24
The next morning when Andrew’s house is unoccupied, Love inspects the first-floor windows. They’re locked, so she scales the wall, finding it laborious to balance her weight. By the time she reaches the upper story, she’s panting.
Love checks the primary suite windows, which are also bolted shut. Left with no other choice, she wrestles with the sash, prying the hinges from their sockets.
In his office, Andrew’s books stand with the front covers facing outward. From duologies to long series, he’s a prolific writer, having penned tales of magical beings such as faeries, vampires, dragons, and deities.
Two slices of paper occupy his desk—the note she’d torn in half. She remembers Andrew collecting them, clutching each scrap to his chest while wishing she didn’t exist.
Love sits cross-legged on his floor. This should take seconds, but she forgoes speed, working slowly like a mortal. As it is, she’s uncertain whether she’d be quicker otherwise. She is wilting because of him.
She tapes the pieces together, giving life back to his words. The page is repaired but scarred, a crease shearing across the leaflet like an artery. She rereads the narrative, overwhelmed by how he sees her.
Who is this Selfish Little Myth?
Love borrows one of his pens and writes her answer.
She’s someone who made a grave mistake.
Please forgive her.
She sets the note on his desk and leaves. In her cottage, she brews tea, and the fire refreshes itself. The flames’ height is a good sign that Andrew will be comfortable when he returns and they reach a truce. Soon, he’ll read her words and miss her as much as she misses him. He’ll trek across the snow, and in this secret place, he’ll have more things to say.
Love watches the sky expectantly as it shifts from light to dark. She listens for his footfalls, the rug where he once sat across from looking worn. Dipping her finger in the tea, she discovers its texture has changed, meaning it must not be warm anymore.
Andrew’s not coming back to her. Perhaps he’s called on Holly as he’d threatened to do. Perhaps the woman has invited him into her home. Perhaps he’s there now, making her laugh and wrapping his arms around her, spreading the woman’s thighs and overwhelming her with moans, each flick of his tongue wetting her slit. So perhaps Love’s work is almost done.
She gives up waiting, gives up hoping. She climbs into bed and curls into a shell.
And now she knows what regret feels like.