AIDEN

Being self-employed is not all that some think it is. Even with a resume like mine, apparently not many people are looking for a private English tutor. It's strange, since everywhere I go there are people who misspell words, use grammar incorrectly and just plain murder the language.

Originally, I had thought I would become a math tutor. But that was just because of how good I was at math and because everyone thought I would end up using those skills to ensure my own financial welfare. In the end, I decided on going with my gut. I knew I wasn't passionate about math, but I loved languages. Therefore, I furthered my English studies. I then went on to learn French, Spanish and Italian because of this passion.
Hopefully, in a few years, I'll be able to teach French as well as English. That is, if the demand for language tutors in Cambridge becomes higher, and soon.

To this day I'm still not entirely sure why I decided to move to Cambridge. It was perhaps mostly to get away from Stowe, the town that was full of reminders of my past. I thought I'd get away from them by moving, but it seems they followed me anyway.

I don't tell anyone, but I write poetry. Almost everyday, there's a new poem in my head begging to be let out. It started right after Emma's death, and hasn't relented since. Today, though, the stress of having gone without at least one part-time job for two weeks is getting to me and preventing me from being able to string words together in a way that sounds nice.

The cool evening air is at least assisting in making me feel a bit better, as I lie on the hammock on my tiny balcony outside my apartment.

Lord, help me to hand over all my worries to You. I know You hold tomorrow. And Lord, I also know that if you want me to have a job, you'll send one my way. If it's Your will, please do just that.

My parents have assured me that they are happy to help if needed, but I don't like the idea of running to them for this kind of problem. The better thing to do, in my mind, is pray and wait it out. To rely on the Lord who provides.
I put my hands behind my head and put down the book I was trying to read to stare at the starry sky. The stars, like pockets of light, glimmers of hope in a dark world, stare back at me.

"You're a daydreamer, boy," a voice calls out from the balcony next to mine.

Mrs. Ohally is my grey-haired, half senile neighbour. She's sweet, but whenever she has a thought, she doesn't keep it to herself.

"It's night time," I reply.

"Ah, but daydreamers daydream whether it be night or day."

I smile and sit up so that I can see her face. She's watering her plants. "Would you consider yourself to be a daydreamer too?" I ask.

Her old, kind face wrinkles even more when she's thinking. After a few beats of silence, she says, "No, can't say that I am, sonny. I like to take things as they come, as they are. A realist, I am."

I chuckle. "And what's your opinion on daydreamers, people like myself?"

She thinks again, pausing her watering. Then she speaks. "Crazy. Deluded, even. But God knows we need them in this world."

I smile again.

"But can I tell you something quite embarrassing, young man?"

I shrug. "Sure."

"I've forgotten your name again."

I laugh. Mrs. Ohally has some trouble remembering names, and although I've been living here for nearly a year, she still hasn't quite got the hang of mine. "Aiden," I tell her.

"Aiden. That's a fine-"

Her sentence is cut off by the ringtone of my phone. Giving her an apologetic smile, I answer it. "Hello?"

"Hello, Mr. Harper?" a gruff voice replies.

"That's me."

"I'm sorry to be calling after business hours, but this is something I had to settle before tomorrow," the man says.

"I don't mind. For what purpose are you calling?"

"My name is Charles Barkley," he informs me. The name rings a bell, I'm sure I've seen or heard it somewhere before. "I'll get right to it and not waste any of your time. My daughter has just started at college, and she's a smart girl. I know she'll graduate with flying colours. But she's stubborn too, you see. She doesn't think she wants to be a lawyer. I know what's best for her, though, so I have found various tutors for her different subjects and asked them to ensure that she does what I know she can do: excel in her studies."

I take all this in. Although for a moment I wonder if it's good for a father to insist his daughter study something she isn't passionate about, I know I need a job. "I'm listening, Mr. Barkley."

"I know you're young, Mr. Harper, but I'm sure you have potential. I'll be honest with you, I'm contacting you because I failed to find another English tutor in the area, not because what I've learned about you from your website or other people gives me confidence. But if you can pull this off, I can promise you, you will be well rewarded. I have deep pockets for those who manage to impress me."

Charles Barkley sounds both cold and intimidating, but what he is offering me is exactly what I've been looking for.

"Sir, I will do what I do to the best of my abilities. How long would I be tutoring your daughter?" I ask.

"Until she graduates. I'm aware that my daughter can be difficult, which is why I'll warn you that if you take this on, you will last until then or else you will not profit so handsomely. I need you to become someone who has some influence on her, heaven knows I don't have any other than that that is forced, therefore, I want you to become a friend to her. Someone she trusts, someone who will insist she see this through as well. Someone she will listen to."

This man knows what he wants. I'm not sure how wise it is to mix business and relationship, but what Barkley is promising me now could be my breakthrough. "Mr. Barkley, I'm willing. I have a few more questions, though. Have the other tutors also been instructed to become more than just tutors to your daughter as well?"

"No, Harper, only you. The others are rather a bit...older. I thought she'd respond better to someone nearer her age. You are twenty-three, are you not?" he inquires.

"Yes."

"Young," he grunts.

I chuckle a little. "I suppose so. I haven't yet asked your daughter's name, or which college she is studying at."

"Her name is Anabelle," he tells me. "She is studying at Harvard University."

"Harvard? You must be proud."

He clears his throat. "Might have preferred Yale, but I suppose one could say I am."

I wonder about this, but decide not to say anything further on the matter. Harvard is a good university and I would think a father would appreciate this fact, yet it isn't any of my business. "When will I be starting, sir?"

"On the morrow, actually. I'm assuming you will be able to make time?"

"Yes, I will. Where will we be meeting?"

"I think mutual ground would be best. The café at the Fitzwilliam Museum is quiet around this time of year. It will do. I did mention she was stubborn, but don't worry, I'll make sure she's there. You'll meet her at three o'clock in the afternoon," he instructs.

Barkley sounds like he's really thought this through. "That will work just fine for me. I'll be there."

"Perfect. Oh, and Harper?"

"Yes, sir?"

"One more thing. Once she has graduated, I would like you to break all ties with her. She will no longer need you as a friend after that, or as anything more. I do not want you two getting involved...romantically," he clears his throat, as if a bit embarrassed over saying such a sentimental word. It's clear this man means business, and is not so familiar with aesthetics and such ideas. "Besides," he continues. "I already have someone I know will be right for her. A good childhood friend. I would not want you coming between the two, is that understood?"

I think this over for a moment. This can be done, I can find a balance. I can be a friend to her, in way, but at the same time make sure we both know that there are boundaries and that the relationship is closer to an acquaintance than an actual friendship. And I won't have to worry about developing feelings for her. After Emma, there's no one in this world I could fall for again. I know I'm not worthy of loving again anyway.

"Mr. Barkley, you have yourself a deal," I say, eventually.

"Excellent. Here's to you not letting me down."

The phone line goes dead. I already have a good impression of what kind of man Charles Barkley seems to be. Professional, astute and abrupt. But what matters is that I have a job.

"I have a job!" I suddenly yell, jumping off the hammock.

Thank You, Lord. You can be depended on, always. Thank you for helping me to keep going and stay positive. You've been the One looking after me since Em's death.

I hear tittering from the neighboring balcony and turn to look at Mrs. Ohally, who is quietly laughing. "Good for you, sonny, good for you." She beams at me. "Now, what did you say your name was again?"

~ ~ ~

I pause a few steps from the entrance of the Fitzwilliam Museum. It's a monumental building, the front of it held up by large, pale coloured pillars, and on top of those it boasts of beautifully carved stone figures. Even if I have always found stone people like the ones I'm looking at now slightly unnerving, I would have to admit that these ones look quite elegant. The museum demands that one stares at it, for a little while at least. It's an architecture of significance, it speaks of what must have once been a great mind to have thought up the entire structural integrity of this place.

I take a breath. Here I've come, to the meet the girl named Anabelle Barkley, the reason I now have an employer. What I'm hoping for is an easy start, that we both take a liking to each other and are able to work well together. Jesus, please let it be.

I step inside.

If I thought the outside of the Fitzwilliam was magnificent, the inside is something to behold. How have I not visited it in the years I've lived in Cambridge? The intricately bordered skylight lights up everything else that surrounds me as I walk further into the heart of the museum. Grand, intimidating staircases, a ceiling covered in labyrinthine designs, more graceful pillars. Enchanting framework surrounds me on all sides.

"Not hard to look at, huh?"

My head swivels to the left, and my eyes land on a petite girl leaning against the wall. Her stance is carefree and almost lazy, but her pretty, dark eyes seem to be measuring me, as if weighing me on some sort of scale in her mind.

"Not at all," I agree, hoping she thinks I was talking about the museum when I said that. I silently chastise myself for what I'm really musing over. Those eyes.

"Pity it only contains boring, irrelevant objects and information. Like many people these days. Good looking on the outside but dull on the inside." The girl says. She cocks her head at me, almost in a challenging manner.

I frown. "History is actually very relevant to the present time," I argue, thinking of my own history. "And not everyone is as artificial as you may think." Here I think of Emma.

She grins at me. "Optimist, are you? Well, that will get you nowhere, trust me."

I lift an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure I'm your senior, but you sound quite confident that I should be the one taking advice from you and not the other way around. You've yet a lot to experience, trust me."

She smirks. "As if a few years mean anything! Some kids have seen plenty more and much worse things at that than America's average adult."

Plucky little thing, isn't she. I narrow my eyes at her. "You've no idea the things I've seen, kid, so don't be so sure you've got one up on me. One can see some pretty nasty sights and still manage to look on the bright side of things, if their will is strong enough."

Rolling her eyes, she pushes herself off the wall. "Kid. Please. You may be a golden oldie, mister, but I'm not that young. Don't call me kid, and don't talk to me about strong will."

I lift my chin, looking down on her. She's right, I'm not that much older than her. Maybe three or four years. But her immaturity could've fooled me. "Do you make picking arguments a habit?"

"I don't know," she snaps back. "Is being prejudice and condescending a pastime of yours?"

I nearly laugh. "I'm the prejudice one?"

Her eyes light with fire. "I know they say actions speak louder than words, but I would beg to differ that words have got a pretty darn loud voice themselves and depending on how they're used can say a lot about a person. So, to answer your question, yes. You, sir, are what I would deem prejudice."

Now I'm smiling. Mostly because I can see it ticks her off a little. "Ah. What you would deem prejudice. And you are?"

She folds her arms. "Ana. Ana Barkley."

Any retort I was planning dies on my lips then and there.

Oh no.

---

Author's note: The photo is of Aiden, to put a face to the name...

What do you think of the first interaction between Aiden and Ana? It seems Aiden just realized his mistake...Ana's father asked him to be a friend to her, and look how that started out, haha.

Any advice and all opinions are appreciated. Do tell me if you enjoyed this chapter or not. :) If you did, go ahead and click that little star icon.