Chapter Eleven
Rosalie
Theodore sits with me every night that week. My onslaught of questions doesn't cease, but I watch the flex of his jaw or twitch of his mouth to figure out which topics to avoid. It's hard to tell when his confidence slips into defensive arrogance, but I'm a quick study.
"So where do the souls go?" The sun is barely starting to rise, painting the clouds a pink that matches the tint on his cheeks. The infant light reveals strands of deep purples and blues in his hair. His skin is pale, but there's an undertone to suggest with the right amount of sun, it would be golden. When he smiles, which is often, his freckles spread like they're embracing his cheeks.
"I'm just a grunt in the army of death," he says, the tick of his jaw quickly masked by a lopsided grin. "What happens afterward is above my pay grade."
I hoard every detail, cataloguing the different shades of his eyes: pale-gray when he's nervous, cornflower blue when he's amused, navy when he's passionate—or pissed. "Where do you think they go?"
"If you're asking me about religion, I fear you'll be sorely disappointed in my lack of eloquence on the subject."
"You don't believe in an afterlife?" I chew on the inside of my cheek. "I mean, an after-afterlife."
He hums, a low sound in his throat. "Is hope congruent with belief?"
I shoot him a flat look. "You're doing it again." Answering my question with a question.
He chuckles, flashing his palms. "Do I believe in an afterlife other than the one I've been condemned to? No."
"That's very defeatist of you."
"I would be overjoyed if I was proven wrong." He tilts his head back and closes his eyes. "Which belief system has you in its thrall?"
"All of them," I admit, "which is as good as none of them."
"I don't know if that's true." He squints, glancing at me sidelong beneath dark lashes that graze the tops of his cheeks. "What would a deity have to do to earn your worship?"
"Is worship a thing to be earned?"
"You're doing it again," he mocks.
I clamp my lips together to keep from laughing. Laughing, when was the last time I laughed? "I'd build an altar for the god that buys me a peach tart from Benski's."
He sits up, bracing his elbows on his knees and peering at me like I'm trying to trick him. I might be. "An altar?"
"A peach tart." I sigh. "Too bad you're just a grunt."
"I'll put in a word with the higher-ups."
The cafe has just opened when we arrive. The barista blinks at us from behind the counter, neck stretching with a stifled yawn and a smile. I nearly echo it, though my fatigue is on the opposite side of sleep. Theodore must notice the slight drag in my steps because he nods to a table in the corner and says, "I'll order."
Most of the chairs are still perched on tables, though the morning crowd has begun to fill in, forming a line behind Theodore. He has one hand in his pocket, the other gesturing to the case of pastries. The man behind the register is awake now, enraptured by his easy smiles. I can't hear what Theodore's saying, but the barista leans his elbows on the counter with apt attention. Theodore runs a hand through his dark curls. I wonder if he practices in the mirror to make sure that his hair springs into his eyes, just to tempt the object of his attention into brushing it back.
When he makes his way to the table, he's balancing two plates and two steaming mugs. "Very dexterous," I say as he takes his seat, pushing both plates in front of me—predictably, a peach tart, and less predictably, a chocolate croissant— but he keeps one of the mugs for himself. "Do you not eat?"
He takes a sip of his coffee—black, I see before he raises it to his lips—as if to prove a point. "I don't require nutrients from food the same way you do, but I can and do eat." He pauses, then adds, "For pleasure."
From his display with the barista, I doubt that eating is the only activity he partakes in for pleasure, but if he's trying to make me blush and stammer, he'll need to try a different approach. Mike has inundated me against innuendos. "The grim reaper likes chocolate," I murmur.
"The grim reaper likes most things," he corrects, leaning back in his chair. "This grim reaper, anyway."
I wrap my hands around the mug, shivering at the flash of warmth on my palms. "Where's Marcella?"
He stiffens, then shrugs. "Your guess is as good as mine. She's her own creature."
"You don't have a grim reaper group chat?" He chuckles, a quick exhale through his nose, but his eyes are focused on a spot to my left, lips downturned just slightly. "But you know her well?" I ask.
Despite the looseness of his shoulders and the casual gesture towards the tart, there's a sharpness in his eyes when they flick back to my face. "You eat," he says. "I'll talk."
I take a bite of the tart, one hand resting under my chin to catch the crumbs, watching him watch me swallow. "Marcella and I are—were," he says, frowning, "under the care of an older Mortae, Azmaveth."
"Were?"
"We had a falling out," he says coolly. "Terribly uninteresting stuff."
I doubt that. "How much older?"
He drums his fingers on the table, resting his chin in his other palm and nodding towards the pastry. I take another bite. "My mother is considered the first Mortae. Az is rumored to be the third."
I choke, coughing before I manage a swallow. "Your mom is a grim reaper?"
He stares over my shoulder, his eyes a deep shade of navy. "Not exactly."
"She's not exactly your mom?"
"She's not exactly a grim reaper." I stare at him until he continues, "She's… Death."
"Death?"
"Death." He goes back to drumming his fingers.
"What does that make you?"
He reaches for the croissant. "Extremely unlucky."
"Why—"
"Where does Henry think you are?" He takes a bite, lips drawn into a tight smile. I set the tart on the plate and narrow my eyes.
"He's not my keeper."
"Is that why you lie to your friends? To avoid being kept?"
Andrew would call it evasive invasiveness. "Irritation is as fine a distraction as any," he'd say. "Being annoying is an underappreciated skill."
I'd offer, "Malicious misdirection?"
He'd shake his head. "As malicious as a raincoat," meaning a shield. Meaning if he didn't want to talk, there was no point in trying.
I say, "I don't lie to my friends," and fail to convince either of us.
He raises his brows and speaks through a mouth full of croissant, "We must not be friends then, because you're lying to me."
I cross my arms. "I like Marcella more."
He claps his hand over his heart. "A fatal wound."
"For anyone else, maybe."
His answering grin cracks the remaining tension between us. Even Andrew's stubborn apathy would waver beneath the weight of it, the promise of a promise. I wonder briefly what a person would have to do to earn his worship but quickly dismiss the thought. If I'm treading in dangerous waters, that smile threatens to pull me under.
I'm pleasantly exhausted when I get home, crawling into bed and pulling the covers over my already too-warm body. Henry stirs but doesn't wake, sleepily stretching his arm over my waist and tugging me towards him. I settle into the familiarity of his body, my back against his chest, and sigh into sleep. No nightmares come for me.
I wake up to an empty bed and the smell of Henry preparing dinner. He grins over a shoulder when I meander into the kitchen, pajama-clad and body heavy with sleep. I yawn into my fist. He's still in his work clothes, shirt untucked and collar flipped up at the back. His bare feet tap a rhythm opposite of the egg timer clicking beside him.
"Good morning," he says, trying too hard to be cheerful. I've barely seen him all week, and already his presence makes me grit my teeth. "You got home late."
I plop onto the dining chair and rest my elbows on the table. It wobbles a little. "I stopped for breakfast."
"Oh." He turns his attention back to stirring the sizzling vegetables. "Emily came by while you were sleeping. She said you two were supposed to go shopping this afternoon."
"Mmm."
"She asked you to call her."
"I will."
Andrew would frown at my tone. He'd offer me coffee despite the time of day. He'd drink it with me. I wonder what Theodore would do.
As soon as we settle at the dining table, Henry launches into a story about some project that his boss is tightening the deadline on and how everyone huffs and moans about it but nobody will refuse because he’s a real jerk, Rosalie, just the worst, but I’m up for a promotion soon and God help me, I’m going to get it over that dunce Richie. I interject with polite mhm’s and shake my head when he gets exceptionally worked up. If I show anything other than vague interest, if I say anything that’s actually on my mind, he’d look at me like I asked him to dance naked down the street— or he'll question and undermine and belittle me until I wished that I’d never said anything at all.
I made that mistake for years. Now, I just keep my mouth shut. Let him talk. Let him believe that I love to hear him talk, that I have nothing worthwhile to add even if it makes me want to slam my forehead against the table. I keep one eye on the clock, urging its hands to move faster.