Chapter Twenty One
Rosalie
By the time Theo comes back inside, Marcella and I have settled into comfortable silence. I’ve pulled the throw blanket around my shoulders and am slouched on the couch with my knees pulled to my chest. Marcella is in the rocking chair, leaning forward with her elbows resting on her knees. We haven’t spoken in the better part of an hour.
His shoes squelch as he walks, a less graceful entrance than I expected from him. He kicks them off and shuts the back door with a flick of his hip. Water drips down his cheek and catches on his shirt, ruined by the rain and sticking to his skin. The smell of soaked salt fills the living room, briny and ripe like I’m standing on a cliff overlooking the ocean.
My ears start ringing, and he whips his head towards Marcella, spritzing her with rainwater. She raises her brows. He cocks his head.
“Hundreds,” he says so smoothly that I exhale. He’s himself again, or at least the him I know. “And I’m fine, thank you.”
“Hayes was a busy man,” she replies aloud, kicking to her feet, “and you are properly scary.”
He shrugs. “Are you satisfied?”
“Are you going to kill your mother?”
That the question fails to get a rise out of him surprises me, but his answer doesn’t. “Not today.”
“Maybe tomorrow then,” Marcella hums. “Or in a few decades. Hell, a century.” She smirks at me. “Remind me, what’s the average human lifespan?”
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t start.”
“Just testing your temper.” She crosses her arms. “Leaving two loose cannons in one house would be negligent.”
Theo turns his attention to me and raises a brow expectantly. The playful familiarity of the gesture and the lightness of his eyes makes me sit up straighter. I can almost convince myself that I imagined the last few hours. We’ve just woken up, early afternoon. If coffee isn’t already on the warmer, it will be soon, and we’ll drink it out of mugs because there are mugs, because I didn’t break them, because nothing is broken.
“It’s raining,” I offer.
A full, unrestrained grin blooms on his face, slow like light kissing water and reflecting a thousand times over. “Observant as always.” He studies me with such intent that I blush and kick down my legs, planting my feet on the floor. “Need dry clothes, petal? I assure you, I have plenty. What’s mine is yours.”
“I’m glad you think so,” I say, not sounding glad at all, “because I broke all of your glasses.”
“All of them?”
“Most of them. Two-thirds, maybe.”
“Did you hurt yourself?”
It’s a genuine question, and it makes me want to be mean on purpose. Instead of telling him to shove it, I cross my arms and look to Marcella.
She either takes pity on me or takes the opportunity to push her own agenda. Either is fine with me, though the latter is more likely. “Speaking of destroying other people’s property, you’ll be plenty occupied yourself.”
Theo hesitates to tear his attention away from me, but curiosity gets the better of him. “I don’t follow.”
“How many deals did you inherit, anyway?”
His fingers twitch at his sides, but he shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Debt switches hands, information gets lost, plausible deniability. I’m not collecting on them.”
“You can’t do that.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t move towards her. He barely lifts his eyes. “I’m going to say this once, sorcière, and then never again, so I suggest you listen.” Marcella straightens at his tone but keeps her mouth shut until he continues, “I can do whatever I want. Including kick you out of this house, which I’m doing now. I’ll send word when I need you to return.”
She rolls her eyes but starts towards the door. “My mistake for thinking it was impossible for you to be more insufferable than you already were. You’re welcome, by the way,” she calls over her shoulder, “for making literally any of this possible.”
“You’re a fine foot soldier,” he calls back.
“Come to dinner. I’ll set up the high chair and warm you a bottle.”
He waves like he’s swatting a fly, and the door closes behind her. Once we're alone, his grin returns like a bluff begging to be called. "Should we continue to discuss the weather, or do I have leave to begin begging for forgiveness?"
"Most people preface an apology with an admission of guilt."
"I'm hardly most people."
"Honestly, Theo," I sigh. Frustration rears back up, pulling me to stand. "I don't even know where to begin."
"You can start by hitting me, if that'll make you feel better."
"I don't— Why would I want to hit you?"
His one-shoulder shrug shatters something in my chest. The life he's led, the things he's been subjected to— murdered, I remind myself with a shudder. Someone killed him.
It doesn't excuse his actions, but the roiling anger in my gut dims to a simmer. "The truth. Tell me, or I'll go find Elias and see if he's more talkative."
He narrows his eyes. "Elias already told you more than he should've—"
"Theodore."
"—and if you leave, there's no telling who you'll run into. You wouldn't. You value your life too much."
I step towards him, crowding his space. "Do I?"
Certainty flickers in the navy of his eyes as they dip to my lips. "The truth," he echoes, quieter than before. "I was a person before I was… this. An entire human being. I hungered and ached and tired, and now I do none of those things. I am what I am: a scavenger, a parasite, a blight. But you…" He rests his hand on my arm, the touch feather-light, "You make me hunger. You make me ache."
I wait for him to qualify the admission with a smirk or a quip, but he holds my stare, completely still except for his thumb tracing small circles on my bicep. I swallow, the only sign of my nerves I'll allow.
"I have a question and a demand," I say. "Which would you like first?"
"Dealer's choice, though I have grown fond of your questions—"
My lips crash against his like a wave finding a home on the shore. He stumbles back from the force, but I track his movement, keeping our bodies flush and winding my arms around his neck for stability. I break against him, and he laps up the violence of it, made moistened and vulnerable. His hands settle in the dip of my waist, slipping under the hem of my shirt. They’re warmer than I thought they’d be.
I push him until his back hits the bookshelf, sending his copy of Les Grandes Espérances clattering to the floor. He and the wood both let out a surprised groan. I curl my fingers against his chest like I can claw my way into his ribcage, like I can tear him open and inspect what's inside.
It's never been like this, not with Henry or even Andrew. I've never been so torn between shattering someone and soothing them. He submits to being bloodied by my affection; he gives, and I take, and greed dips into cruelty.
I'm selfish. I am selfish, and we deserve each other— I deserve him.
When I pull away, his eyes are wide and a nervous light blue. He flicks his tongue over his parted, kiss-swollen lips and swallows. He blinks, and the wave recedes, pulling back to expose the familiar disingenuous apathy. “Was that the demand?”
Blood rushes to my head, heating my face while slick shame chills the rest of me. Thinking I could reach him was desperation or arrogance or a wicked combination of the two. Thinking I can help him— I’d be stupid to try, and I’m going to try anyway.
Andrew would call me a magnet for lost causes. I’d tug at the hair on the nape of his neck and ask, “What does that make you?”
Before the burning in my eyes turns into physical evidence of my frustration, I walk away. He doesn’t follow. He doesn’t call after me. I lock the bedroom door. Despite his confession, I doubt I could make him feel a damn thing.
I count my breaths while sitting on Theo’s bed and staring at the remnants of his life like they might reveal more secrets, more that he hasn’t told me. Three hundred years is more time than I can comprehend, especially with my pulse still drumming in my ears. A hand that must be my hand smooths the duvet that might be Theo’s, might be Cora’s, might belong to whichever unfortunate person he last tore from their life and showered with sweetness until they, too, were unable to leave. Elias was human once, and he was murdered— by Theo? It can’t be true, and it must be true, and I should be afraid but I’m not. I’m not— does that make me less than human? Am I missing some innate instinct I should’ve been born with? The absence of that evolutionary sense makes me incompatible with life, so it tracks that I’ve been scooped up by Death. Death’s son. It makes little difference.
Marcella was right. I haven’t been asking the right questions. I’m not even sure what the right questions are, or if he’d answer them. Do you believe in soulmates? Do you believe in fate?
Panic crawls up my throat. There’s a strange sort of comfort in the familiarity of it. I might not know much, but I know worry, and I know guilt, and I know shame. I’ve abandoned my friends and set my life aflame, but I’m still me. And what would I be doing if I wasn’t here? Sharing a silent meal with Henry? Letting Emily fuss—
Oh, god.
I launch myself towards the backpack stuffed with my belongings and dig through the crumbled clothes and toiletries until my fingers skim my cell phone and the charging cable. Emily hasn’t heard from me in three days. She probably came by the apartment and found it empty. She might be there now, and what if Uriel returns? Would Theodore’s patrols protect her, too?
With trembling hands, I plug the phone into the first socket I can find. The battery is completely drained, so the screen takes a second to light up. I gnaw on the skin around my thumb, watching the icon in the center of the screen blink. A few moments later, my home screen flashes awake: a picture of Emily, Henry and me as kids. We’re sitting on the porch of Henry’s parents' house and showing off our double scoops of ice cream to the camera.
I hold my breath until the notifications begin pouring in. Four missed calls from Mike, two from Henry— and eighteen from Emily, plus six texts and a request for my location. I thumb through the texts, each more urgent than the last, and then call.
It rings, and rings, and rings.
The digital trilling cuts out, turning into the static of the call connecting. He doesn’t say anything at first. I didn’t think he’d even pick up.
I whisper, “Henry?”
His response is clipped. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I… My phone died.”
Silence. I listen to him breathe. In another life, I could’ve married him.
“Em’s worried about you. I mean, she’s always worried about you, but she’s… worried about you.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m worried about you, too.”
If the truth would help more than hurt, I’d give it to him. He deserves to know, not because he’s nice, but because he’s— because he is. And maybe it makes me a hypocrite, but I tell him, “I’m alright.”
“I’ve heard that before, Rose.” He sighs. “I’m at work right now, but I can call you when I get home, okay?”
I wipe at my cheeks and sniffle. “Where are you staying? With Mike and Em?”
It takes him a beat to answer, but he does. “No, I got a place. A townhouse. It’s month-to-month, and the commute is double what it used to be, but it’s nice. The neighborhood is quiet.” He pauses. “You could come visit if you want.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not? If it’s too far—”
“It’s not—”
“—I can come to you. Where are you staying? Em said you weren’t at the apartment. I don’t mind driving in the city, or we can meet somewhere. Maybe for dinner?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Henry, I can’t.”
His long exhale trembles. Clear as if he were standing in front of me, I see his face screwed and puffy, a hand slammed against a kitchen counter. “You’re staying with him, aren’t you?”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Is he with you right now?"
I say nothing.
"Jesus, Rosalie, what the fuck is wrong with you?” He continues in a hissed whisper, “Call Em and tell her you’re alright. Or don’t, I don’t care anymore. You’re going to do whatever you want anyway, right? Just leave me out of it.”
The call ends like the snipping of a frayed thread. I keep the phone pressed against my ear, clinging to the last moment my life could’ve been what it used to be. A nice apartment with a nice man, frozen waffles in the morning and cable television at night, a bed warmed by the body of someone who loved me. If I would’ve sent Theo away the first night we met, I could’ve stayed in that apartment until I died. I would’ve rotted there.
Is it better to wither from boredom or experience suffering? Andrew wouldn’t have been satisfied with safety. A simple life with a walk-in pantry, a piano, an embroidered apron— he would’ve turned his nose up at it. He would’ve leapt without looking, same as I have. He’d tell me I made the right choice, inviting Death to sit beside me.
“Better to live fast than die curious,” he’d say.
I mutter, “Better to not die at all.”
After shooting a text to Em assuring her that I’m alive, I crack the window and lie on the bed. Wind whips the sheer curtains against the wall, and the dusty smell of rain soothes the burning in my throat. The fresh air heaves the weight from my chest, exposing my exhaustion. My phone lights with another request for my location.
My thumb hovers over the allow button. If she showed up here, I don’t think Theo would hurt her, but I also didn’t think he’d hurt anyone. I dismiss the notification with a swipe and type out another message:
Need some space. Call you soon.
Three bubbles pop up, shuffling as she types a reply. They disappear. Reappear. Disappear again. After two full minutes of typing and deleting, she sends a simple, Ok, punctuated with a red heart.
I power off my phone and shuffle beneath the blanket, pulling it over my head. It smells like Theo, or maybe it's the fading storm through the open window, or maybe it's my own brain clinging to something and hoping it clings back. I close my eyes and let my exhales warm the air until I'm lulled to sleep.
The trees around me distort as they stretch towards the sky. Dead grass cuts at the soles of my feet. The horizon I'm racing towards is getting darker by the minute, and my chest burns with exertion, but I don't get any closer. I'm barely moving. I've had this dream before.
With every step, my heels sink further into the ground. Like trudging through quicksand, it takes more and more effort to propel my body forward. I could stop and be consumed. I could be buried. I could rest.
Someone's chasing me. That's why I'm running. I don't know who it is. I've never known, except I have, or I do now. The same person pursues every living thing. And now— now I know him, and he knows me, and none of this makes any difference except it does.
My foot catches on a root or fate or my own pride. I stumble and hit the ground hard, skinning my palms and knees. The dirt and grass rises to engulf my hands, trapping me. I fight the restraint, but not very hard. Not in any meaningful way. Wouldn't it be nice, to rest?
Between my hands, a bump rises from the ground. A crooked nose, then a square chin, then flushed cheeks and olive green eyes. Andrew is never whole in my dreams, but even his distorted face is as familiar to me as my own. Here, he is a cat in a cardboard box. I can deny reality as long as I can avoid looking.
Dirt-flecked lips form around a word. Rosie.
A bloated, rotting hand bursts from his grave and grabs the collar of my shirt. It pulls me down until my nose almost touches Andrew's, until I can smell the decay in the soil and on his breath.
"Why didn't you answer your phone?" It's his voice but not, layered atop an inflection I don't recognize— but I do. Of course I do. "You must've known. You should've known."
It's not real, but it doesn't matter. I'm here the way I'm always here, begging for forgiveness or else begging to join him. The ground moves up, or I move down, and it doesn't matter, none of it matters except for his knuckles barely grazing the skin of my throat and his eyes on mine. We're here in the dirt, we're dancing at homecoming, we're sitting knee to knee and whispering like we have secrets worth sharing.
The grief counselors were wrong when they said it wasn't my fault. I knew he was suffering, and I didn't tell anyone, and then he died. Henry would've told an adult. Emily would've dragged him to therapy kicking and screaming. It was arrogance, believing I could shoulder the weight of him alone. That I'd never make a mistake or sleep through his call. It was selfishness, keeping his pain tucked within myself. I didn't want him to hate me. Breaking an oath was an offense he wouldn't forgive.
I'll follow you anywhere. A promise in a different lifetime to a version of me that no longer exists.
I'd take his anger over his absence.
An apology lodges itself on my tongue. I spit it out like a seed I'll never see germinate. Maybe it'll feed on him. Maybe it'll grow into an oak tree, and I won't get to sit in its shade. Andrew pulls me closer still, and the tip of my nose dips under the ground, and I'm screaming, and I can't hear myself but it doesn't matter. I choke on a breath of soil and rot, and he smiles—
I startle awake, sputtering until my still-dreaming brain catches up. The air is thin beneath the duvet so I throw it off. The sky is dark now. Storm-cooled air fills the room through the open window. Despite the chill, the sheets beneath me are soaked with sweat.
The house beyond the locked bedroom door is silent. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Theo left. But I do know better, because I know him. Maybe he’d loathe to think so, but I do. There are a thousand negative adjectives I could use to paint a wholly accurate picture of him, but only one fact matters: I forgive him.
A weight slips from me as I untangle my legs from the blanket and rise. The distance between us is insurmountable, but the room is so small. Six steps, and I’m at the door.
He’s there of course, sitting on the floor. His back is pressed against the wall beside the bedroom door, knees bent in a way that can’t be comfortable. He might’ve been dozing too, but his head snaps to center when I open the door. Our eyes meet. We don’t say anything.
I slide to sit next to him and rest my head on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around me— instinct or affection, I have no solid proof of either— and pulls me closer.
Wind screams through the window. The moon dips beneath the clouds. I sit with him. He sits with me. We wait for the sun to rise.