14. Chapter 14
Chapter 14
Delilah
I hit send on the text and put my phone face down on the table.
I tell myself that whatever the answer will be, if there’s going to be an answer at all, will be fine. If Cedric agrees to spend more time with me outside of work? Great. Dancing-in-the-kitchen-inducing news. Because it means I haven’t somehow pushed him away already. It also means I’m giving myself a chance to just… feel.
If he doesn’t reply, or if he makes up some excuse, then I’ll know that he was running from me, and that I should get any ideas out of my head before I’m in too deep.
Let’s be honest, what would he be busy doing on a Sunday, in a town where he only knows me, Faye, and Janek ?
Probably taxes, or something that requires him to never smile , a voice that sounds remarkably like Faye’s says in the back of my head. I pout as I shake my near-empty milk carton and pour its last contents in my favorite bowl.
I won’t lie: the idea of Cedric not wanting to spend more time than necessary with me stings.
But if I really allow myself to think about it, what pains me the most is that it would be the best thing for his sake. The only way I could ensure he wouldn’t get hurt. It makes my stomach churn with guilt, though I’ve not done anything. Not yet. I’m trying to follow Faye’s advice and live my life as normally as possible and think about what I want. See if normal is still something I can afford. I might be worrying too much–in the far-off chance something would happen between us, he’d be leaving before it could cause permanent marks.
Probably.
I look sideways at the calendar to my left, as if I could will it out of my sight. As if I haven’t intentionally put it there to make sure I never forget.
It’ll still be a while before the full moon, but each day it creeps closer, the more I find myself on edge.
I take a deep breath and smile to myself as convincingly as possible to dispel the mounting dread that is making my snack taste like paper. “It’s fine,” I say aloud. “It’s going to be fine.”
You’d think it would have gotten easier, after years of practice, but it hasn’t, and I fear it never will. My memories of the first time I transformed after the bite are out of focus, fragmented images that I’m convinced my brain wants to shield me from replaying. All I know is that I woke up on my couch, crimson staining my fingers, a pounding headache rattling my head, and Faye’s deepest frown etched on her face as she stared down at me.
The first full moon, though? That one, I remember. The makeshift chains Faye had helped me procure. The way I broke them in a matter of minutes. The way I knew who I was, but couldn’t do anything to return to being that person.
I am now the proud owner of the best handcuffs and chain set the internet could provide with a month’s worth of salary, all the way from Italy. I will never live down the embarrassment of providing a reason as to why I needed them, which for some astrological opposition was a requirement. I physically cringe at the thought, though Faye found it hilarious at the time. Blaine howls for his meal, and I nearly knock my bowl of sugary cereal over in surprise.
“Alright, alright,” I tell him, padding to the cabinet where I keep his food. I weigh the allergenic kibble, and as I’m grabbing Blaine’s bowl, my phone buzzes on the kitchen counter. I drop the bowl, which skitters to the ground with a clang, and Blaine huffs in disappointment.
“I’m sorry, baby, here you go,” I scramble, most of the kibble scattering around the bowl rather than inside it because my hand is shaking.
Gosh, it’s like being sixteen all over again, except more susceptible to rabies than mono.
While Blaine eats greedily, I get up and grab my phone.
Who’s asking?
Oh no. Did he not save my number? Did he save it only to delete it? I guess now’s a good time as any to pack my bags and claw at a patch in the garden I can crawl into until Cedric leaves town. I stare at the text for a minute, two, seven, and I’m debating letting it go altogether, because how do I manage to constantly make a fool of myself? But an incoming phone call interrupts my spiraling thoughts.
Cedric is calling . Doesn’t he know nobody calls anymore?
I could pretend to be showering. I could throw my phone out the window. But I don’t do either of those things. I square my shoulders and pick up the call.
I don’t have time to say anything, because Cedric’s deep voice immediately cuts in and says my name.
“Oh, hi! That’s me!” I say, like an idiot. I slap a hand across my forehead with too much force and mumble an ouch .
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah! Yep. Alright-o.”
Cedric makes an unconvinced sound, though he doesn’t comment further on my unbearable awkwardness.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“You texted me,” he says, and though I can’t see him, I could swear he’s smiling. I’m furious I’m not there to witness it.
“Ha! That’s right,” I say. I’ve never been happier to not have any people around.
“I am, by the way.”
“Hmm?”
“Free.”
“Really, well, that’s great! I mean, if you’re absolutely sure, I don’t want to take you away from more important, ah, business things–”
“There’s nothing,” he gently interrupts, almost a sigh, “more important.”
I know he doesn’t mean it like that , but my stomach erupts into a colony of monarch butterflies all the same. I bite my lip as Blaine yaps at my feet impatiently .
“Okay, I’ll meet you in front of Myrta’s at–let’s say ten?”
“Are you not going to tell me what we’re doing?” he asks, his voice further, as if he left the phone on speaker somewhere.
“Aw, where would the fun be in that?” I hear footsteps and the swish of clothes rustling before he replies, “Alright then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good! Oh, and wear something comfortable,” I say as I keep the phone upright between my ear and shoulder while I jostle Blaine into his green harness.
“You mean no hideous workout clothes?”
“Was that a joke, Cedric?”
He breathes into the receiver, a suppressed laugh that leaves me aching for more. “Try not to fall as long as I’m not there to catch you,” he says before hanging up.
The butterflies are still making their rounds when, ten minutes later, Blaine and I are out of the door.
Cedric
I wonder how many times two people can go on a date and proceed not to call it that.
For all the questions I’ve been asking myself, for all the pragmatism I like to think I’m capable of, it’s taken all but a text for Delilah to have me wrapped around her little finger again. I can’t believe I ran and didn’t even apologize.
I shut my computer off, the thought of waking up to work emails making me nearly nauseous.
After my call with Delilah, who is starting to become adorable to the point of pain, I check in with Marcus. He tells me not to worry about him; he flippantly reminds me that, if anything, it’s other people who should be scared of him. We say goodbye without me mentioning Delilah at all.
The truth is–I’m fucked.
Completely, thoroughly so. Because this place, this town, these people? They are exactly what Marcus is going to need. He could have a good life here, even if it’s one in hiding for as long as necessary, and I don’t need to spend weeks among them to figure it out. But I am selfish enough that I will.
As soon as Marcus packs his things and moves here, it’s also time for me to return to Cambridge. To real life, or whatever new version of it will be waiting for me.
I sigh, passing a hand on the knots in my neck, the mattress creaking with my shift in position. As I stare at the ceiling, the last thing I have a grasp on before I pass out is the glittering green of Delilah’s eyes.
I pry my eyes open with no little difficulty. I manage to lift one eyelid, fully expecting the sunlight to set my cornea on fire, but that doesn’t happen. Because it’s dark outside, pitch black dotted with luminous stars visible even from the dusty glass of my window. I rise slowly, weight on my elbows, and my neck feels stiffer than hell. My mouth and throat are like sandpaper, scratchy and dry. My brain barely registers I have slept the whole bloody day away when I realize what it means for my body to hurt like this.
But I don’t get sick.
I take a deep breath and roll to the side to grab my canteen, groaning in defeat when I find it empty. I must have woken up and drank it at some point during my million-hour nap, because I distinctly remember filling it up this morning and–ugh. It’s been years since I’ve gotten so much as a cold.
How is this possible? Delilah’s warning comes back to mind suddenly, and I start shaking my head before a sharp gust of pain on the side of my neck blocks the movement. I sigh and glance at my watch. It’s almost nine, meaning there’s no chance the chemist could be open, meaning any sort of medicine will have to wait until morning.
Morning. When I’m supposed to meet Delilah.
I will have to get over this ridiculous illness on my own, then. I probably just need a warm shower and something hot to drink. Though if I must rely on the ever-absent concierge for that, I fear I might as well pass out on an empty stomach.
With no shortage of effort, I pad to the wall-mounted phone next to the door–seriously, are these the eighties?–for the feeble hope someone might actually be working around here.
Surprisingly, a voice picks up on the other line halfway through the first ring.
“ The Fern Hotel, how I can help you sir !” someone shouts into the receiver. For the first time, I am thankful for my instinctive reflex to lean back from the phone as soon as shouting occurs–courtesy of Joe Campbell’s habits.
“Good evening, I know it’s late, but I wondered if the kitchen might–”
“Anything sir, it’s never too late, sir!”
I don’t understand the enthusiasm, given that this young man has all but been evading me since my arrival, but I suppose it matters little.
“Alright, then, I would appreciate some soup taken to my room, thank you. ”
“What kind of soup, sir? Chicken? Fish? Vegetables? Not to brag, sir, but our asparagus is phenomenal! And wait until you try the Fern stems, they are out-of-this-wor–”
“Whatever your cook is feeling up for most,” I interrupt before the never-ending list gets me a proper headache.
“Alright, sir, absolutely, thank you for your trust. I am on it, sir.”
I end the call before the lad can keep talking my ear off, which I reckon was a real possibility.
I move back to the bed, fighting the overwhelming urge to fall back. I can feel I’m going to pass out again if I close my eyelids for longer than three seconds, so I force my eyes open and scavenge for my phone through the creases of the blankets. When I do, the light makes my eyes water.
In case it wasn’t clear, there is little I despise more fervently than being sick.
There’s a message from Marcus asking for the whereabouts of his (my) vintage tortoiseshell sunglasses, as well as a semi-threatening one from one of Joe’s minions that I decide to push aside for the time being.
I look down and realize I’m still wearing the clothes Delilah gave me, and I remember how she told me I could throw them away. That was so odd, I can’t help but wonder why. Am I entitled to know? Probably not, or she would have told me. I might be reading too much into it, but I can’t shake the feeling that they hold memories she doesn’t want to linger on. Who am I to impose on that? No one.
Not yet, at least.
A few minutes later, I hear a rapid sequence of knocks on the door and a sound of feet shuffling quickly on the carpeted floor. By the time I’ve set myself upright, wrapped my fingers around the handle and pulled the door open, no one is there to greet me. I can hear the retreating steps down the stairs though, which means whoever knocked ran away. The irritating feeling everyone in this town has something to hide is quickly dampened by my brain, which promptly reminds me I’m the first to be carrying secrets like one would handkerchiefs. With a sigh, I look down and spot the wooden tray at my feet and the steaming plate of precariously-swishing soup inside. Bending down to retrieve it proves to be more difficult than I’d like–perhaps it’s a mercy that nobody is here to witness it.
Closing the door with a hip, I notice the note peeking from beneath the plate. I slowly extract it, my eyebrows furrowing as I decipher the handwriting.
Have a good evening, sir!
Please call if you need anything else. I will be here all night.
Seriously, like all through the night.
Enjoy :)
– Dave
That’s a first , I think bitterly as I shake my head and pocket the note. I look around me to notice the lack of anything remotely resembling a chair, so I begrudgingly take the tray to the bed and carefully place it next to me. My throat relaxes as soon as I gulp a spoonful of soup, though the aftertaste is odd at best. The appropriate course of action is not to focus on that, given this is the closest thing to medicine I’m currently able to get my hands on.
When I’m done, I leave the tray outside, hoping someone will collect it. I need to shower and get back to bed, though the prospect of putting together the movements that will take me to the bathroom makes me want to crash my head against the wall. The wall is probably made from papier-mache, so that’s not a good idea, regardless. Perhaps if I leaned down for a minute, I could gather a bit of energy to get ready to sleep. Yes, I’ll do that. I’ll lean down for a… bit.