“Water, please.”
She nods as if my answer pleases her and pours me a glass, dropping in a few ice cubes. She motions for me to sit at the table. The wood is worn, scratched and pocked, but lovingly cleaned and shined despite its flaws.
Smith once said that his mother makes them eat dinner here every night. I glance at the chairs before picking the least worn and settling myself there. Hopefully I didn’t try to claim someone else’s spot. My family’s rare dinners together are always a carefully fought battle of political maneuverings through seat assignments. I can’t bear the thought of disturbing the domestic tranquility of this place.
She sets the glass in front of me and sits to my left. I sip at the water while she examines me. Goddess only knows what she must see. I can’t begin to imagine the stories Smith has shared about me.
“I’m sorry I’m so late,” I say once I’m halfway through the glass. My stomach churns a little, reminding me that I haven’t eaten for a few days. But it could also be a response to my crushing guilt when I hold her gaze. Her eyes are brown, soft, with flecks of gold sprinkled through them.
The screen door opens and the floor creaks, distracting me from what I’m trying to say.
“Rose?” A man steps into the kitchen, surprised to see me sitting there at the table.
“Tom, this is Roark. Finny’s friend.” She smiles at me, resting her hand lightly on mine. “Roark, this is my husband.”
“Hi,” I say.
He has Finn’s eyes. Stormy blue, short lashes, crinkling at the corners.
“I meant to get here sooner,” I offer, but he waves it off.
Tom goes to the fridge and grabs a pop can. “It’s fine. Not much to do today anyway.”
“Oh. Well, is Smith here?” I ask. “Even if there’s not much work, I’d like to try to help how I can...”
I trail off at their confusion. There’s a sharp twinge of pain in my shoulder when I tense.
“I thought he’d already called you,” Rose says.
The churning in my gut spreads through me until I tremble and grip the edge of the table in an effort to not fall apart.
“What day is it?” I ask.
Don’t tell me. Please don’t tell me.
“Tuesday.” She tilts her head and the movement is so familiar, so Smith, that I have to look away. “He went back to Mathers yesterday.”
“Oh.”
He isn’t here.
I stretch my glamour anyway, ignoring the warning sparks in the edges of my vision that remind me I’m already overtaxed from the failed rescue attempt and traveling here. No warmth, no hum, no Smith.
But at the edges of my reach, something else. Something worse. An emptiness.
“You’re still welcome to stay for dinner,” she’s saying, and Tom’s nodding, but it’s all a dull roar.
I refuse the invitation with all the grace I can muster. Explain that I need to get back to school and how sorry I am for missing the weekend and Smith. Let them walk me to the door, confused by my abrupt departure until I tell them that I think Smith might need me.
And the understanding that flashes over their faces makes me want to punch something because they know who I am now. Know my relationship to their son. Know I’ve betrayed him and need to find a way to earn back his trust.
I wait until they’re back inside to glamour myself into invisibility. I walk through a fog, following that cancerous pull. Pass the hill with its old oak and crosses. I’m bleeding again because I hear Finn’s voice in my head, telling stories about this place, and there’s some kind of vast hollowness waiting for me and I don’t want to see it, can’t see it or it becomes real and—
Oh, Goddess.
Wrong. This is all wrong.
The earth screams at me because I’ve failed him. My broken promise rips me open again, eviscerates me as I stand there and look out over fields of bean pods blackened and charred from the inside out, burned corpses still swaying on the stalks.