And when he stares, his eyes in the full sunlight are so rich and so dark that I can feel myself drowning in them.
“Why would you think this is stupid?” I ask softly, still cradling the soup to my chest. “It’s actually very kind.”
He takes a long time to answer. “It’s stupid because it’s a bad idea.”
“Us being friends?”
“Yes.” He closes his eyes for a minute, opens them. “I should stay away from you.”
That’s the most nonsensical thing I’ve ever heard. “Why?” I say, taking his hand and leading him to the kitchen so I can have my soup. “Why does it matter?”
He heaves a beleaguered sigh. “It just does.”
When we get to the kitchen, I put the soup in a pan to warm it up and get him a beer from the fridge. He shucks off his jacket and leans against the counter while he drinks it, watching me bustle around the kitchen with a kind of wary fascination. I chatter at him the whole time, asking him about his library and what hours he works and what music he likes and what other fantasy novels he’s read and does he want water? Tea? More beer?
He answers in a slightly bewildered way, but by the time we’re sitting down with our soup, I’ve almost got him into something like a real conversation. As I pull words from him like teeth, I think of the boy I married in the thorn chapel, the boy who crackled with mischief and life.
How did he turn into this man of frost and doubt? And why?
I’m about to ask him this exact question—yes, I know it’s blunt, but I can’t help it—when there’s the sound of the side door in the kitchen opening, and Becket blows in with the wind and a happy Sir James Frazer, who barks once at Saint, then decides to lick his hand instead.
“Saint,” Becket says in pleased surprise. “I didn’t realize you’d be here.”
Saint looks a little panicked. “I should go.”
“At least finish your soup,” I playfully plead. I feel like a teenage girl scheming to get just five more minutes with her crush. “Don’t rush off with an empty stomach.”
I don’t need to look at Becket to know that he’s probably staring at me with piqued interest, but like any good priest, he stays silent.
Saint lets out a breath. Picks up his spoon. “Okay. I guess.”
I watch him eat, my own hunger tearing at me from the inside. The careful press and touch of his lips against the spoon is killing me. I think I’m just going to have to tell him the truth. Tell him that I’m a virgin and a sex monster and I want him to fuck me. He can even fuck me vanilla if kink isn’t his thing. But I want to have sex with him and I want to do it as soon as possible.
Funny how I spent years not being ready, and now within the space of a day, I’m so ready that I’m crawling out of my skin.
When I look away, Becket is studying me, and I flush, because he’s studying me like he knows what I’ve been thinking. Like he can see me struggling not to squirm in my seat, can see me wondering how I can convince Saint that I’d be a lot of fun to sleep with, despite the whole virginity thing.
But before he can say anything about it, or I can say anything to draw attention away from how obvious it must be that I want Saint, I hear voices in the hallway outside—one voice low and polished, the other one sweetly musical. Auden and Delphine. Hours ahead of schedule.
Saint gets to his feet just as they come into the kitchen looking like a magazine ad for beautiful people in love. Delphine is all blond hair and riotous, wool-covered curves in her cigarette pants and bright red coat, and Auden’s in this denim shirt and sports jacket outfit that should look like a mess, but on his perfect frame and with his hair doing its perfect hair thing, it looks amazing, of course. Their hands are linked, and Delphine is mid-laugh at something Auden has said to her, and he’s looking down at her like he’s never seen anything prettier or better than Delphine Dansey—because, let’s face it, he probably hasn’t and two million Instagram followers would agree.
Jealousy punctures me like an arrow. I hate it.
I hate feeling jealous of Delphine, who is so nice, and I hate that I can’t clamp off this burgeoning attraction for Auden. I hate that just ten seconds ago I was watching Saint’s mouth with a hunger that almost scared me, and now I’m doing the same with Auden’s.
Do I just want to have sex with everybody? Is that it? Auden and Saint? Hell, maybe even Delphine and Rebecca and Becket?
After years of saying no, I want to say yes to five different people I barely know? What the fuck is wrong with me?
While I’m thinking all this, a small tableau of frozen shock and resentment has assembled itself before me. Auden and Delphine are stock-still in the doorway, that beatific look in Auden’s eyes replaced with something close to fury.
Saint’s on his feet, ready to bolt, and Becket’s risen too, as if he thinks he might have to physically intervene between the two men—which, given the events earlier in the week, might be necessary. Who knows with these two?
I stand as well, touching Saint’s arm to underscore what I say next. “I invited him here,” I half-lie to Auden. “I know you two don’t get along, but he’s here for me.”
Auden’s eyes, which were trained on the press of my fingers against the bare skin of Saint’s arm, snap up to my face at my words. “We ‘don’t get along’ is a very mild way of putting things,” Auden says.
“I should go,” Saint says to me, moving away and grabbing his jacket. My fingertips tingle with the memory of his skin against them.
“I’ll walk you out,” Becket says quickly, shooting Auden a look that says stay put . “Be right back, everyone.”
And they leave through the side door. Only Auden, Delphine, and I are left in the kitchen.
I should apologize, I think. Or acknowledge that there’s a new net of tension over us that wasn’t there before.
But as usual, it’s the curiosity that wins out.
“Why do you hate him so much?” I ask Auden. I’m angry enough that I want him to know I’m angry. I’m irritated and defensive and still fucking jealous of beautiful Delphine with her beautiful fingers still laced with his.
Auden’s face is unreadable, but those eyes glitter, green and brown and hard. “I could ask him the same question about me.”
“That’s not an answer,” I say, still furious.
He’s still furious too, and there’s a moment when his mouth flattens, when his jaw goes tight and his pulse hammers in the column of his neck . . .
There’s a real ripple of power from him, and it’s like kicking through cold water to feel the heat of the sun. When he straightens up and looks at me like that, he looks like a king. He looks like he wants to have me chained and whipped for my insolence, he looks like he did on the day he yanked both Saint and me to his mouth for a kiss.
A bolt of real, true fear flies through me; it leaves wet need in its wake. My knees feel weak and unsteady. I want to drop to the ground and press my forehead between his expensive brown Oxfords and wait for him to dispense justice. I want to earn his approval; I want every depraved, sick, and delicious thing a submissive wants—and more.
Auden finally speaks, his voice low and tight and furious still. “I hate him because he deserves it. I hate him because once upon a time, I gave him a piece of my heart.”
He closes his eyes, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “And then he fed it to the wolves.”
Chapter 9
I retreat to the library and work well past darkness, starting the laborious process of building a catalog from scratch, building it one shelf at a time. With each book I enter into the system, I research whether or not the book has already been digitized by another library somewhere in the world, and by the end of the first shelf, I have a good five or six books that haven’t. Those are the ones I’ll digitize myself—slowly, of course. This whole thing is really a job for at least three or four people, which I suppose is job security, so I can’t complain.
I’m starting on the first scan when Delphine comes in.
“
Auden and Rebecca are working on more house stuff, even though it’s a weekend and he promised to work less.” She pouts. “I’m bored.”
I make what I hope is a sympathetic noise, while I put the book I’m scanning—An Amateur History of the Thorncombe Valley and Its Environs —in the machine and fiddle with the width of the cradle until it’s narrow enough for the little book. Then I adjust the lights in the hood above, lower a V-shaped glass plate that rests on top of the book itself to keep the pages flat, and start scanning.
“Poe,” Delphine whines. It should be annoying, but she’s so pretty and darling, and when I look back at her, I find she’s perched herself on the table and she’s kicking her powder blue ankle boots back and forth. She’s kind of irresistible. My jealousy of her coils into something more protective, more vital. I think if I were Auden, I’d probably be engaged to her too.
“I’m sorry, I’m sure this is just as boring,” I say. The scanner is the fastest one I’ve ever worked with—it only takes a few seconds for each page. There’s a slow pulse of light, a quick glance over to the monitor to double-check the image, and then the hiss of the glass plate going up while I flip to the next page. Then the glass goes back down, ready for the new pages to be imaged. And repeat.
“It is just as boring,” Delphine says sadly. “What are you even doing?”
“Ah!” I say. “I’m so glad you asked. I’m making digital surrogates for any books in here that haven’t been digitized yet. I’m more or less doing it concurrently with cataloging because I don’t have all the things I need to go hard with the cataloging yet, but eventually I think I’ll have to pick one or the other to focus on.”
Hiss goes the glass plate coming down. Pulse goes the light.
I glance back and Delphine looks sadder than ever. “Oh, Poe,” she says. “I hope this doesn’t hurt your feelings, but I think you should know how boring that sounds.”
My feelings aren’t hurt in the least. The magic of Delphine is that she can say things like this and it doesn’t feel hurtful—if anything, it feels like she’s trying to help you. Plus, she looks even prettier when she’s sad.
Hiss. Pulse. “I completely understand why you feel that way,” I tell her. “My ex had a ‘no library talk’ policy after dinner. She was getting her grad degree in film studies, though, so, you know.”
“I don’t think I do know,” Delphine says politely.
I squint down at the latest page to make sure I’m not seeing a mold spot. “We fundamentally disagreed about the value of each other’s mediums.”
Delphine straightens a little bit; I mistakenly think this is because she might have an opinion on different mediums herself, but then she scolds, “You should have posted your girlfriend more on your Insta.”
It’s not mold, just some kind of ink blotch from its printing. I hit the scan button. “That wouldn’t have ruined my brand?” I joke.
“Your brand is a mess,” Delphine says, and I laugh, but when I look back at her, she’s giving me a very solemn look.
“Well, I mean, I don’t really need a brand,” I say, flipping a page. “I’m not selling anything.”
I hear the sound of adorable ankle boots kicking a table leg in frustration. “It’s not about selling things. It’s about building a presentation of yourself that you can use for anything. For potential employers or potential lovers or potential friends. It’s a place where you can compile the most salient expressions of yourself—expressions that you choose, you curate—and create a living biography. A testament to your life and the space you deserve to occupy.”
I stare at her, speechless.
I like Delphine and I definitely think about kissing her sometimes, but I have to admit I didn’t think she was capable of whipping out a word like salient in everyday conversation.
“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” I say, turning back to the scanner to hide my surprise.
I hear her boots kicking against the table, slower this time, as if she’s thinking. “For a long time, I was the only fat girl in my circle,” she says pensively. “Or even in the circle outside of that one. I started the Instagram account because I needed to feel like all the parts of myself were real, and that they were real all at the same time—that I was well-dressed and interesting and cultured and fat.”
She takes a breath. “It sounds so shallow, like needing pictures of yourself to self-validate is weak. But the truth is that I only saw pictures of people who looked like me in the worst possible ways. Headless bodies for news stories about obesity or as the butt of a joke in a cartoon. So why should I be judged for creating something positive on social media? The one medium I can control? It seems unfair to me.”
Delphine is so effortlessly beautiful, so at home with money and stylish clothes, that I’ve never thought of her as having anything other than total confidence about her body. Even as a girl, nothing ever seemed to discompose her princess-like bearing, not even the cruel words of the village kids. But of course she’s had to grapple with this, and in a moment of shame and epiphany, I realize that if Delphine with her money and whiteness and traditionally feminine beauty has been hurt, then how many others without those things have been hurt even worse?
“I’ve been unfair to you too, Delphine,” I admit. “I assumed there was something narcissistic about people who post themselves a lot, but I never considered . . . well, I guess I never thought that there could be real work to be done with it. That it was contributing something.”
Delphine waves away my apology. “I’m used to people not understanding.” She gives me a warm smile; a dimple appears in one perfect cheek. “It was nice of you to own up to it, though.”
The scanner lights pulse again and I go back to flipping pages. “It was generous of you to explain it to me.”
“Anyway ,” Delphine says, as if I’d purposefully pulled us off topic. “You only have pictures of coffee and books on your Instagram. They’re over-filtered and repetitive. You need pictures of yourself—and the people in your life.”
“I’m too preoccupied being with the people in my life to take pictures,” I say.
My “being in the moment” doesn’t seem to impress her. “Be less preoccupied then.”
“You’re bossy.”
“I know. Look, your bio is excellent: ‘queer Sagittarius librarian.’” She says the last part in such a way that I know she has her phone out and she’s looking at my account. “I want to get to know her . Not her coffee.”
“Point taken.” Hiss. Pulse.
“I know what we could do!” Delphine says after a minute, so suddenly and so loudly that I nearly tear a page clean off.
“About my Instagram?”
“What? No. ” She sounds exasperated that I haven’t followed her to her new train of thought. “We should have a party for you! Tomorrow night. We’ll get some champagne, have Abby make something special.”
Abby . . . I search my memory and come up with nothing. “Abby?”
“She does the dinners. She’s marvelous, really. Like a one-woman wonder.” Delphine says marvelous in only two syllables, but the continued swinging of her feet keeps it from sounding too much like she’s fresh off the set of The Crown . “She had some time away, a sick sister or something, but she’s back now. Making dinner tonight, actually.”
“Ah.” Of course this all seems perfectly natural to Delphine. Of course there’s just someone to make the dinners, of course that’s totally normal. I chew on the inside of my lip so that I don’t blurt out anything idiotic or totally déclassé.
“Anyway, it’ll be just a cozy, fun thing here at the house, and we’ll get Becky in too, of course.”
Becky, I’d learned earlier, is their pet name for Becket, not a nickname for Rebecca—who is Bex. Auden is Audey, but only from Delphine, and sometimes he’s simply Guest to Rebecca and she is Quartey to him, in that collegiate way of theirs. Delphine is Delly—except sometimes she’s also Delph or Dee or—inexplicably—Pickles. It seems like the on
e rule is that you aren’t allowed to make the ridiculous nicknames for yourself; they must be awarded to you by your friends who have their own ridiculous nicknames—which explains their shock at my declaring that I wanted to go by Poe, I guess. I should have waited until they decided to call me Prosey or PoPo or Patches or whatever.
“That sounds delightful,” I say. I wasn’t lying to Saint—I really do love parties.
I’m toward the end of scanning the book now, and when I move to flip a page, it falls open with barely any help from me. I have only a brief second to think spine damage? before the cause becomes clear.
There’s a picture wedged inside. Not an old one either. At least, not as old as the book would lead one to believe.
I lift the glass plate a little higher while Delphine chatters behind me about what she’ll have Abby throw together and what I should wear and how much champagne she should get. I pull the picture out and study it.
The corner bears the time-stamp common to digital cameras of a certain age, and it’s stamped with the date of that summer, the summer.
The summer we were all here.
There are nine adults in the picture. My parents, Auden’s parents, Delphine’s parents, Becket’s parents. Rebecca’s father alone because her mother had already moved back to Accra by that point. Neither of Saint’s parents because they weren’t part of the strange little house party; his father was already dead, and his mother lived in the village. He’d joined our troupe by sheer accident of proximity.
The adults are smiling in the picture, all of them smiling like they have a secret. And they’re here in the library, standing in front of the huge windows, bathed in light and alive. My mother is near the center of the group, something narrow and circular glinting in her hand that she’s trying to put around Auden’s father’s neck. My own father watches fondly, one hand at the small of her back, his other hand laced with Rebecca’s father’s. Auden’s mother watches her husband and my mother with a pained smile, but the way she leans into Becket’s parents suggests familiarity, just as the way they have their arms entangled with Delphine’s parents’ suggests possession.
A Lesson in Thorns (Thornchapel Book 1) Page 9