4 | Omens

◇ KEL ◇

"How's he doing?"

"Worse, of course," my sister muttered on the other line.

I shut up after Jill's reply.

"Just hop on a flight. Say it's an emergency leave."

"Would be nice if I had the option," I sighed as I furiously rubbed a soap-drenched sponge onto the floor tiles. I cursed myself in my head, well aware of the three things Miles hated about having a roommate.

Number one on the list?

Sharing.

Being an only child—for 27 years and counting—"sharing" wasn't particularly present in his vocabulary. All of his friends knew Miles only took me in and let me cohabit with him in his uber-expensive property out of pure pity (my parents weren't filthy rich like his), and for that one time I helped him get rid of an apparently obsessive ex.

Number two?

Sharing a kitchen.

And third on the list:

Sharing a kitchen and having a roommate who didn't appreciate kitchen hygiene as much as he did. Yep. He could be such a neat freak, too.

Raspberry syrup. It used to be my favorite—like, two hours ago. The bottle of syrup was on the countertop when I heard my loud Joy Division ringtone, knowing it was my sister calling.  After turning away from the sink, I slipped, then nearly fell on my face.

Now the notoriously dark red stain just wouldn't go away...no matter how hard I scrubbed and scrubbed. It didn't help that the kitchen tiles were almost the shade of white. Freakin' white!

"You haven't even tried,"  Jill replied, her voice muted, the phone still on speaker mode.

I frowned. The noise didn't bother me as much as the stain, though. Miles would be up anytime soon. Around four a.m., I heard him still thrashing paint cans in his basement. 

Living off-the-grid had been Miles' favorite hobby lately whenever he was struggling to finish a painting. He was such a serious artist whenever he wasn't with friends partying all night crazy-popstar-on-crack style. 

"I can't afford to lose a season full of good-paying gigs."

"Right." Jill sighed. "We'll keep that in mind, Ms. Supermodel."

"Very funny." I wanted to sulk. Lately, paranoid thoughts randomly crept into mind. I still avoided having to talk to my mom because the disappointment in her voice just made me feel like a selfish, heartless daughter every time. 

Visiting my dad stuck in the hospital would take up money, time, and might even spark off another depressive episode. But, if his condition became progressively worse, I would immediately fly out to New York for a few days. 

"I could drop my bookings for this month but it would cost me a lot. Seriously."

"Heard you the first time..." Jill used her complaining, robotic voice, which she used every time we bickered about something. "How's Miles, by the way?"

"Fine."

"Haven't chatted lately. Seems real busy like you these days," Jill muttered. "He seein' anyone? Or that psycho ex of his kept him off the dating pool for good?"

Although I had expected it, the question made me chuckle. It had been a while since we'd earnestly talked about my living situation with Miles.

At first, Jill and my mom got upset and was shocked by my decision to move in with a newfound friend, and in Italy, at that.  But after a few weeks of chatting and video calls, Jill had taken a liking to Miles and seemed to trust him now. He was a nice, generous roommate, after all.

I didn't just share rooms with him, though.  We actually shared a two-storey, 4,300-square foot modernist house here in Brichese, Italy.  Three rooms and bathrooms, a studio-type basement, and a ludicrously high-maintenance swimming pool with a Jacuzzi. "Still happily single, and, y'know...still annoyingly rich." I sighed to myself and gave up.

A pink stain still marked at least two kitchen tiles, and my arms already felt too sore from failed attempts to make the floor squeaky clean again. Hopefully Miles would be too sleepy to notice anything later.

"Still painting like crazy?" Jill now sounded busy with mommy duties. The baby made cute giggly noises in the background.

"Baby Meesha? That you?" I stood up and couldn't stop smiling.

Jill had sent photos of the family's new baby; Meesha got her mom's genes and none of her dad's.  But she was still practically a newborn. Maybe David's Irish heritage would later show up in the kid's features.

"Could you fly her soon? I'll babysit for a week! Tell David."

"In a couple months, sure." Jill laughed a little. "Wanna bring her to London soon. His folks are pretty excited."

"Promise? Or I could just hop on a flight to London."

"D'you even have time for that?"

"Maybe." I checked my schedule on my phone. I would be work-free in a few months' time, if Miles wouldn't push me to go back to school, that is.

He encouraged me when I'd brought up the subject of going back to university to finish my medical degree. He was often supportive, but it also reminded me how much money I still had to save up. My parents hadn't really set serious financial plans for their second daughter to have a future in the medical career.

"I'll think about it," Jill replied on the other end. "D's not comfortable with her travelling on planes yet. I wanted to see your show, y'know."

"Fine. But I wanna see her soon." I wiped the sweat off my face with my shirt sleeve, my skin now itching for a cold shower.

"Sure—  Talk later. Mom's leaving."

"Fine. Call me—" I glanced at the screen. Jill ended the call before I could finish saying goodbye. Still alone in the kitchen, I fixed my jaw-length hair into a ponytail.

The time on the wall clock said 9:25AM. I might as well fix up a meal for us both. Before I could start piling up salad ingredients on the large island counter, I heard thumps on the stairs beside the living room. The spiral staircase was nowhere near, but because the house was as quiet as a mouse in the morning, I could hear manly grunts as the thumps got louder.

Another bad hangover, probably. Miles seemed to enjoy combining alcohol with abstract ideas for artistic inspiration these days.

As I started tossing leafy greens and salad dressing into a big bowl, I watched Miles haul his lean but muscular six-foot-two build towards the counter. I raised a brow at the exhaustion on his face. "Anyone from the gallery call? You could've just slept in; they prolly rescheduled your show."

"They did," Miles muttered, his voice unusually low and gruff.

Too much whiskey? "Take a painkiller and hydrate," I advised while mixing the salad ingredients.  Aside from the fact that he banned mayo from touching his salads, we both didn't like eating heavy in the morning. Especially when I was on my way to a fitting or a runway show.

"I need the beach."

"What?" I giggled and studied him. I stood across from his slouching frame as he sat by the counter, his tan face resting on his palm. "Wanna go swimming?"

"Can't. Gotta finish the second painting." His scowl made his lips pout, emphasizing their shape. His long-lashed eyes stay closed.

"You haven't finished it last night? You were up till dawn."

His eyes flew open. My comment seemed to have shaken him awake now. Miles regarded me with a glare. "Thanks for rubbing it in."

I laughed. I didn't mean to sound critical at all. But I just didn't think he wouldn't be able to finish his latest artwork.  One time he finished a life-size painting in just five days.  "What's the matter, maestro?" I asked with a mix of amusement and concern.

"You fixin' me breakfast?"

"What's it look like?" I scrunched my nose.

"I like it when you make me salads and eggs," Miles muttered while scratching his bare chest. A small grin curved his mouth now, and his head slightly swayed in mid-air. "Only thing you can cook right."

"How dare you!" I responded with an exaggerated gasp. "I make a mean burrito and salsa, Signore."

"Nah. Passable."

"What?" I almost shouted. "You've eaten almost everything I made in this house." I threw a piece of carrot at him.

It hit the dark skin below his eyes. Miles pulled a face. "If ever your cooking finally got past the fair to middling line, I'll be the first to let you know."

"Jerk!"

"Overconfident scullion."

"At least I'm kind enough to feed that ravenous creature dwelling in your gut twenty-four seven." I couldn't help chuckling. He could barely keep his eyes open, but his quite harsh teasing told me he was wide awake now.

"Was that Jill?"

"Yep. She called again." I glanced at my phone on the other side of the counter.

"She wants you home, too?" 

"Dad's still in the ICU." I looked away and grabbed a plate for Miles. I filled his plate with salad and a blueberry jam sandwich. 

"So, more complications." Miles tutted and shook his head. "Just go home. They won't scorch your name into a black book."

I didn't reply and handed him his food so he wouldn't have to stand up.

Obviously his hangover was to blame for his constant grunts earlier while he trudged down the stairs. "Go check on your dad. Get back to work in a week. Your bosses would have to understand."

"Not so sure about that," I murmured.

"If you're worrying about cash, just say so." Miles hooked his arm around my waist, staring at me from under his long lashes. 

"Stop it."

"What?"  

"It's your hard-earned money." 

"So? I don't really need it," Miles said with a frown drawing fine lines on his naturally tan skin. His heavy arm wrapped around my smaller build. His wavy hair somewhat smelled of whiskey and paint. "Sorry about this." He lifted my palm to kiss the side, where one of his carving knives had left quite a distinct one-inch scar.

"How was that your fault?" I said with a chuckle, recalling that weird night in his art studio. 

"Does it still hurt? I'll do the dishes."

"It's fine. It's healed up." I put on a smile, and we just stared at each other.

He often worried about me and sometimes made sweet gestures. Especially since we'd become close friends. But most of the time, he wasn't the vocal type.

"Eat your salad."

"Feed me, honey. I'm starving."

I giggled. "God gave you arms and hands for a reason, y'know."

"But I'm not feeling good," he reasoned with a childish pout. He placed his cheek against my chest.

"Shouldn't have restocked the fridge with booze," I muttered. Another lengthy discussion about my sick dad and financial issues would just worsen my mood. I hadn't really hung out with Miles all month due to our work schedules, and although we lived in the same house, I missed his company.

"Just my idea of late-night fun. Should join me some time." Miles stuffed a spoonful of salad into his mouth, his almond-shaped eyes squinting with naughtiness.

A familiar silence got drawn out when I didn't respond.  I knew he had a drinking problem after  dropping out of college some years ago.  He wasn't quite serious about being a painter then and was just figuring out what he wanted to do in life. So I wasn't quick to judge. "All good if it helps you concentrate on your art. Just don't hurt yourself."

With a half-grin, Miles hugged me to his side again and continued eating. "Gotcha." His watchful hazel eyes focused on my face again.

We ended up snickering at each other. We'd only become close friends about six months ago, but he was already one of my favorite people on Earth. He was such a pleasant and cool guy to be around.

It was what drew me to him right away—besides his generosity, his sincere friendship, and brutally honest opinions that sometimes blurred the line between masculine and feminine. His genuinely beautiful smile was another plus.

He was just that attractive. Unfortunately for me, as much as I wanted Miles to be straight, he wasn't. "Sleep well? Dreamt of you again," he said after munching the crunchy greens.

"Miss me that often, huh."

"You had long hair and blue eyes. Cute." He drank the full glass of water I handed him. "My head hurts like a bitch. Don't drink past midnight, yeah?" Miles groaned. "Ever. Again." He made me sit beside him as we shared the salad on his plate.  He even tried to spoon-feed me.

Maybe he didn't think I had eaten enough this morning. Besides being envious of his prodigality sometimes, living with him also made me think he wished he had siblings to boss around and discipline. He was caring and sweet, although he didn't want to seem that way at times. 

"I'm full," I complained when he was about to feed me more salad. "Ate pancakes."

"I doubt they were big enough, but, okay..." Miles finished his food and squinted at me. "Let's have lunch somewhere."

"You said..." I watched him comb his long hair with his paint-stained fingers. "I thought you're gonna finish the paintings?"

"I'm gonna. Just need two hours or so." He scoffed. "Are you saying no again?" Miles pulled a face and dropped his fork onto his plate.  The noise it made somewhat echoed in the room.

Now he looked genuinely annoyed. Maybe he just worried I might be having trouble eating again. We actually hadn't shared a proper meal in a while.  Fashion Weeks often made me forget about healthy eating habits, and my steadfast plans to save up for tuition also took up my time and attention.  "Yeah. Fine. It's a date." I grinned sheepishly.

"Good."

"Paul texted yesterday, by the way, asked if I heard from Nicco."

"Have you?" Miles ate his sandwich and glanced at me.

"No. You?"

"No. Niccolo's parents reported him missing."

"What?" I paused, surprised by the news, my throat suddenly feeling dry.  I was never friends with Niccolo, his ex-boyfriend, but I didn't wish the guy ill thoughts.  Why did he go missing? "Since when?"

"August."

"Really?" I muttered while Miles chewed bread. "You think he's been...kidnapped? Or something?"

"Blame his hobbies."

Oh.  Right.  I just recalled what his ex enjoyed doing in his spare time. 

A sort of genius with computers, Niccolo was a bit of a hacker.  Sometimes not the law-abiding kind. Or at least that's what I'd heard.  Was it the actual reason he suddenly went missing?

"Get dressed." Miles stood up and belched.  "I'll just take a shower."

My cue to clean up the dishes.  "No more booze tonight. Okay?"

Miles made a face at my nagging and idly walked out of the dining room. "Stop it. You're not my wife yet." 

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