Chapter 36
Lanston
Ophelia,dressed in the most enchanting dress I’ve ever seen, runs alongside the bay. Her white sleeves are clad in lace, intertwined with beige, and sewn in wheat embroidery. It’s a light and endearing look—so bright and in contrast to her usual dark attire.
Secretly, I pretend this is her wedding dress and the black suit I’m in is my groom’s attire.
She smiles back at me, earning her one in return. My hair wisps freely in the breeze. Paris has a crisp wine scent that floats in the air, tasting of rosé and champagne.
As I watch my rose take in the city, I picture what we could have been had we been fated to meet in life. I think of her, eating pastries and begging me to take her to the opera. We would get front-seat tickets that cost a fortune, but we wouldn’t care. We’d be frugal with other things. I’d take her to bookstores, the ones that have a dark, gothic feel to them. Then, with our backpacks stuffed with unnecessary things, I’d drive us around a little too fast on a crotch rocket. Enjoying the feel of her arms wrapped tightly around my lungs, squeezing me as though I’ll disappear if she doesn’t.
A breath leaves my lungs and I chuckle a bit to myself, feeling foolish, because we are already doing all those things. But it would have been sweeter in life, to call Liam and brag about my adventures. To hear Wynn and Lanny’s laughs in the background.
It wasn’t written in the stars for me. I decide.
I accept that now.
Jericho reminded me that graves don’t hold us down. Our ghosts are free, willing and daring. Just as we are.
Ophelia waves me over and I grin, happily meeting her by the water’s edge.
“This bridge reminds me of the one back home,” she says sadly.
I stare at her with sympathy, curious about the thoughts that may be running through her mind right now.
It comes to me that perhaps it is not appropriate to say, but I do anyway. “All this time I thought someone murdered you. An angry ex, an abusive family member, someone. But I never considered it was your illness that took you.”
She stares somberly at the small ripples in the water below us.
“Are you angry?” Her fists clench tightly against the cement rail, trembling with the fear of judgment, I think.
I set my hand over hers and look out into the watery grave below as she does. “Ophelia, it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t commit a crime. You were ill and succumbed to your illness. It isn’t your fault your most important organ failed and told you to crave death as a means of escape.” She takes a deep breath and looks at me with despair, clinging to each word I say. “Only fools would be angry with you. You were sick, and try as you might, you were unable to find a light. How could one blame another for falling ill to cancer or disease? Your mental illness was a disease of the mind. It was just harder for them to see. I only wish that you could’ve found help. That you realized you were not alone in your illness.”
“I am not hated?” She whispers so low that it hurts my aching soul.
“No. Not by anyone who understands the call of the dark, my rose.” I press a kiss to her temple and she hugs me tightly.
“You always know what to say. You’re so young but wiser than most,” she admits and looks up at me. Her beautiful eyes are hooded by long lashes, and I find myself falling deeper into her.
“Perhaps we have lived many times. Our stories chasing one another permanently. But maybe now we can settle and rest,” I say softly against her lips. She tilts her head back and kisses me endearingly.
“There’s nothing I would love more than that, my love.”
Palais Garnier is grander than any cathedral, library, or architecture I’ve yet seen. The walls are that of a fortress of the gods. It’s honestly a bit overwhelming. More windows than I can count and gold finishes on statues and window frames above.
Ophelia giggles and nudges me, drawing my attention down to her smiling face. “Pretty impressive, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, that’s an understatement,” I say breathlessly, returning my eyes to the white and gold paint.
We’ll dance to any music tonight. Whatever show is currently going on doesn’t faze us. Ophelia reassured me that the dance she taught me is universal, so long as the song is slow and beautiful.
People gather outside in masses, dressed in their best formal attire for such an event as this. I can’t help but smile. The atmosphere is different, but I am reminded so much of the night I met Ophelia, dancing on a small stage without a care in the world.
We enter the grand building and make our way through the crowds toward the stage, quickly slipping behind the stage curtains and laughing at our mischief.
I enjoy that most about Ophelia, I think—the laughter she draws from me. It’s always so easy and pure.
“Tell me again why this is on your bucket list?” I jest, raising my brow at her and earning myself a playful punch to the arm.
“I didn’t say shit about the beach and drinking under the stars, now did I?” she shoots back, and I can’t fight the grin that spreads across my lips. I unfold the bucket list and cross off a few more things.
Lanston Ophelia’s Bucket List
Go to Paris
Sail a yacht
Ballroom dance
Drink on the beach at night/camp out
Ride a train somewhere new
Visit Ireland’s Trinity College Library
Save a stray plant
Save a stray plant is all that remains. I let my eyes linger over Ophelia’s lithe shoulders and smile, knowing I’ll cross off the last item soon.
“Aw, come on, I know you loved it.”
She shrugs cheekily.
My eyes are drawn to her chest, and I think of ravishing her here in front of everyone.
Ophelia’s head tilts a bit and she grins. “What are you thinking? You have the most peculiar look on your face.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Nothing, nothing.”
“Tell me!” She wraps her arms around my neck and before I mutter anything in return, the curtains lift. A million lights blind us from every conceivable angle and thousands of faces in the crowd stare up at us.
For a moment, I think they can see us, their faces aghast with whimsy. But then a handful of performers take the stage, running, leaping, dancing.
Ophelia’s eyes brighten, and I can feel her joy inside my own chest. I knew then that the bucket list was a farce. Finding peace was never going to be about experiencing tangible things or seeing beautiful sights. It is the company in which it is spent, the meaning and love that is sewn into our fabric, the colors and images we keep of the most cherished ones, and experiencing together the dreams never pursued.
With her, I became the artist I always dreamed of being—she’s dancing on the stage she always yearned for.
My rose adds every shade of red to my soul.
Happiness such as this, what a pleasure it’s been.
She raises her hand, skin delicate and smooth. Our hands meet in the center of the stage and chills spread down my spine as the music starts up.
“Chem Trails” by Lana Del Rey.
My brow raises because I was expecting something old and orchestra-like, and Ophelia laughs, surprised but so delighted.
“Modern music finds its way into an old theater,” she says cunningly. Her smirk is a little too sly.
“Did you mess with the music?” I laugh as we start to slow dance, feet moving with the song in long, languid steps.
She nods. “I couldn’t help myself. I wanted this to be perfect.” Her hands wrap around my neck and we glide across the stage amongst the confused performers. They dance alongside us, sticking to their routine even though the song has changed.
“How did you pull this off? I didn’t think we could alter things in the living world.” My smile is starting to hurt my cheeks, but I cannot stop. She enchants me in everything she does.
Ophelia proclaims, “If a phantom wishes hard enough, our pleas can be heard. I wanted this dance with you, with this song, and to kiss you. To tell you I love you over and over if you’ll hear it.”
I dip my head closer to hers, pressing our temples together.
“What else have you wished for, my rose?” I ask in a hushed voice, unwilling to disturb the music or this moment with her. One of my hands is clasped tightly with hers, the other lingering low on her back.
“I’ve wished for the plants I’ve stored in my opera house to find life again one day. For the weary darlings out in the world to find their hope.” She pauses and looks at me, her eyes flickering with the lights around us. I only see her. “I’ve wished most of all for you. To find your reasons, to find happiness and love. To find your missing pieces.”
Her purple hair glows beneath the lighting; her eyes have never been so colorful; they are easy to get lost in. Her skin is a beautiful olive, radiant, alive.
“I’ve wished for us,” I say finally. And it feels as though I’ve waited such a long time to say these words. “I’ve longed for a soul like yours. And here you’ve been all this time. Ophelia, even if we are stuck on this earth forever, I would find solace in knowing we are together.”
The song comes to an end. We stop dancing and stare at each other with endearment.
And then the darkness comes again.
The electricity sparks and shuts off; the crowd screams and panicked murmurs spread like smoke through the room. Ophelia’s head whirls toward me, and mine toward hers.
We say simultaneously, “Those Who Whisper.”
Our hands join and something wondrous happens. Light seeps from between us, and our breaths become one.
“Cast them away, Ophelia. Only you can do it,” I shout above the loud whispers that surround us as if they are the next ensemble. Dark and cryptic.
Her hair lashes around her, our light flickering. “I don’t know how! I thought they were gone. Lanston, I’m afraid.”
My eyes narrow through the dark that caves around us. “You know the truth now. You know what they tell you are lies. I’m never leaving your side again; set yourself free.”
Ophelia’s fingers tighten around mine and her jaw flexes with determination.
Their voices suddenly become very clear to me, and I assume I’m hearing what she has all along.
“You are a sinner. You’re going to hell. The ultimate sin. You’ve committed the worst crime. Your soul is damned. Selfish. Evil.”
The anger and the hatred in the voices cause tears to roll down my cheeks. Voices of men and women, people who I’m sure she knew well.
My heart clenches and I grind my jaw, unable to keep my words inside my head. I shout, “She was sick! How dare you speak such horrible things to a soul such as her? Ophelia Rosin is the most beautiful creature to walk this earth. The kindest soul. Enough. ENOUGH!”
Like a breath extinguished, the whispers stop as if aghast. As if they’ve never heard anyone else speak against them.
Ophelia stares at me, silent tears falling from her eyes and then a small smile. The light between us grows until the darkness is cast away, until the room is completely encased with illumination and the stars hear us. Until the only thing the frightened audience stares at is the stage, at us, one might think.
Silence.
Then a small whisper from my rose, “Lanston.”
I whisper back, “Yes?”
“I’ve waited my entire life and then some, to hear those words. Even if I knew them myself. To hear you say them…” She looks at me, entirely at peace. “Thank you.”
I realize we’ve fallen to our knees in the chaos. Our hands clutching the other, safe. At a loss for words, I just look at her for as long as I can, not knowing when we might fade.
It feels close now, like a tug from deep within my chest. A call from within.
“I think it’s almost time,” she murmurs, pressing her hand to her chest, surely feeling it too.
I nod slowly, leaning in for a kiss. “Almost. But not yet.”