Chapter Ten #2
The attic stretched the length of the house, rafters black with age, floorboards creaking underfoot.
There were boxes everywhere, labeled and unlabeled, some stacked to the beams, others toppled or half-empty, their contents spilling out in drifts of old fabric and brittle paper.
Light filtered through a dormer window that opened at the far end, casting everything in pale gray as the rain slammed down in a sold sheet.
I watched Eden take it in, her nose wrinkling at the must, her eyes scanning the chaos with something like delight.
"This is incredible," she said. "It's like a time capsule for hoarders."
"It's a graveyard," I replied, but she was already plunging ahead.
She crouched by a trunk, then hesitated and looked at me, as if for permission. I gave a dismissive wave of my hand.
Her grin was so wide I worried she’d pull a cheek muscle as she lifted the lid. Inside, old letters, a handful of medals, a lock of blond hair tied with blue ribbon.
"Whose?" she asked, holding up the ribbon.
I hesitated. "My grandmother's."
She turned it over in her palm, gentle, as if afraid it would vanish. "Do you miss her?"
The question was too sharp. I deflected. "She was a tyrant. Ran the family estate like a military campaign. She made my father look like a kitten."
Eden smiled. "You liked her, though."
I tried not to, but I did. "She taught me how to keep score."
She set the ribbon back in place and moved to the next box, this one full of tarnished silver, the family crest engraved on every piece. "You could melt this down and retire."
"That's the plan," I said. "Eventually."
She closed the lid, then turned to face me. "Why do you keep all this?"
I didn't answer right away. I could feel her eyes on me, curious, open, expecting honesty. I hated how much I wanted to give it.
"It reminds me that nothing lasts," I said. "That no matter how much you build, how much you hoard, you end up here. Just another box in a pile."
She looked at me for a long time. Then she stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off her skin. She reached out, slow, and grabbed my lapels, her hands sliding down as her gaze met mine.
"That's bleak, even for you," she said softly.
"It's the truth," I said.
She didn't let go. Her fingers lingered on the fabric, reaching up to trace the line of my collar. My breath caught, my heart thudded. For a second, I thought she might kiss me, right there among the skeletons of my ancestors. I didn’t mind the thought, let them curse me as I enjoyed the one woman I’d dared let see any part of me.
Instead, she smiled. "You don't have to be alone up here, you know."
My throat went tight. "I prefer it."
She raised an eyebrow. "Liar."
I wanted her so badly it hurt. I wanted to shove the boxes aside and lay her down on the bare planks, taste her again, lose myself in the heat and the mess of her. But I didn't. I couldn't.
Instead, I watched her drift to the window seat, where the light was strongest. She curled up, knees to chest, and pulled out her phone. For a minute, she tapped quietly, lost in her own world.
I busied myself with a box that had come apart at the seams, letting memories seep out, and cleaned up the papers and trinkets, pictures I hadn’t looked at since I was twelve, pretending not to watch her.
She texted, then dialed a number. I heard the soft, affectionate murmur of her voice as she spoke, words I couldn't make out, but the tone was intimate, relaxed. I felt a twist of jealousy, sharp and sudden, until I realized who she was talking to.
"No, it’s not a telemarketer, silly. Hi, Gram," she said, and I heard the smile in her words. "No, I'm fine. He's fine, too. It's just…different here."
She listened for a while, head pressed to the cold glass as the rain turned the world into blurry hazes. "Yeah. He's still a grump. But he's not as scary as he thinks he is."
I turned away, embarrassed by how much I wanted to listen.
When she hung up, she tucked the phone away and looked at me. "Sorry about that." she said, teasing.
"Never apologize," I said, unsure if I was training her for management or to be mine.
She stretched out, arms above her head, and let out a sound halfway between a sigh and a groan. "Do you ever just want to set the whole place on fire and start over?"
"Every day," I said.
She grinned. "We could, you know."
"I'd miss the wine cellar."
She laughed, then lapsed into silence. For a long time, we just sat there, her in the window, me in an antique chair threatening to fall apart, the attic around us buzzing with the ghosts of a hundred years.
Eventually, she stood and crossed to me. She brushed a strand of hair from my forehead, fingers light as breath.
"You don't have to keep all of it," she said. "Some things, you can let go."
I stared at her, helpless.
Why couldn’t I tell her the truth, that I didn’t think I could let go of her?
And we sat, her listening to stories of my tyrannical upbringing, making cute comments about how she understood why I was the way I was based on that info. But it was easy to talk to her, comfortable in a way I should have been on guard for, but I wasn’t.
When we finally left the attic together, I realized I didn’t want to have to pretend we weren’t what we were. For the first time in a long while, I felt like maybe the past didn't own me after all. She reminded me about work and walked off, steps light, smile bright, and I watched her go.
Then I pretended to work until dark, but really, I thought of her. Every aspect of her. Her words that left me feeling free of the weight of the past. The way she made me think about my future, not just money, but my actual future.
That night, I prowled the halls, seeking out the whispers I knew were circling.
The house was hushed, as if holding its breath, the only light the dim glow of sconces and the flicker from the kitchen at the far end of the wing. And the thought of climbing into my bed alone, sheets still smelling faintly of her, made my skin crawl.
I drifted past the doors to the kitchen and heard voices. I should have kept moving. I should have let the staff have their secrets, let them believe I was asleep and oblivious. But the sound of Eden’s name, sharp, sweet, edged with laughter, caught me and held me fast.
I slowed, quiet as a ghost, and listened.
Maribel: “I’m telling you, it’s only a matter of time. That girl has him wrapped, and not just around her finger.”
One of the juniors, maybe the pastry sous, laughed. “Is there an official betting pool, or do we just put our guesses in a tip jar?”
Maribel again, voice giddy: “It’s not a bet, it’s a foregone conclusion. You should have seen him this morning. Smiled at her. Like, a real smile. I thought he was having a stroke.”
A third voice, wry and nasal: “You think he’ll break the contract, or just rewrite it for her?”
“Rewrite,” Maribel said. “He can’t help himself. She’s the only person I’ve ever seen who could talk back to him and live to tell about it.”
She wasn’t wrong.
There was a pause, a shuffling of cups, a pop as someone opened a can of seltzer. I heard the tap of Maribel’s rings on the countertop, a nervous clinking that made me think there was more.
“Good for him,” she said, softer. “He needed someone. I just didn’t think he’d ever let himself.”
There were murmurs of agreement, then the conversation drifted to the menu for the weekend and who was covering the Friday breakfast shift. I let myself move on, pulse hammering.
The words chased me down the hall.
Good for him. He needed someone.
I ducked into the library, closed the door behind me, and braced my forehead against the cold glass of the window. My hands trembled, and not from anger.
I thought about the attic, about Eden’s hand in mine. I thought about the way she’d looked at me over breakfast, no fear, no shame, just absolute certainty. I thought about the way my own voice had sounded, broken, raw, desperate for her.
I realized I didn’t want to be alone anymore. I realized I might be allowed, for once, not to be alone.
I wanted to go to her room. The urge was physical, animal. I could already taste the sleep-warmth of her skin, the rasp of her voice in my ear, the wild, impossible possibility of waking up next to her.
I fought it. I made myself stay put.
Instead, I wrote her a note, short, awkward, scrawled on the back of a library index card.
If you need me, you know where to find me.
I left it in her favorite book, second shelf from the top, left of the window seat, where I knew she’d find it in the morning when she did her wake up reading sessions.
Then I went to bed, and for the first time in years, I dreamed of something other than the past.
I dreamed of her.
And I didn’t dream of how she was going to react when she learned the truth.