Chapter Sixteen
Rosalie
Once Emily and James are entranced in a video game and Theodore is helping Mike wash dishes, I carry my newly full glass of wine and duck out of the window to stand on the fire escape. The city is too bright for stars. I tilt my head back and stare at the sky anyway. The air is sticky with the loosening grip of summer, but I won't be surprised if I wake up shivering in the morning. The cold comes on quick.
"Autumn's a question mark," Andrew used to gripe. "The trees don't even get the chance to shed before we've turned the heat on."
"Global warming," I'd offer, trying to lighten his mood.
He'd scowl. "It's not warming me."
I didn't mind the cold. It gave me an excuse to don layer after layer, disappearing beneath them, wrapping myself in cloth that no eyes could penetrate. Nobody could see the girl who didn't laugh at the right time or say the right things. I was fabric. I was ordinary. I was a simple pattern on a knit sweater. Summer was like being stripped of my armor, like I had a sunburn even after sitting in the shade. The only respite was Andrew racing me to the public pool, Andrew licking melted ice cream off of his fingers, Andrew sipping an iced tea beneath the oak tree in my front yard. We were barefoot back then. We were children. We were gods.
James is right. I'll never be rid of him. I got to grow up. He's still there—still here, grinning over my shoulder, laughing with a stained tongue.
"You'd like him," I murmur to the wind. Andrew and Theo would've been fast friends. They would've loathed each other. "He's as reckless as you are." But that's not true, because Andrew would've leapt across the table to shut James up. If he lived as long as Theo has, maybe he would've found more self-restraint. If he lived as long as I have, maybe we could've found it together.
I tilt my glass to pour a drop off the ledge and then drain the rest.
Theodore pokes his head out, his fine shirt damp with the evidence of his labor. "Your presence is requested."
A grin sneaks onto my lips. "By you?"
"Among others." He squeezes through the window to join me fully. It's a cramped space, not meant for more than two or three bodies. He grips the railing and peers down at the street and the cars below. Too late for pedestrians, though I spot a few huddled bodies scurrying to get home before midnight. He frowns, squinting.
"Looking for someone?" I ask, peeking over his shoulder.
He draws back and turns before I can move away. The hand that holds my glass is pressed against his chest, jostled by his breath. Freckles spread across his nose as he smiles, looking down at me with a softness that makes me question whether his earlier outburst was my imagination.
"Your eyes have green in them," he says. "Did you know?"
I didn't. "Yes."
The vibration of his laugh slides up my arm like a caress. "And here I thought I could provide novel information."
It could be the wine or his closeness or the inevitability of the argument once Henry returns that prompts my reply: "You'll need a more in-depth study."
His eyes flick to my lips, then to the open window and my friends on the other side of it. "I do believe I requested a less crowded venue."
"You know what they say about beggars."
He hums, a low sound in his throat. "Are you testing my restraint or my patience?"
It's a bad idea, continuing down the path of this conversation. I can't pretend I don't know where it'll end. "You are a prince, aren't you?"
He sets his jaw. "Technically." But his eyes are still a playful blue, so I continue.
"How often do you not get what you want?"
"Ah." He takes a step back, the heat between us banking, and gestures towards the open window. "Tutor me in scarcity."
Another hour passes before Henry returns. Mike and James are both snoring on the couch, leaning against each other like an architectural study of the stability of triangles. The fact that they can both sleep so soundly through Emily's dissertation on the soapy drama that has caught her attention most recently is a testament to how many nights they've spent in the same position. Theo, at least, is an attentive audience.
"And she's the aunt?" he asks.
"Yes, but she's actually her biological mother, but we don't find that out until season four." Emily's fingers twitch in her lap like she'd break out the white board if she was sober enough. "Which means that the cousin who set her house on fire—"
"Was actually her sister. Fascinating."
"It's actually a poignant discussion of the nuclear family and how maintaining such a strict structure can be isolating for—"
The front door swings open, scraping against the carpet. All three of us straighten as Henry glides in, heading into the kitchen without a word. It's not like him to be so blatantly rude, but I can't find it in myself to fault him for it. I don't need to read his mind to know what he's thinking. He doesn't need to read mine to know that he's right.
Emily pats Mike and James until they stir. "Party's over," she murmurs. "Time to go." They grumble but stand, each slinging an arm over Emily's shoulders. "Call me tomorrow?"
Theodore follows them to the door, pausing to glance at me over his shoulder. "I had a nice evening."
I swallow a groan. "Don't."
He holds up his hands in apology and leaves, closing the door behind him.
The sink turns on, a cup being filled from the tap. I pull my knees into my chest and consider saying nothing, but the time for pretending has passed. Every word I've left unsaid, every time I've nodded when I wanted to scream, every time I've walked away when I should've planted my feet bubbles to the surface. He can be angry with me if he wants. I've been angry for a long time.
Though his palms dig into the edge of the counter, Henry's voice is calm. "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I'm imagining things."
He’s not wrong, not completely, and that should make me feel worse than it does. Of course I care about Henry, but with Theo it’s… different. Like untying my boots after a long day, like I’ve been swimming underwater and finally, finally I’m allowed to come up for air.
Andrew was like that, too. Like coming home.
Henry shakes his head. "Tonight was the happiest I've seen you in ages. I kept wondering what changed, but I should've been asking who ."
But this is my life. I have to try to salvage it. "It's not like that."
He slams his palms against the counter, making me jump. When he turns, tears threaten the crease of his eyes. His cheeks are red and swollen, lips chapped and brows knitted. The skin of his throat is splotchy, hives that I've only seen once before— at Andrew's funeral. "Tell me what it's like, then!" He beats a fist against his chest. "I've loved you since we were children. Almost my entire life, I've loved you. Is that not enough?"
"Henry—"
"I've always been your second choice." He chokes out a laugh. "It was never supposed to be us, was it? If Andrew were here, it would be you and him. Deny it."
I lower my legs, bristling. It's a gut punch, and he knows it. If he means to twist honesty into cruelty, I'll match him blow for blow. I don't know the word for the thing that's been festering within me. It's thicker than grief, sharper than sorrow.
"Don't ask stupid questions. You know I'd pick him because I did." And I would again, and again, and again. Even knowing that I can't keep him, I'd make the same choice. If I could go back, I'd still let him sit beside me on that bus. I'd suffer his loss if it meant I could hold his hand. If knowing him meant grieving him, I'd grieve him a million times over.
Henry's face screws tight like he's trying to keep his cheeks dry. "I can accept that. I'm okay with being second to someone who is dead. But I will not —" His voice breaks. "I will not be second to him." He wipes at his eyes with the heel of his palm. "I've tried, Rosalie. I've tried so hard to make you happy. Comfortable. But I'm tired of living with a ghost."
"So I'm just supposed to get over—"
"I'm not talking about Andrew." He lowers his arms like confessing has released him from an obligation, like he's exhaling for the first time in years. "You forget that he was my friend, too. And Mike's, and Emily's. Do you think we don't miss him? That we don't wish he stuck around?"
There's no space in my anger for guilt to squeeze through. Instead, I shove back, "It's in your best interest that he didn't stick around , isn't it?"
Henry has never lost his temper with me before. We've had fights, sure, but he's always the one to deescalate, to lower his voice and give rational but empathetic solutions. Now, though, his fists clench like he's a tap away from grabbing the glass of water and smashing it against the wall. "I didn't want him dead , Rosalie. You— You're selfish in your grief. You think you're the only one who's hurting, and I've been so patient, waiting for you to catch up with the rest of us, to realize that we can't keep digging up the same grave. I can't keep—" He exhales. "I can't do it anymore."
I should stand up. I should go to him. I should reassure him that he's enough, that I only want him and this little life that we've created, but I'm tired, too.
My silence is telling. Realization that I'm not going to fight, that I don't care enough to cling to the scraps of what we've become, smooths his features into ice. He speaks evenly, as if we're discussing dinner plans or a utility bill. "The apartment is yours. I'll pay until the lease is up and send someone for my things."
The slam of the door echoes in the empty room, reverberating in my bones. I let the silence push me to the floor. This is a loss I can handle, a bee sting when I've spent my life surrounded by wasps. The tile is too cold even through my clothes, but I curl up like I can hold the hungering thing in my chest if only I squeeze tight enough. Like I can soothe it, sing it to sleep. My heart, but not, because it morphed into something else when I wasn't paying attention.
I shiver, laying on the floor of the apartment someone else chose for me. I want the bite of cold on my skin. I want to sink into the tile until the frost cools my rage, my breath. Andrew would know what to say. He'd know that this isn't a fixable situation— that I'm not a thing to be fixed. He'd let me rest my head in his lap.
"Breathe," he'd say, running his fingers through my hair. "It'll pass."
"Stay with me." I don't know if I say it aloud, but it doesn't matter. Nobody's listening.
"I'm here. I've got you."
My head hits the floor with a satisfying thunk . A sob swims up my throat, but I swallow it down. Again and again. If I start screaming, I won’t be able to stop.
"Do you think we'll be friends after graduation?"
We're laying on the damp grass in the park a few blocks from my house. The sun is hidden behind the clouds, and a persistent breeze makes the air chilly enough to shiver but not enough to go home. It's not quite October, which I know only because he's beside me, resting on his elbows. His hair is just starting to grow out from summer haircut his parents forced him to get. Once it gets a bit longer, the ends will become untamable licks and waves. I like it better long because I like tugging on the curls at the nape of his neck when he pisses me off.
"Of course we will," he says. "Why wouldn't we?"
I chew on the inside of my cheek, trying to swallow the fear that nags at me. Call it a premonition or my waking self protesting his absence. This happened. It did. Dream or memory, it makes no real difference. "I just… Sometimes it feels like you're going to disappear. Like I'll wake up one day and you'll have run away without me."
He sits up and faces me fully. "I'm not going anywhere, not without you."
I don't call him a liar. I want to. "What if I move away, or you move away? What if in ten years, we don't even talk anymore?"
He takes my hand in both of his, pulling it close to his chest. "Where you go, I go," he promises. He promises— he promises like it's pouring rain and we've forgotten the umbrella again. Does he know, even now? Was it a lie back then?
"What if I move to a different state?"
His nose crinkles. "Well, I guess it depends which state." I raise my free hand to smack his arm, but he catches my wrist and leans down, close enough that our noses almost touch. "Anywhere, Rosie."
With his breath dancing on my lips, I almost believe him. "To Earendel?"
He told me about the star the night before, whispering on the phone like he couldn't get the words out fast enough. 28 billion light years away , he said, giddy. The farthest star we can see .
"We'd be nothing but dust by the time we got there, but yes. Anywhere." He presses a wet kiss to my nose, making me squeal and squirm.
We never labeled what we were to each other even though Emily teased us relentlessly. It wasn't a matter of confusion but the opposite— there was no reason to label something so obvious. I've known since the first time he said my name, like it was as natural as the rhythm of his breaths, like his lips were shaped to fit around the sound.
"Swear it," I demand.
He groans, running his thumb along the inside of my wrist before pulling both of us up. I wave towards him, urging him to hurry as he seeks the small pocket knife and hands it to me, leaving his palm face-up. He wiggles his brow as I pinch his thumb and press the point into the meat of it, squeezing until a single drop of blood appears. I repeat the process on my own thumb, wincing at the sting.
Without losing my gaze, he interlaces our hands and presses our thumbs together. It burns, but his promise soothes the small hurt. "I swear," he whispers. Slowly, reverently, he guides my thumb to lips.
When he pulls away, his mouth is stained with our mingled blood.
From the way the sun slants through the windows, it must be early afternoon by the time I convince myself to get out of bed. I don’t reach for my phone. I don’t want to know if Henry called or where he’d spent the night. Instead, I wrap myself in the duvet and drag my feet as I walk.
I make it halfway down the hallway and then freeze like a small animal on a busy highway. That solves the mystery of how I ended up in my bed, at least.
Theo lounges on my couch— Henry’s couch— with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. When he notices me, he straightens, every muscle in his body tenses. He’s changed from the fine clothes he wore last night into dark gray joggers and a white t-shirt, hair ruffled like he’s been running his hands through it. His eyes quiver that nervous pale-blue.
"If I knew you were sleeping over, I would've put out the good pillows." It's meant to be a joke, but the words come out flat. "Coffee?"
"Please," he croaks, then clears his throat. "Black."
I fetch two mugs, lingering in the kitchen to watch the coffee brew. It drips too quickly, groaning to a stop before I can catch my breath. It's surprising that I'm not surprised by his presence, that I expected him to come. An echo of a warning flits through my mind, something about feeding stray cats. I fill both mugs to the brim.
He's sitting up when I return to the living room and hand him the coffee. I wrap my hands around my own mug, savoring the way it singes my fingertips, and settle beside him. The blanket slides from my shoulder, cool air pebbling my bare skin. He watches me and pretends not to.
"Have you been here all night?" I ask, knowing the answer.
"Is that alright?"
"I don't know." I consider him, hair mussed and shoulders slumped, less sure of himself than I've ever seen him, the mask of arrogance abandoned for the nervous honesty bared to me. How many people have seen him like this? He looks lost— he looks young , and frightened. I prefer him like this, the truth of him. Not Death's son but a man, as human as I am and just as fallible. "Tell me something honest."
He takes a long sip of coffee. "Honest?"
"Something that means something."
"You want a secret?"
"I want—" I want to know him the way I feel like I already do. I want reassurance that whatever's going on between us is worth the mess it has caused. Of course it is. It has to be. "A secret, yeah."
He sets the mug on the side table. Thinks for a moment, long enough for me to worry that I've overstepped— but he's the one that slept on my couch without asking, so I have the right to be a little nosy.
"I was illiterate until recently— about eighty years ago. When I was a boy, we were too busy trying not to starve to bother with proper education, and after… " He leans forward and picks up the book lying face-down on the coffee table, abandoned there days ago, and skims the page I ended on. "Az taught me. He said I'd find some much needed perspective— You do have a taste for fine literature, don't you?" His chuckle makes my cheeks burn bright red. "On the kitchen table? How improper. People eat there."
I snatch the book from him and slam it closed, tucking it behind me. "I didn't take you for a prude, Theodore."
"Theodore! " He presses his palm against his chest. "You wound me."
"Would you rather I call you something else? Quite a few improper words come to mind."
"I'm only trying to figure out what you're interested in, petal."
“Can’t you just read my mind?” I blurt and immediately regret it when he raises his brows, a roguish glint in his eyes.
“Would you want me to?”
Sudden awareness of the chill on my bare skin and the fact that I'm only covered by scraps of cotton and a limp blanket makes my inhale catch. And I'm very, very aware of who pays for this apartment and how he'd react if he showed up. That would be exactly his style, waltzing in and pretending like last night didn't happen.
"A secret," Theodore repeats, not flinching at my abrupt change in mood. "I had a companion, before I moved in with Az. Two companions, though only one is—" He waves like he's swatting away a bad memory. "We traveled together, under my mother's instruction. I saw a fair bit of the country that way, and more of Texas than I ever wish to see again."
He didn't want to hike. I don't want to consider what must've happened to him on these trips to make him so averse to the idea. "Where are they now?"
"Oh, they're around." He leans back and tilts his head towards the ceiling. "I run into Elias on occasion. He only ever brings me bad news."
"And the other?"
"Not worthy of my time or your concern." He shoots me a grim smile. "When I do see her, it's not by choice."
The bitterness in his voice is familiar. Most recently, I heard it when we were kicked out of that house party, not by the one scorned but by James afterward, frowning at his bleeding knuckles. "You loved them."
He waves again, this time in dismissal. "It was more complicated than that."
I sip at my coffee, now cold. Before I can offer a secret of my own, Theodore stiffens and looks towards the door. It swings open.
"Do you want to explain why Henry is sleeping on my— Oh. Hello." Emily pauses in the doorway, narrowing her eyes at how close we're sitting and at our clothes, or in my case, lack thereof. "I guess that answers that."
Theodore looks to me in silent question. "He was just leaving."
He stands with lazy grace, the mask donned again. "Lovely to see you, Emily." To me, "We'll talk later."
Once his back is turned, Emily mouths, "Oh. My. God." As soon as the door closes behind him, she sprints over to me and throws herself on the couch, tapping the handle of his discarded mug. "It's not like that, huh?"
Again, I admit, "I don't know."
Emily fetches two wine glasses and an unopened bottle that she gifted me for my birthday two years ago. She settles on the couch next to me, pulling her legs underneath her. Her tote bag is tipped on its side at her feet. A pair of sweatpants has spilled out, exposing the hairbrush, chocolates, and DVDs crammed inside. Her emergency bag, one that I know too well. She's planning on sticking around for a while.
"It's not even noon," I argue as she fills my glass, then hers.
"Extenuating circumstances." She wags her eyebrows at me. Waiting.
I sigh and take a sip. It's sweeter than I prefer, but comforting warmth cascades down my neck and settles into my limbs, exacerbated by her presence. "How is he?"
"Horrible," she says, never one to mince words. "What the hell happened?"
There's no answer I can give her that would soothe the worry pursing her lips. Which afterlife do you believe in? Anubis and Ammit? Kerostasia? The Last Judgment? I swirl my wine if only to have something to do as I recount the previous night. Nearly spill, then drink, then drink more. The glass is almost empty by the time I say, "Do you remember the Thursday before Valentine's Day in the sixth grade?"
She looks at me like I've painted my face white and put on a red rubber nose. "I don't. Should I?"
"We didn't have to give cards to everyone in the class. It was the first year that we didn't set up at my dining table looking at the list of names and putting stickers on the ones for the people we liked best."
Emily blinks over the rim of her glass. "So?"
"I did it anyway. I sat there all night with my stupid cards and my pack of stickers. I asked if you wanted to come over and you said you were just going to buy gifts for our friends. Real gifts , you said. Do you remember?"
She shakes her head. "You're mad about that? It was sixth grade, Rose. We were, what, eleven?"
I cast my eyes to my lap, willing the lingering hurt out of my voice. "I don't think I ever got up from that dining table. I think I got left behind somewhere. And the only person who was willing to sit with me—" My voice breaks, and I blink hard to keep the tears inside my eyes. "I love Henry. I swear I do. He's just not…"
"He's not." She puts her hand on my knee. "I get it."
She doesn't understand, but I put my hand over hers and pretend that she does. "He thinks there's something going on between me and Theodore."
"I hate to be the one to tell you this, but so does literally every single person on the planet. I mean, I opened the door just this morning and it was a damn sauna in here." I open my mouth to protest, but she amends, "No judgment, the man is a real smoke show. The way he defended you—god!" She fans herself and collapses backwards onto the couch. "I thought we were going to have a brawl on our hands."
"You're horrible," I laugh. "Theo wouldn't have hurt him."
" Theo ," she mocks. "Andrew would've done the same. Gotten pissed like that, I mean. He had such a nasty temper, and James always knew how to rile him up."
By poking at you , she doesn't say. "Andrew would've thrown a plate at his head."
Something flashes in her eyes—curiosity? Bewilderment? She fumbles a bit, not wanting to break whatever spell allows me to speak his name. I spare her and change the subject. “Theo isn’t usually like that. It was a bad night for everyone, I think.”
“Right,” she says, drawing out the vowel. “Listen.” She sits up, taking my free hand in hers. “Henry is my friend, but you’re my best friend.” Capital B, capital F. “If you want one boyfriend, fine. Two? Sixteen? As long as you’re happy. But it’s my expert opinion that Theo is not a boyfriend person. Nice to look at, sure, but there’s something off about him. He acts like… like we’re circus clowns and he’s in the audience.”
I yank my hand away. “What happened to open arms?”
“He’s weird, Rose, and not good weird like—and I say this with so much love— you. He’s scary weird.”
“You don’t know him.”
“And you do?”
I shake my head, dizzy from the wine and nauseous with anger—or maybe that’s the wine, too. I can’t really tell. “He’s kind and funny and smart and not at all weird.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so.”
Her bottom lip juts out, and she throws her arms around my neck. “Oh, don’t be mad at me! I just want you to be happy. It’s been so long since you’ve been happy!”
I hesitate, then embrace her back. “I love you, Em.” My tongue is thick, making the words jumbled and heavy. “I don’t tell you enough.”
Her laughter shakes our bodies. She pulls away and taps my nose with her finger. “You’re drunk .” She settles back into the couch, resting her head on the arm and kicking her legs over mine.
She stays all day and spends the night, filling the apartment with stories and laughter. We don’t talk about Theodore again. We finish one bottle of wine and open another, our legs tangled under the throw blanket. A comforting dizziness and warmth swims in my veins, and I lean my head back as Emily tells me about how much she hates the art she’s trying to sell and about the new reality show she’s been watching and how Mike keeps buying cabbage instead of lettuce and she doesn’t have the heart to tell him. I only have to offer occasional mumbles or nods and am otherwise allowed to float on Emily’s stories like a raft on gentle waves.
Later than we should, we crawl into bed. Emily borrows an old t-shirt and sweatpants, sifting through the dresser without asking or needing permission. After we both sink under the thick quilt, I close my eyes, the world spinning in the dark, and whisper, “Do you think he’ll ever forgive me?”
Emily takes a long time to answer. I'm half-asleep when she whispers, “He loves you, and you hurt him. I don’t think he has room to consider anything else right now.”
The smell of her citrus and mint shampoo keeps my dreams away, pleasant or not.