Page 8 of Win You Over
Holden
“ Y ou can’t honestly be considering going to his house ,” Theo says, a mixture of disbelief and alarm in his voice.
I pick up my laptop from the small desk we share, and tuck it into my case, then check I have my notebook and a pad of post-it notes.
The little bright squares make communicating with people easier.
Who knows if I’ll actually be able to say anything to Remington during our forced partnership?
The thought alone leaves my mouth dry and that mental wall slowly resurfacing.
“Not much choice,” I manage because that’s the truth. I tried speaking to the professor – emailed him about my reluctance to work with Remington and was met with an ultimatum. Make it work or fail the assignment.
The all too familiar sensation of panic rattles in my chest when I think about being alone with someone who has the potential to hurt me. Not that I think he would, but that fear is deep-seated and ingrained.
“I guess,” Theo concedes. “Just don’t put up with his shit, okay?”
I offer Theo a sly smile that I hope says “do I ever?” A fake gesture of confidence that I do not possess.
The day goes by quickly and by the time our final class ends, I’m in a full anxiety spiral. Sweat beads on the back of my neck despite it not being too warm out and I make a desperate dash towards the bathroom to throw cold water on my face.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I reach one hand into my pocket, running a finger over my knife while internally working through the few tools I remember from therapy. Reminding myself that I am not that weak little boy anymore and Remington isn’t one of those kids from my past.
I found Dad’s pocket sized fishing knife when we were packing up to leave the UK.
It had been in a box of his belongings which Mum was sending to the dump.
I hid it under my pillow in the days leading up to our departure, then snuck it into one of my suitcases before we left.
It’s the only part of my dad, besides some photos, that I kept.
Holding it reminds me of him and of a time when things had been easier.
I wouldn't actually hurt someone with it – that's not why I carry it.
And even if its existence could land me in trouble, it's important to me in ways I can't explain to anyone.
Taking a few deep breaths, I straighten, fix my hair and adjust my bag on my shoulder, then exit the bathroom and head towards the bus stop. Remington’s family home isn’t too far from the university, but it’s far enough away that walking isn’t an option. Especially on a wet, drizzly day like today.
I’m waiting for the bus when a white Aston Martin pulls up at the stop, the window rolling down as soon as the car is stationary.
“Want a ride?” Remington asks, leaning out of the window. Of course this is his car and of course he would happen to drive past me a few minutes before the bus is due. These days, it’s like he’s everywhere and I can’t shake him and his stupid smile.
“You’re coming to mine, right?” he asks when I don’t reply.
I hesitate for a moment, moving from foot to foot while looking down the road for the bus.
“Get the fuck in the car, pretty boy, you’re getting wet,” he says, a smile planted on his face. I scowl at him, narrowing my eyes, and all he does is spread his lips wider.
“Okay, sorry. Please get in the car, Holden.” He puts on a sing-song voice. The rain falls harder on my shoulders, and I concede, opening the door and sliding in, melting into the soft leather seat.
I’m taken aback by the interior. It’s pristine, with that new car smell and not a speck of dirt or dust to be seen.
I’m not sure why I’m surprised. Everything about Remington is so poised and put together.
He’s not a jock. Not a frat boy, either.
He doesn't fit into any stereotypical box, really. He’s the golden child – everyone’s best friend, yet he surrounds himself with bullies.
He’s conceited, charming in that way serial killers can be, and sometimes he’s a huge ass.
My heart beats erratically in his presence. His larger-than-life personality setting me on edge. But I push down the feelings and focus on my breathing and the road.
“Sweet ride, isn’t it? Just as sexy as I am,” he jokes, and I add ‘inflated ego’ to the list of his less than stellar qualities.
He takes a piece of candy from a bag in the centre console and shoves it into his mouth. “You want one? Sour Patch Kids. Grape flavor. The elite of all the flavors.” I shake my head, and Remington takes another, then puts both hands back on the wheel.
He revs the engine, pulls the car into the road, hitting the pedal and going far faster than the town’s speed limit.
“It can go a lot faster.” He gives me a quick look, maybe hoping to see amazement on my face, before turning back to the road.
“Like way faster. It’s not built for this small town, though.
” He continues rambling on about his car as if I asked and I find myself appreciating the one sided conversation, because at least he hasn’t asked me any direct questions or expected me to fill any awkward silences.
In fact, he doesn’t even pause long enough for me to contemplate speaking or for silence to fall in the small space, his sentences running into each other in rapid succession.
By the time we pull up to the large white mansion that is his home, I have come to one conclusion. Remington Langford is a car nerd.
We climb out of the car and he bounds up the steps, throwing open the door and loudly announcing his arrival. “Ma, I’m home!” He waves a hand at me and I follow him through the double width front door and into a sprawling entry hall.
It’s beautifully decorated with gold accents, and a large statue of an elephant in one corner, surrounded by tall green ferns.
To my left is a wall covered in photos of his family.
The largest one, a portrait of four people, clearly on safari.
At the back of the entry hall, there’s a wide set of stairs leading up to the next floor, and opposite them, the opening to a spacious sitting room.
A lady, who can’t be much older than late forties, walks down the stairs. Her hair is a startling white blond, neatly sitting on top of her head in a bun. She wears a black pencil skirt and a flowy yellow blouse. When she meets my eyes, her face lights up into a smile that matches Remington’s.
“You didn’t say you were bringing home a friend, Rem,” she says, reaching a hand out to me.
“Charlene Langford, lovely to meet you…” Her sentence peters off in that questioning way that so often happens when people introduce themselves.
I swallow thickly, my tongue sitting heavy in my mouth.
I hate this part of meeting new people. The part where they expect me to tell them my name and offer standard pleasantries like ‘ wow, what a beautiful home you have.’ God, I wish it could be that easy.
I take her hand in mine. It’s warm and soft, her nails beautifully manicured. I offer her a smile, opening my mouth to at least attempt to give her my name. My mind races and it feels like I’m pushing a rock up my throat, the word not budging. Fucking hell, I just want to say my name.
“This is my new friend, Holden,” Remington answers for me. “We have a project to do before finals.” Then he says something to his mother in a language I don’t recognise and she responds before nodding, her beautiful smile still radiating on her face.
“Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Holden. I’ll leave you two to it.” She turns to Remington. “There's lasagne in the fridge if you and Holden get hungry. Dad and I are going to the movies.”
“Thanks Mom.” He kisses her cheek before grabbing my arm and pulling me towards the stairs. He stops at the bottom of them, then turns to me.
“You wanna work in the kitchen, or my room?” My gaze flitters up the stairs and then to his face.
He’s all boyish charm and innocence, with startling blue eyes that crinkle on the edges when he smiles.
He tips his head, waiting for my reply, and I contemplate the options, feeling more at ease in his space than I expected.
I nod my head towards the stairs, signalling my choice. For all the nerves I had about being alone with him, I’ve concluded that if he wanted to hurt me, the choice of where we are in this large empty house wouldn't make much of a difference.
“Okay,” he says and I follow him up, coming to a landing that leads to a corridor of plush cream carpets, the walls once again decorated with family photos.
His home is warm and welcoming and nothing at all like I expected.
As much as I hate the way the people in this town judge me, I’m hit with the realisation that I may not be any better than them, given I expected to walk into a home brimming with maids and butlers and not an ounce of warmth or personality.
When he shows me through a door and into a room halfway down the long corridor, it’s very clear from my first glance that it’s his.
His entire personality – the parts I’ve glimmered so far – are pasted all over his walls.
Trophies and photos from kickboxing competitions, posters of supercars, a calendar of firefighters on his desk, still three months behind, and an entire shelf of remote controlled cars neatly lined up in an order I don’t have the knowledge to decipher.
There’s a collage of photos above a mahogany desk, and I recognise a few of the people in them, including quite a number of photos with Finn.