Still Life with Strings by L.H. Cosway Page B

purest of intentions. You have
nothing to worry about.” Okay, so maybe I didn’t mean for that to come out
sounding so sarcastic, but I can’t help getting riled up by her. You’d think
her son was the King of England and I’m some hussy trying to sleep her way to
the throne.
    “Listen to me, if you
think you can wheedle your way into his affections with your
obvious…attractions” —her gaze flicks briefly to my chest and then back up to
my eyes before she continues— “you are sadly mistaken. I will not see you hurt
him. He has already been hurt enough.”
    “Maybe you should look
in the mirror and you’ll see who’s really hurting him,” I whisper, unable to
help myself.
    “What did you just
say?” she whisper-hisses back at me.
    “Is everything all
right?” Shane asks, just entering the room, his expression suspicious as he
takes in his mother’s fuming face.
    “Fine and dandy,” I
reply. “Are we off?”
    “Yes. I’ll talk to you
later, Mum,” he says, stepping forward and giving Mirin what seems to be a very
strained kiss on the cheek.
    “You’re leaving? But I
was hoping we could do dinner at Marco Pierre’s?” she replies, affecting a
disappointed demeanour.
    “Another time, Mum,” is
all he says before he’s putting his hand to the small of my back and ushering
me out the door.
    All the way to the
elevator I feel like I’m holding my breath. Once we step inside the car, I let
it all out, slumping back against those aforementioned pesky mirrors.
    “Your mother is a
character,” I say as Shane eyes me with some sort of intensity. His hand is
still on my back, right at the base of my spine, and he’s rubbing small circles
into the fabric of my shirt.
    “My mother is never
happy, not with anything. She’s always striving for something better, and then
when she gets it there’s something else she wants.”
    Even though he’s right
beside me, his eyes are faraway.
    I turn to face him,
feeling far too close in the small space, yet I don’t move to put any distance
between us. “Don’t let her make you feel like you’re anything other than
perfect, Shane,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
    His faraway eyes come
back to me. “What is perfect, anyway?”
    “Whatever you want it
to be. Think of it more as a feeling. I think perfect is just feeling content
with your lot.”
    The elevator doors open
just then, signalling we’ve arrived on the ground floor. Shane doesn’t respond
to what I’ve said, but from the look on his face I can tell he’s really
thinking about it. I ask him if he drove in, but he tells me no, that he left
his car at home. Parking in the city is shit and all that jazz.
    “I have to go grocery
shopping first. Are you sure you still want to tag along?”
    “Of course,” he replies
enthusiastically, like I just told him I’m going on a roller-coaster ride
instead of picking up a few things for dinner.
    When we reach the
supermarket, I surreptitiously stand aside and pretend to be searching for
something in my bag, when really I’m toting up how much money I have to spend.
I think Shane notices what I’m doing but he doesn’t say anything.
    I decide I’m in the
mood for something creamy, so I grab the ingredients for a spaghetti carbonara.
April always complains when I cook Italian, too many carbs apparently (cue
heavy sigh), but she’ll just have to put up with it for one evening. Shane
follows alongside me as I stroll the aisles, like a really well-behaved dog. He
watches me pick stuff up and mull over prices as though it’s the most
fascinating thing he’s ever witnessed.
    To be honest, it’s
starting to weird me out. I’m beginning to learn that this man can be pretty
full-on.
    “What do you normally
like to eat?” I ask to break his rapt attention.
    He grins sheepishly. “I
usually order my food from this gourmet delivery service. I never really have
time to cook. They do a chicken and avocado salad that I’m seriously