“I am. Why do you ask?” My heart pounds so hard, I worry a bit for myself.
“You look like a ghost, Finley. When I touched your shoulder in there, your whole body tensed up. You won’t look at me.”
And I didn’t return to him last night.
I look into his eyes and find them cool, his prince’s face unreadable.
“I don’t know. I suppose I’m trying to keep…proper.”
“Where’d you go last night?”
I can see the hurt in his hard features. It’s there in the tightness of his jaw. He looks down at his shoes, and my gaze follows. They’re boots, made of brown leather, and they look quite fine. I watch as a breath moves through his thick shoulders.
Then those piercing eyes are holding mine. He blinks, biting his cheek on the inside. There’s something like the shadow of a smile, as if he’d like to but he can’t. And he says, “It’s okay.” I can tell he means it, which is sort of awful.
“No it’s not. I’m sorry.” I’m looking at my own shoes now—worn Mary Janes. “I went to the clinic, and the visitors were there late. Then I worried you were sleeping.” I swallow hard and force myself to look up at him. “How are you feeling? Did you rest?”
He rubs a hand back through his hair, revealing scabbed gashes across his knuckles. “I’m okay.”
I can hear the tightness in his voice. His face, though, is flawlessly impassive.
“I need to give you a check-over. Particularly your blood pressure, and I’d like a look at that shoulder. Could you come to the clinic in a bit, perhaps? Or I could come to you if you’d prefer.”
It’s there for a mere instant: the tiniest chink in his armor. His brows crease and his mouth tightens before he locks it all away. He nods once, jaw hard.
“Yeah, sure,” he says in forced tones. “I’ll come by.”
“To the clinic? Will that be all right? I’ve got to make a house call. Afterward, I’ll be there all day.”
“Not a problem.” His jaw remains hard as his gaze laps at me. “You feel okay, Siren? You sure?”
I nod, as I can’t seem to speak.
“Good.”
I can feel how much he wants to touch me as he starts to turn away. How much it hurts him as he walks around the café. His body moves with easy grace, but I just know. He rounds the café’s front, and I hear voices rise in greeting.
Fog kisses my face. I take a few steps back, pressing my shoulder blades against the café’s white-washed brick wall. For the longest time, I stand there alone.
Soon, he’ll understand. But I can’t tell him.
Twenty-Three
Declan
After I talk to Finley, I kind of lose my grip on things. It’s like walking on a wire from one high-rise to the other. I can’t look down. I don’t have good balance.
If I’m not paying attention, my teeth chatter. My hands always shake, so I have to keep them fisted or shoved in a pocket. Someone wants to shake one, and I have to squeeze them hard enough so they can’t tell. The space behind my forehead feels empty, and there’s a heaviness behind my eyes that reminds me a little bit of being drunk. It’s hard to keep them open sometimes, nearly impossible to act normal.
Following a conversation makes my chest go tight just from the effort of it. I try to smile and laugh at the right times, but time’s not steady for me. Sometimes it rushes by, a breaking wave that kind of startles me with its fast passage. Other times, it feels as thick as honey. I know it’s just detox—this shit’s always like a bad trip—but that doesn’t keep my mouth from going dry, my palms from sweating. Doesn’t make it any easier to thank the cook and try to keep track of who to say bye to before I walk out on my plastic legs.
I’ve gotta drive back to the cottage. I make it past the village before pulling over to get sick. My palms are wet around the steering wheel. Inside the house, I walk past a box of fruits and veggies someone brought this morning and sit on the couch’s edge to take my shoes off. When my fingers shake too much to do the laces, I lie back with them still on, stare at the ceiling.
Now’s one of those moments where everything feels big and forceful. I feel kind of untethered. Need to sleep, but I don’t think I can. I lie on my side. My mind races, all bad stuff and nonsense. My shoe connecting with Laurent’s ribs, and his blood sinking into that rug. Walking into my shared bathroom. The haunted feeling stalks me across time.
I can’t help but think of Finley. She looked like a painting come to life wearing that beige blouse with her hair down. I cover my face with both hands.
Don’t.