Hey Jude (Lennox Valley Chronicles #1)

“Not your scene?”

My eyes return to his. He looks insulted.

“Yeah, I mean, maybe these are your people… but I don’t belong here. Thank you for inviting me, but… I just… I gotta go. I’m sorry.” I pull the sides of my cardigan around me, hopefully hiding the worst of the wine stain, and make for the front door, avoiding the eyes of the murmuring gallery crowd. I push outside and reach into my purse, intent on calling a cab.

Bradley follows me outside. “Olena…”

I turn to face him, wishing I could be literally anywhere else.

“I’m sorry about your dress. And… are you… are you okay?” He shifts his eyes to the smattering of other people standing out front. He looks back to me, keeping his voice low. “I mean, that was kind of an overreaction back there; it was just wine.” He chuckles awkwardly.

Fire heats my cheeks. “No. I mean yeah, I’m fine. I just need to get out of here.”

“Do you need me to call you a cab?” he offers, frowning.

I’m still rummaging in my purse. Where the fuck is my phone? “No, I’m good,” I say. “And actually, I’m gonna walk home. I don’t live far and I could use the fresh air.”

Before he can respond, I excuse myself as I push between a couple of serious-looking hipsters on the sidewalk who appear briefly alarmed by my abrupt intrusion into their cigarette break.

I walk the seven blocks home to my apartment, fighting back tears and wishing I wasn’t such a colossal mess.

2

OLENA

I wake up curled into a ball with my blanket stuffed under my chin, the light seeping into my room around the rectangle of my drawn window shade. It looks like it’s glowing; the contrast hurts to look at. Rubbing my eyes and sitting up, I recall the events of last night with a wave of shame. Why did I make such a fool of myself? I thought it’d be different after I moved home.

Clanging sounds coming from the kitchen tell me my roommate, Wyatt, is already up, preparing breakfast for himself. My stomach grumbles. I didn’t eat much last night when I got home; I had a crust of leftover banana bread my Mom had sent home with me the other night and a glass of milk—one of my more pitiful excuses for a meal.

A quick check of my phone reveals it’s after 10am. I’d go back to sleep, but my stomach protests that I need real food for once. Reluctantly disentangling my limbs from my blanket, I pull on a pair of questionably clean sweats and a wrinkled t-shirt I find on the floor next to my bed. I need to do laundry. Throwing a hoodie overtop of my Hot Mess Express outfit, I drag my knotted hair into a loose bun and secure it with an elastic I find on top of my dresser. Shoving my phone in the front pocket of my sweatshirt, I leave my room, blinking dramatically when the bright light of the kitchen hits my eyes. The smell of something savory elicits another hunger pang.

“Morning, sunshine,” Wyatt says as he glances up at me from his pan of scrambled eggs. He’s wearing a dark green polo shirt with the words Riverside Deli embroidered in white on the left side of the chest. His dark blond hair is getting long on the top and flops over to one side, making him look like a moody fashion model. He reaches a long arm across the counter, grabbing a handful of chopped ham from the cutting board and tossing it into the pan.

“How’d the date go last night with what’s-his-name?”

I slump down heavily into a chair at the kitchen table, rubbing my face. “Bradley.” My voice is scratchy. I frown and clear my throat.

“Right, right, Braaadley,” Wyatt draws out his name dramatically while tracing a swirl through the air with the spatula, teasing.

I rest my chin in my hands and look up. “Great question. Let me answer through the medium of interpretive dance,” I say with a sarcastic deadpan.

“Oh, please do.” He pauses stirring his eggs, looking amused.

I hunch my back over the table and rest my forehead on its cool wooden surface, my bun flopping forward. I let out a dramatic groan.

“Dude, it can’t have been that bad,” Wyatt says, looking at me with concern.

“It can and it was,” I reply in a muffled tone, my lips smushed against the table. I roll my head slightly to the side, meeting his eyes with a pitiful expression.

“Well, then, dish. But make it quick; I need to get to work. My babies are waiting.” He tips the frying pan to coax the scrambled eggs onto a plate.

With effort, I sit up. “Your teenage employees at the deli are hardly babies,” I say as he walks over and sits down next to me.

“That’s what you think, but they look up to me like the wise mother hen that I am.” He places a hand to his chest and flutters his eyelashes.

I roll my eyes. “Wisdom. Sure.”

“Okay, out with it. What happened? Nutshell version.” He stuffs a forkful of eggs into his mouth and looks at his watch.