Discovering Licapta

2 (pt. ii)

"WHY DID YOU want to come when I told you I was going to Licapta?"

I look up from the dish of spaghettini in front of me, letting some strands of loosely twirled pasta fall off my fork. Under the mood lighting of the bar we're seated at, I find Émile's brown eyes are glistening, little orbs of light reflected on dark brown irises.

I shrug. "It just sounds... cool."

"Cool?" Émile repeats, eyebrows raised.

I nod, then plant my fork in another section of pasta and begin twirling it around.

The restaurant we're at is nice but quiet. Even though there's a hotel above us, where we booked two rooms for the night, we're the only people seated at the bar. One other group is in the lounge area, but other than that the place is dead.

The quiet hum of contemporary pop plays from speakers I can't see, and I look up from my plate to see Émile raise his glass of wine to his lips, the deep red liquid sloshing around inside the glass.

I haven't been to a restaurant this fancy in as long as I can remember.

Ha.

Émile catches me staring as he lowers his glass, and I'm surprised when he sends me a warm smile.

"Why are you going to Licapta?" I try.

Émile's eyes narrow slightly, but never part from my own. His lips part slightly, then close again before he finally speaks. "I want to accept my offer to their university."

I furrow my eyebrows. Everyone who graduates from secondary school takes an exit exam. If you pass, you're offered admittance into Licapta-U. Failing doesn't affect your chances of attending the smaller schools outside Licapta since they have their own criteria.

But if Émile passed, why did he wait so long to attend?

"Don't you have to accept the offer right away?" I ask.

Émile shrugs. "It's worth a try."

"Why now? If I may ask."

"My mother's sick," he states. I open my mouth to offer my condolences, but Émile dismisses that thought with a wave of his hand, then adds, "If I get a good education, maybe I can help her in some way."

I nod, then pierce a sauce-covered prawn with my fork.

"I'd appreciate if you didn't mention that to anyone else," he adds, his voice low. "She doesn't like me sharing it."

"Of course," I say, bringing my gaze level with his.

"Thank you."

I return my attention to my pasta, my thoughts flickering back to the news that Émile actually got accepted into Licapta-U and denied the offer. Maybe it had something to do with his sick mother, but then what caused him to change his mind?

Émile doesn't need to ask whether or not I passed since most people who do choose to attend, and it's generally considered rude to ask. Even out here, Licapta-U is considered prestigious, and the guarantee of a job in Licapta after graduation is what seals the deal for most. Or so I've been told.

I don't know whether I passed the entrance exam or not, but maybe there's a record of it at the university. Maybe that's my way into Licapta.

"I don't know if I passed my exam," I admit.

Émile makes no attempt to speak, his dark gaze fixed on me.

"I don't remember. I, um, don't remember the first twenty years of my life," I say, a bitter laugh following my words. The reminder makes me reach for the glass of sparkling wine in front of me, the cool liquid bringing me relief as it slides down my throat, making my skin tingle.

"How?" Émile asks.

I place the glass down and begin drawing circles on the base with my finger. "An accident," I say. "Although I don't remember that either. The doctors told me about it...."

I retell my story to Émile, and even though we met less than twenty-four hours ago, it feels like I'm speaking to a friend. Émile has this way of listening, his eyes fixed on me in such a way that I can tell he both cares and seems genuinely interested in what I'm saying. Yet he's able to understand without asking a ton of questions. No, he just sits in the stool kitty-corner to me, listening intently to what I have to say.

"Isn't there therapy for that?" Émile asks.

"It's covered for the first six weeks. Then it's fricken expensive."

Émile nods, accepting this.

"Even though I couldn't afford it, I was lucky. I found a job shortly after relocating. I worked at a bookstore for the past year," I say. "My boss, Mr. Wooldridge , was this sweet elderly man who always brought some goodies his wife would make for me to try. Said I needed nutrition if I was to do anything well. But hardly anybody ever came in, and I think he ran the business more out of nostalgia than to make a profit. He and his wife weren't poor. Anyways, the shop closed down last week."

Apparently I'd been a workaholic my entire life. With a notably low amount of savings, but that was another issue. Based on what the investigators could find, I hadn't had any close friends before the accident, and it wasn't easy to meet people when you weren't at school. The shop was how I met most people I conversed with, and there weren't many people who came in, the regulars consisting mostly of the shop keeper's friends.

I take another sip of wine, finishing off what's left in the glass.

"That was all I had going for me," I say. "Working at the bookstore was pretty much my life. So now I'm just looking for something to do." I shrug. "Maybe somewhere new to go."

"You're on an adventure," Émile offers.

I ponder his idea for a moment, testing the sound of it. It sounds pretty cool. And maybe I'll get lucky and uncover my test record at Licapta-U. Then I'll have more information the cops insisted they didn't know.

"Yeah. An adventure," I agree.

Émile raises his glass, and I stare at him, confused.

"A toast," he says.

"Right," I say, scrambling to raise my water glass as Émile laughs quietly.

"To your adventure," he says.

"To my adventure," I agree, clinking my glass lightly against his.