Page 64 of Saint Céline
“What now?”
“Youareattracted to him.”
“I’m literally not.”
I glared at her. Anya stared back with horrifying clarity, the kind that came from someone who had spent years watching rich people lie to each other without ever bothering to join in.
“Céline,” she said slowly, “Professor Moreau is like… clinically attractive. He’s young and hot, but half this university has issues with that man because he can be intense with his research. But you specifically look homicidal every time someone says his name.”
I looked away toward the rain-streaked windows. Miss Astoria stretched across my legs with complete luxury, her tail flicking once in contentment.
Anya studied me more carefully now, her head tilted the way it did when she was turning something over in her mind like one of her family’s business deals. “When did this start?”
“There is nothis.”
“Right.” She nodded solemnly. “And Miss Astoria pays rent.”
I hated that Sophia and Anya had both become impossible to lie to over the years. Most people accepted performance at face value because they wanted to. It made social interaction easier. But the girls had seen me exhausted too often now. Angry too often. Silent too often. They noticed cracks.
“It’s not…” I stopped, the words catching somewhere behind my ribs.
Anya waited, patient in that aloof way of hers that somehow made the silence feel heavier.
I exhaled slowly. “He’s strange.”
“That is not new information.”
“No, I mean…” I searched for the right wording and immediately regretted continuing. “He notices things.”
Anya blinked. Then her entire face changed. “Oh.”
I looked at her suspiciously. “What does that mean?”
“That means you’re fucked.”
“Anya.”
“No, seriously.” She sat up straighter. “That’s your weakness.”
“I don’t have weaknesses.”
“You absolutely do.” She pointed at me again. “You like being perceived.”
The sentence landed with enough force that I went still. Anya saw it immediately.
I looked down at the cat instead of answering. Because the horrible thing was; she was right. People liked me constantly. That wasn’t rare. People wanted me. Admired me. Envied me. Desired me. But very few people actually saw me. Not the ugly things underneath Céline. Most people preferred the performance because it made them comfortable. Vincent didn’t.
That should have terrified me enough to stay away from him completely. Instead, it kept pulling my attention back like touching a bruise you knew would hurt.
“I hate this conversation,” I muttered.
Anya looked almost sympathetic now. “Does Thad know?”
I laughed once under my breath. That answered the question by itself.
“Oh no,” Anya whispered.
“There’s no oh no.”
