TMIAP Chapter 11

Monica glared at him again, eyes wide. Was that supposed to be a question? Garcia seemed to understand the meaning in her gaze, because he let out a hollow laugh and extended his hand.

"Hey, you okay?"

But Monica couldn't accept it. Her heart wanted to leap up immediately and seize the collar of this man looking down at her with that suspicious expression.

"Just get up first."

She truly didn't want to accept help from this man, but unfortunately, Monica's entire body had gone limp. With her mouth hanging open, she extended both hands.

But the moment she raised her head and opened her mouth—

"Uh."

Garcia reached for Monica's hands, then shook his head once and grabbed her wrists instead. He couldn't very well grasp her blood-covered palms.

Fat tears burst forth before any shout could.

"Uh..."

Garcia's mouth fell open in surprise despite himself.

"Hic."

Monica paid him no mind. In all her life, this was a first. The expensive ribbon she'd steeled herself to buy was filthy, and the man she'd bumped into on the street was a hoodlum who ran around with gangs at his heels.

Monica, who'd been trying to stand up in her confusion, let out a groan. Both their gazes turned toward Monica's legs, and Monica's eyes went wide once more.

She'd only meant to acknowledge the man, and now she'd gotten caught up with him, lost her ribbon, and been struck to boot. So naturally she wasn't in a good mood. Was she okay? Not in the slightest!

Because she could see that her dress—which hadn't shown a single pulled thread even after five years of wear—was torn to shreds. It was truly enough to make her tears dry up.

Though her desire to lash back was burning like a chimney, the tears kept pouring out. Monica covered her mouth with her hand.

Monica stopped crying and let out a shriek.

"My dress!"

"Sniff..."

"...What?"

Her scalp still stung from where the thugs had grabbed her hair. And that wasn't all—her back, which had hit the wall, still ached sharply.

Garcia, who'd been staring wide-eyed beside Monica, turned to look at her as if dumbfounded. Monica quickly tried to shake off Garcia's hand and grab her dress, but she swayed from his unexpectedly strong grip.

Only then did Monica realize it. That she was far more frightened than she'd thought.

"Hey! Just hold still..."

"Why, why are you crying?"

Garcia, who'd been holding Monica firmly, nearly lost his balance as she suddenly tried to pull away. So he reflexively caught her waist as she started to fall.

The astonishing fact was that the man before her was stammering in confusion at Monica's tears. When he'd been hurling stones at the thugs, he'd looked like nothing in the world could frighten him.

In the next moment, by sheer coincidence, Monica's disheveled hair came completely loose. It was because the thugs had grabbed and shaken it mercilessly.

Glossy black hair tumbled down in the sunlight like a cascade, filling Garcia's field of vision.

Even in the midst of this, Monica glared at him the moment she heard his words. Her mouth drooped at the corners like a catfish's. She had plenty to say, but the tears made it hard to move her mouth, which felt unfair.

"Uh..."

Garcia groaned despite himself.

Instead, Monica showed him her palm. Garcia's brow furrowed when he saw her palm, scraped raw and bleeding from the fall.

Monica paid him no mind, staring at her knees in dismay. And for good reason—Monica only had four proper dresses.

The taffeta dress she'd worn to interview at the Mollette estate, this gray dress, and her nightgown. Beyond that, she only had one dull, stuffy green dress.

The green dress was made of far thicker fabric than even the taffeta—she couldn't possibly wear it in this summer heat!

"This..."

Monica trembled as she looked at her torn skirt. It was a bit shabby, admittedly, but at least this dress had been perfectly serviceable for everyday wear.

After all, she wasn't even a proper governess, and the child she'd be caring for was a boy in his prime years. There was no need to stand on ceremony—she'd thought she could simply wear this dress while looking after the child.

Monica's tears stopped. No matter how painful and humiliating an ordeal one might suffer, tears dried up when faced with one's immediate livelihood being jeopardized.

A livid fury filled Monica's trembling eyes.

"...Pay me back."

"...Huh?"

"Pay me back!"

Until that moment, Garcia had been wearing a stupid expression, about to say something like "Hey, what kind of woman are you..." But he closed his mouth. He'd belatedly sensed something dangerous from Monica.

But it was already too late. Monica seized Garcia's collar just like that. Where she found such strength, the man whose throat was caught in those slender wrists made a choking sound.

"My dress! My silk ribbon! My straw hat! And everything else, pay me back! You..."

Monica's green eyes rapidly scanned Garcia from head to toe even in the midst of this. And immediately after, Monica shouted:

"You wastrel!"

Still morning, before the sun became truly scorching, sunlight beat down on the filthy alley. Monica's ringing voice echoed out. Wastrel... wastrel... wastrel...

The golden-haired man with his brow completely furrowed rummaged through his clothes and spat out a curse.

Monica, glancing his way, immediately understood why he was irritated. What the man pulled from his pocket was a rolled leaf cigar—completely snapped in half.

"Damn it!"

And that cigar had come from the pocket of the shirt Monica had clutched at in her daze exactly ten minutes ago.

Which meant it was as good as broken by Monica.

Monica glared at him with puffed cheeks, her eyes saying go ahead and curse if you want to curse.

But the man—Garcia—wordlessly put the half-broken cigar in his mouth and lit it with a flint.

His expression was sour, to be sure. While he inhaled the smoke beside her, Monica combed her fingers through her hair, barely managing to tidy it.

Garcia breathed out smoke and opened his mouth.

"So. Besides that, what were the other candidates?"

"Candidates?"

Monica's brow furrowed in confusion. Garcia took another drag on his cigar and exhaled the smoke away from her as he continued.

"Besides wastrel, what else was there?"

"Ah."

Monica's mouth opened slightly. So that's what he was asking.

The two of them had spent quite a while in that filthy alley, throttling and grappling with each other. Then, when one of the unconscious thugs started to come around with a groan, the two of them reached an immediate, tacit agreement without a word.

Namely, to kick those damned bastards in the head once more and leave the scene as quickly as possible.

So Monica and Garcia were now barely settled, sitting in one corner of Argent Plaza.

Under the fresh morning sun, with newsboys and old men pulling carts, pedestrians going about their business, and smooth cobblestones before them. Occasionally, men stopping in the street to smoke cheap cigarettes glanced their way.

A strikingly handsome man in disheveled clothes smoking an expensive—if broken—cigar, and a maiden with swollen eyes from obvious crying, hair a complete mess, and torn clothes. They were certainly a combination that attracted attention in multiple ways.

But that didn't mean they had to endure all those curious stares. Monica, who'd been twisting her disheveled hair around her fingers to tidy it, looked back at them with an expression that said what.

The men averted their eyes and sidled away when they met the gaze of this disheveled woman.

It was amusing. Usually when Monica made eye contact with strange men, she was the one who looked away first.

Of course, that was only proper for a well-bred young lady, and Monica had been no exception.

But strangely, Monica felt like swaggering just like this. Like she'd become one of those boys she used to see at the orphanage... who'd use being an orphan as an excuse to hang around with ruffians before finally leaving the orphanage for good.

Monica had never much cared for that boy, but sometimes she'd envied how anyone who made eye contact with him would either look away first or quietly leave.

'What was that boy's name...'

Monica tried to recall the hazy memory as she opened her mouth.

"Hoodlum."

"How delightful."

"Thug. Punk."

"Goodness."

"Besides those, there's also scoundrel, and in a different category, there's idiot."

Monica counted off all five fingers one by one as she glared at Garcia. Garcia likewise glared back at Monica dismissively as he exhaled his third puff of smoke.

"And you settled on wastrel."

"You should be grateful. Coming from someone who calls people 'ponytail girl.' That's quite generous, all things considered."

Garcia snorted at her barbed tone.

"I called you ponytail girl because you had a ponytail. What's there to complain about?"

"Fine, then I called you a wastrel because you look like one, so let's say we're both satisfied with no complaints."

"Then since you're not doing a ponytail anymore, can I call you seaweed hair instead? No complaints, right?"

"What?"

Monica flared up again at his sarcastic tone. Garcia couldn't care less. He held up his palm toward the angry Monica in a stopping gesture, then dropped the spent cigar ash on the ground and ground it out with his foot.

How utterly ungentlemanly that casual attitude was! Monica clenched her fist.

But the man simply extended that outstretched palm and enclosed Monica's fist. His hands were so large that Monica's fist was completely swallowed by his palm in an instant.

"Let's stop being angry, hmm?"

Monica, who'd been about to snap whose hand are you holding, found herself speechless.

Because the man's pale blue eyes held the faintest trace of a smile.

"Anyway, I did save you."

"...Wastrel..."

Monica finally managed to force out just that one word after a long moment.