuckle.

“Clairementine, you have no idea.” She smiles focused. She started calling me that as a joke so, I started calling her Quentessence or Quenaissance as a joke and then she’d call me something like Clairevoyance too, it is one of our running jokes between us.

Quen jokes about following me, “If he tries anything, we’d just jump his ass together,” she suggests. I laugh at the mental picture in my head and Quen starts laughing too.

“We’d end up getting jailed by them,” I try to say, still wheezing.

Quen laughs even harder now. “That couldn’t even happen in their wildest dreams,” she asserts. She drops her brush and gives me a once over.

“Done! Oh my goodness, you look absolutely gorgeous,” she hands me a mirror as she uncrosses her legs. She’s right, I think to myself. I look absolutely gorgeous.

I thank Quen and she makes me promise to text her every detail. I take three shots for liquid courage, I then head downstairs where the driver Wilhelm has sent is waiting.

A number had texted earlier. He introduced himself as Wilhelm Crouther, said that it’d be a pleasure to finally meet me and gave me the time and the place we were meeting up at. It all sounded so stiff.

At this point, I have resigned myself to my fate. I can only imagine what it has in store for me and hope at least he is a kind, good man.

Downstairs, the driver is outside waiting outside beside the car. He smiles at me and opens the door. I get in and draw a long breath in. The ride starts.

I feel awfully like I am sheep being led to the slaughter house but I may be overthinking again. I try not to ponder on it too much, but the fact that I’ve been robbed of ever finding true love leaves a heavy dent on my heart.

I get a whiff of that woody scent that I’d smelt early this morning. It’s so random, remembering his scent. I look around a little confused, it’s almost like he was just here.

The driver turns to me to say we’ve arrived. I smile at him and thank him as I grab my bag and get out of the car. Outside, I’m standing in front of a restaurant, I can tell it is one of the fancy ones because we used to have dinner at places like these as a family.

I walk into the restaurant and the man at the door takes my coat. The restaurant is pretty empty save for a couple of people. The light is low, giving it such an intimate vibe. I subtly look around, trying my best not to appear lost. To be honest, I’m not really sure what I should be looking for.

Then I get a whiff of that woody scent again. One of my eye brows arcs in curiosity, maybe it’s just a popular cologne?

But then it gets stronger as I walk in a particular direction and there he is. Mr Eiserman, the man I spilled coffee on this morning, is seated just a table away from me.

What are the odds? Is he Wilhelm?

Just as the thought crosses my mind, his intense gaze traps me. I want to look away but some thing in me is fighting not to cower. It doesn’t last even seconds anyway as someone stands and blocks both our views.

I realize this person was sitting at the same table Mr. Eiserman is at. He waves, walks up to me and smiles. “You must be Claire Andreadis, pleasure to finally meet you,” he says, takes my hand and kisses it. It feels like he’s taken a needle and popped the imaginary bubble over my head, leaving me drenched in cold water.

This man is Wilhelm Crouther.