Chapter 35
35
I read with Scott in the candlelight, my head in his lap on the couch in my common room. We have my suite to ourselves while Erik has a reconciliatory dinner with Fred. It’s quiet, the rustling of pages offering the only accompaniment to the dancing shadows the candles cast on the walls. Scott’s scent surrounds me, and I feel his every gentle shift while the hours and the chapters pass.
It is incredibly romantic.
He’s reading a book I recommended on my Kindle, which of course I packed with me—I would never find myself in an unfamiliar location without multiple means of escape into fiction. It’s titled Poisoned Legacy , and it’s romantasy, like Elytheum. It’s an indie title he hasn’t read, and I suspect he might enjoy it because it’s set amid academia, featuring alchemists competing in their powerful studies.
I’m continuing my reread of The Shattered Court . Although, really, I’m focused on Scott. It’s marvelous dating someone who loves reading the way I do. I can’t wait for him to recommend his favorites to me, just like I can’t wait to share with him more of mine. I continually steal glances at him, wanting to witness his every reaction while he reads. When he laughs, I look up with unrestrained eagerness, Kethryn and Val vanishing from my imagination. “What?” I ask him.
Scott smiles, amused, and clicks forward on the Kindle. “Are you going to ask me what I’m reacting to every time I make a sound or have a facial expression?” he asks with good humor while he continues reading.
I consider. “Possibly, yes. I like knowing what you find funny or surprising. In fact”—I sit up, ensuring he understands the importance of my edict—“when you get to chapter twelve you have to tell me. I want to watch you read.”
He laughs. “You can’t really just want to watch me read.”
I lay my head back in his lap. “It might be better than reading myself,” I say.
Scott sets the Kindle aside. When he leans down and presses the softest kiss to my lips, everything disappears. Elytheum and Poisoned Legacy , candlelight and the night outside and the couch under me. The whole world pauses.
“You’re cute,” Scott says.
“I like sharing things with you.”
“I like it, too,” he assures me, his sincerity unmistakable. “I’ll let you know when I reach chapter twelve,” he promises me.
“Good,” I whisper. Happiness wells up inside me. Everything is perfect. Impossibly perfect. And I realize this night has surpassed even my wildest expectations for the week. I knew I wasn’t driving down the interstate into the real enchanted land of Elytheum—I came here to experience something like a fantasy. Instead I found a fantasy itself, one I hadn’t even known to imagine with the man next to me. I feel wonderfully, exhilaratingly content.
The very next moment, it scares me.
Impossibly perfect . What I’m feeling doesn’t exist in the real world. Does it? It’s ridiculous to hope everything will work out like this forever, my very own HEA. Hasn’t everyone in my life reminded me it’s unrealistic to expect fantasy from reality? Amelia? Jordan? My parents, who did not hide their dismay when I changed my major from Accounting to English? Even Scott himself?
Why would I ignore everyone— everyone —saying I need to remember life doesn’t look like my daydreams? How delusional would it make me not to expect disappointment when reality resembles fantasy?
Something must be about to crack. My heart, surely.
I sit up, the notion making me dizzy, and reach for my laptop on the coffee table. I need something to ground me. Work. Bills. Anything. Feeling Scott’s questioning eyes on me, I find the list of MFA programs I was looking into open on the screen.
They read like fantastical places now. Hollisboro. Yale. UCLA. Elytheum. Nightfell. The Western Court . No less out of reach. No less ridiculous. What’s the difference? Who was I kidding?
I quickly close out of the page, feeling nauseated. I need an imperfection to hold on to, to press sharp points into my palm and remind me what’s real. I need something disappointing enough to convince me the rest of my life won’t fall apart.
“I don’t think I’m going to go for an MFA after all,” I declare, my voice coming out harried.
Scott glances up, startled. He doesn’t respond right away, instead clearly considering the right response.
“Okay,” he says calmly after a moment. “If that’s what you want.”
“I mean, I don’t know what I want,” I reply. Deciding against doing an MFA program is not helping, which scares me even more. Do I have a fear of fantasy now? Has it made my appetite for imperfection endless?
Scott puts down Poisoned Legacy . He gives me his full focus. Focus I never saw in our fraught first year, not like he’s determining my weaknesses and strategizing my professional demise—focus like I’m the greatest, most intricate love story he’s ever known. It’s perfect.
Dangerously perfect. Dangerously magical.
“What’s going on, Jen?” he asks seriously.
I rub my forehead, spiraling. “I—I don’t know,” I manage. It’s honest, if nothing else. “Maybe you were right when you said not everything is a fantasy. I have a good life. I don’t need to risk it on some—dream, or whatever this is.”
Scott studies me. When he reaches for my hand, I don’t pull away, immediately greedy for his touch.
“This doesn’t sound like you,” he says. His voice is painfully kind. One more perfection for me to worry about. “You’re the one who taught me to be unafraid of striving for everything,” he reminds me.
“I know,” I reply, my restless fingers fretting over his knuckles. “I guess I never expected I would really get it. And now, here you are and you’re…just…perfect. Look at this moment!”
I fling my hand out in indication. Scott peers around the room, not understanding.
“It’s perfect,” I say miserably. “We’re reading by candlelight. My head fits perfectly in your lap. Your hair is swooping in exactly the way I like. You’re supportive and sexy and incredible and far too perfect.”
Scott starts to smile. “I’m not sure my hair swoop is grounds for you to give up your dreams,” he says delicately.
“No, it is!” I insist. “It’s that good!”
“Thank you?”
“It’s not a compliment! I wish it were less good!”
“Okay.” Scott closes his other hand over mine, quieting my fingers. “What is this? You’re really not going to apply to MFA programs?”
Pulling my hand from his, I get up abruptly and pace the room. Indulging in Scott’s measured compassion is like eating only puff pancakes for every meal. I know I would feel good in the moment—I just wouldn’t like how I felt later.
I force myself to put my every fear into words. “What if I don’t get in? Or what if I get in and I hate it?” I ask. The possibilities feel frighteningly immediate. Frighteningly real. “What if it pulls me away from you and from the life I already have?”
Scott watches me, his expression gentle. His calm is kind of comforting, and it’s kind of maddening. If he’s not as dizzyingly daunted as I am, he’s obviously not understanding me. “You’re scared,” he summarizes. “That’s okay.”
“I don’t want to be scared! I want to be Lady Jennifer!” I exclaim.
Scott cannot restrain his smile now, and while I know my fantastical invocation should embarrass me, it doesn’t. Scott accepts me exactly as I am. Which just reinforces the problem. Why on earth—why in any realm, real or imaginary—would I jeopardize us for some flight of fancy I had in a lecture hall a few days ago?
“Who,” Scott asks gently, “is Lady Jennifer?”
“She…” I struggle to put the inspiration I’ve found this week into words. “She’s the heroine of her own life,” I say. “The best, bravest version of me.”
Scott understands. Of course he does. He nods in earnest.
“So be Lady Jennifer,” he encourages me.
I fall silent. He makes it sound easy. Just like my favorite authors make fae feel like old friends, make dark curses feel like relatable problems, make fantastical realms feel like home—Scott makes it sound like I can just find the courage to chase the life I want.
I don’t know if I can.
“What if some fantasies can’t be real?” I venture, my voice fragile. “What if making them real only ruins them?” I go on. “And then you’re left with nothing. Not even a dream.”
It’s why I’m here, in the end, isn’t it? In this fake fantasy for the week. The sigils painted over my door hold no magical power. The scenery in the painting on my wall does not exist. I mean, it’s not even a painting. It’s Adobe Illustrator in a fancy frame.
The closest I , Jennifer Worth, can come to magic or daydreams is…imitation. Loving, but impermanent and fake.
In its own dark way, the Elytheum Experience is the perfect reminder that I live in the real world.
Watching me, Scott’s expression shifts. Some quiet sadness invades his gaze. Unlike me, he does find his courage. I know he doesn’t want to ask his next question. “This isn’t just about the MFA,” he guesses. “Is it?”
I skirt his eyes.
His question—this conundrum—is splitting me in half. I want to ignore these feelings raging inside me, but I know they won’t go away. I push myself to follow Scott’s own example. He was strong enough to ask the question. I can muster the strength to answer it. Just a little heroism. Just enough for now. “No,” I say to the floor.
“It’s okay,” Scott says.
I look up, my heart clinging fervently onto his improbable reply. It’s okay? How the fuck is it okay, Scott? Right now “okay” is the hardest fantasy to uphold.
Scott sees my lip wobble. Concern cuts deep down his expression. “Don’t cry, baby,” he hushes me.
I only cry harder. The words come easier now, at least, with the sobs. “This can’t be real. It can’t be something that lasts. Not because I don’t want that—I desperately do. That’s the problem. When I’m desperate for something, then I…want it too badly,” I explain, needing him to understand how it’s the happiest and hardest realization. “You know I do. You told me I do. I pretend the impossible is happening. I mean, a week ago, I really didn’t like you. And now I’m falling for you? How is that possible?”
“I’m falling for you, too,” Scott replies without hesitation.
I meet his eyes reluctantly. Hope? Or fact? He searches my face like he’s looking for clues on what to say, on how to fight my fears with me.
“Just because you want something doesn’t mean it’s not real,” he says gently. “This is real. Which is scary. It’s terrifying having something so important to you. Something you care for deeply. I understand, believe me.”
I know he does. I know he means how he kept his relationships insubstantial in hopes of avoiding the pain of rejection, how he knew the pain of dashed dreams and was determined to protect himself from losing more of them. And I remember what happened—he ended up hurt anyway.
“It was just easier when these feelings were only something I could read about,” I say, the words choking my chest. “I could feel everything but at the end of the day, I could…close the book. And now…”
I look to the copy of The Shattered Court on the couch, then to Scott himself. His hair swoop. His inquisitive, kind eyes.
“Now you’re—beyond anything I’ve read about, and if this ends badly, I can’t just—close this book. I can’t—I don’t—”
He rushes up to me. He holds my face in his hands, urgent and desperate and loving. “No. No, you can’t just close the book,” he replies. “It’ll hurt like hell if this falls apart. I know it will, Jen. I know.”
He hugs me close.
“I know love is easier when it’s a fantasy, but is it better? Or is it just safer?” he asks. When I say nothing, he continues. “You have to risk something to make it real.”
I hold him, wrestling with myself. I know I’ve used fantasy as an escape, and the real world offers none of its forgiveness. It’s devastating to imagine my dreams coming true , only to lose their luster when Scott and I fight, or I don’t get into an MFA program, or long distance strains our relationship to breaking. It wouldn’t just close the cover on us. It would rip pages out, whole chapters. The ending, even. Leaving me holding only the ruined remains of our once wonderful story.
What if I’m not brave? What if nothing goes the way I imagine, and my life ends up completely…ordinary? I would have nothing to write about. Scott wouldn’t want me. Who would want Jennifer the Ordinary? I wouldn’t be a heroine. I would be no one of note.
You have to risk something to make it real.
I want to say You’re right or I will or Okay . Except those words would only come out disingenuous. Imaginary. Fake. No different from magic spells recited from the pages of my favorite stories of sorcery. The real world demands honesty. Not enchanting fictions about myself.
“I don’t know how,” I admit.
His hands lower to my waist, and he withdraws to look at me. He smiles sadly.
“Sometimes you have to fight for your fantasy. It’s not an easy escape from reality. It’s a dream you have to believe in even when it’s hard. You taught me that,” he says.
“Maybe I was wrong. I’ve been wrong so many times,” I say weakly. “I’ve believed in a lie before.”
Something crumbles in his eyes. “I’m not a lie, Jennifer. I’m real.”
I pull out of his arms, knowing what I’m about to say will end this. And knowing I have to say it anyway. “You came here to become a character from a book.”
Scott says nothing. It’s horrible. He meets my gaze—like he’s searching, scouring for clues in a scavenger hunt with no prize and no ending—and I hold his stare, my heart pounding painfully.
And then his expression closes up.
“You know deep down I’ve shown you the real me, Jennifer,” he explains. His voice is unyielding, but not the dry dismissals of my rival. It’s worse. “And yet you’re pushing me away. Don’t pretend you’re doubting how real this is for me, how much I care about you. It’s something else.”
Panic shoots into me when he collects his phone and key card from the couch. “Where are you going?” I ask.
“If this was all just a flight of fancy for you—a fling with a guy who could halfway convince you that your fictional crush could be real—then I guess I was the romantic, swept up in a fairy-tale romance this time.” His voice breaks. There’s no fire of competition in his eyes, no anger, no friendship. Only disappointment. Heartbreak. “I should have known I never could have been what you really wanted. I’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of the Experience without me,” Scott says.
He walks to the doorway. I want to stop him. I want to erase these past minutes.
I feel new tears rolling down my face. “You are what I wanted,” I say.
Scott shakes his head. “Not enough, though. I hope you win that scavenger hunt,” he says. “You deserve to experience what I can’t give you.” With one last look, he walks out and closes my door.
The quiet in my room, comfortable just minutes ago, is suddenly suffocating. The candlelight dances innocently on the walls. I sink onto the couch, staring at the door. I’m light-headed from how fast the night changed…and yet, I don’t go after him. It’s cleaner this way. On Monday we can go back to hating each other at work. It’ll be like this week never happened.
The thought leaves me sobbing.
I hear his door open and close, and a few minutes later, open again. The sounds of his rolling suitcase follow his footsteps into the hallway. His door closes once more.
He’s really leaving.
After his footsteps fade down the stairwell, I walk shakily into my bedroom. The night feels horribly like when I got here. I’m alone again. My heart hurts again.
It’s frustrating to feel like the exact same girl who walked in here nearly a week ago, when everyone else has found what they needed. Scott embraced romanticism. Erik forgave his brother. Amelia has released something making her miserable.
And I’m just heartsick once more.
I look around the room, and the memorable details meet my gaze. The coverlet, the candelabra, the painting. The runes over the door.
It’s the room of a main character, an occupant worthy of Elytheum. And if I sit in here and mope, I’ve failed in one of the main character’s fundamental roles. I haven’t changed. I need to grow. Val does. Kethryn does.
How can I have the Elytheum Experience without doing the same for myself?
In the midst of my determination, my eyes land on the folded clue on my desk. The one Scott found in the library and left in my pocket. I snatch it up, thumbing his handwriting on the outside. For the first time, I unfold the parchment to read the clue inside.
From the gates of the city, choose honor over power
Follow my journey and ring in the new day on the hour
The final clue.
I know the answer instantly.