Honeysuckle

Chapter Fifty. Rory

Rory

Sometimes, in the months leading up to this weekend, Rory had daydreamed about the moments after the transition: Daye’s eyes fluttering open, wine-dark eyelashes fanning her cheeks; her lips parting to say, “I love you, Rory.” Or, “I always knew you would find a way.” Or, “Thank you for giving me a voice.” Dozens of ways she would react—surprised, grateful, happy, amazed.

Hundreds of possible first words. He imagined how her voice would sound a thousand times, in a thousand different ways.

None of it came close to the way it actually went.

How long it took to find Daye’s voice. How he had to make her try again and again while she reclined on the ground, puzzled and frustrated.

How, at first, her voice soared into flute-like reediness and deepened into cigarette gravel in the very same breath, and only now, two days later, was it beginning to settle somewhere in the middle, into something sweet and chiming and Daye-like.

How it took her a while to learn to modulate her voice, so her words veered between a shout and a whisper without her seeming to realize how to make them go this way or that.

How there was no immediate shift into talking, and Daye kept echoing the words with her hands, stumbling on vowels and scraping her throat raw by talking too low or too loud or too much.

How far from grateful Daye was, once he told her how her voice came about. The betrayal and devastation in her eyes.

He didn’t foresee any of it. He probably should have.

Maybe he would have, if only he had stopped fantasizing about his name on Daye’s lips for long enough to actually think.

But he never did. Like he never really lingered on how it would be after.

How he’d have to teach Daye weave and words and how to combine them. How very long it would take.

In Rory’s head, the new solution was instantaneous—the transition, this last transition of its kind, a clear line of demarcation between dependence and freedom.

Instead, he was now faced with weeks, possibly months, of teaching before he’d know if it even worked.

It made him tired just thinking about it.

So for the rest of the weekend, Rory tried to teach Daye the basics of weaving: listing plants and ratios and sketching diagrams; showing Daye how to weave vines and leaves into a simple plait.

She knew most of it already—the flora from years of helping him collect it for each transition, the weaving from years of intricate flower crowns. That was something, at least.

On Sunday morning, Rory opened his notebook and started outlining a rabbit construct, denoting the ratio of berries to grass blades, how the limbs fitted into the body, and which branches were best for bones.

‘What is this?’ Daye asked. She had been falling back to signing more and more since their conversation on Friday, like she was spooling back her voice. It made Rory’s chest ache.

“I wish you’d speak more.” It came out harsher than he’d meant it to. He touched her cheek to soften his words. “I’m sorry. It just feels strange, you signing when you can just say the words. And I love your voice. Unless your throat is still bothering you?”

“No, it’s fine,” she answered out loud, palm rubbing her throat protectively. “What is this?” she repeated, pointing at the sketch.

“This is something for you to practice with, before trying it on yourself.” He tilted the notebook closer to her. “It’s one of the simpler constructs, but—”

“A construct like the ones you practice on in the shed? The ones I can see in the window?”

“Yes,” Rory said, surprised and immediately wary.

Daye had never acknowledged the existence of the constructs in the garden shed.

If it weren’t for her careful avoidance of that part of the garden for the last four years, he would have thought she didn’t know about them.

Cautiously, he continued, “Building one is a good way to get experience before you try it on yourself.”

“No.” Daye pushed the notebook away. “Please—” She cut him off before he could argue, voice cracking. “Rory, please don’t ask me to do this. Please don’t make me create these … these constructs.” A shiver moved through her.

“Okay,” he said, taken aback. Had he ever seen Daye so …

vehement? Though, this, too, he would have foreseen if only he had stopped to think.

Of course Daye wouldn’t agree to create any constructs.

Of course everything would be just a little bit harder, just a little bit longer, than he thought it would.

“Okay, we’ll find another way to practice. ”

For the rest of the day, they practiced in small sections: Daye weaving and reweaving a palm-sized torso, a rabbit’s leg; Rory demonstrating and Daye following suit.

“Are you sure this won’t be like … these things in the shed?” she asked for the third time that afternoon.

“I’m sure,” he answered again. “You don’t know the words yet. Without saying the words and without the weave being complete, it’s just not possible for it to wake. These are like … those grass dolls you used to make.”

“Okay,” Daye breathed, and went back to weaving.

Rory flexed his hands. They’d been at it for hours, and his fingers felt bruised and stiff.

He felt bruised and stiff. It had been a long, intense weekend.

It should have been a triumphant celebration.

Instead, he felt only weary and deflated.

Even the joy of hearing Daye saying his name was growing dull and distant.

He was looking forward to the quietness of the apartment, to the soothing sound of cars passing. He could also use a drink or three.

He started gathering his things into a pile.

“I think we’ll take a couple of weeks to practice weaving techniques and the right ratios of flora, and then the weekend after that, we’ll start going over the words?

” He flipped through his notebook and pulled out a series of diagrams. “Can you try re-creating some of these over the week, and we’ll see how comfortable you feel by Saturday? ”

“Saturday?” Daye echoed, looking puzzled.

“Yeah, but like I said—there’s no rush. We have weeks until we go anywhere near practicing an actual transition. If you don’t feel comfortable yet this Saturday, we could do it over the next one.”

“Why Saturday?” she asked. Her hands kept moving unconsciously, mirroring her words.

Now it was Rory’s turn to be puzzled. “We can go over it on Sunday instead, if you prefer.”

For a long minute, Daye was silent, her gaze searching his face. “You’re going back to the university.” It was a statement.

“Yes?” His puzzlement deepened.

Daye took a deep breath. When she exhaled, it came with a slight sound, something between an aah and a whisper. He didn’t think she was aware of it. “You’re not coming home.”

“What? Why? What do you mean?”

“You said—” she started, but her voice cracked. She continued with her hands. ‘When you started going to the university, you said you’d come back once you found a solution. That you’d quit the university when you did.’

“Oh.” His stomach dropped. His heart started drumming faster and faster, climbing into his throat.

It had never occurred to him. How had it never occurred to him, in all the months of experimenting in the university lab, all the nights of planning in the library?

He’d always said that once he found a solution, he’d come home.

He said so to Daye, to his sister. Hell, only last month he’d said so to Noah.

How had it never occurred to him that if this was the solution, it also meant that his time at the university was over?

How could he have missed this, of all things?

How could he have gotten everything about this weekend so fucking wrong?

Of course Daye expected him to come home.

Of course she did. If only he’d bloody stopped to think for a minute—

Rory’s stomach kept plummeting, an endless descent.

Please, he thought, I’m not ready yet, without quite knowing who he was pleading with.

Daye? Himself? It wasn’t supposed to happen so soon.

He was barely a month into the semester.

He was finally done with intros and able to take classes he cared about—the advanced seminar about time and temporality Elliot kept talking about last year, another on advanced herbology.

And he had that bet with Noah, and that class he and Elliott were finally taking together.

He couldn’t leave it all now. Not yet. He needed another semester.

Another year. Then he’d be ready. Then he’d come home for good.

“Daye, I don’t think—” he stopped. Tried again. “It’s not—”

‘This is the solution you were searching for, right?’ And then, out loud, voice thin and wavering—“Do you still want to come home?”

Oh no. “Of course I do, Daye. I would love nothing more than to spend every night with you instead of just two nights a week. To wake up with you every morning. I miss you so much when I’m in the city.”

“Then come home.” And with her hands, ‘You promised to come home once you found it.’

Rory stared at Daye, at a loss. He couldn’t come back yet.

He couldn’t. But how could he tell her that?

What could he say? “I know. I know I did. I want to, so much. And I will, soon. But not yet.” His mouth worked, trying to find the right words, the right reasons.

Something that would take the hurt out of Daye’s eyes.

That would explain why he couldn’t stay.

Just … couldn’t. Not yet. “It’s not a full solution yet, you see?

” The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying.

Daye shook her head, half in answer, half in denial.

“We won’t know how well this works for a couple more seasons at least. There might be new complications to solve and tweaks we’ll need to make.

And …” He cast about, trying to find something that didn’t sound like a flimsy excuse, but he was drawing a blank.

“And—” And then he had it. “And anyway,” he continued, almost dizzy with relief, “just two days ago, I promised to find another way for you to speak, one that wouldn’t involve birds.

Unless you don’t want me to …?” He was a horrible person.

He was. But he was so relieved that he just couldn’t care, not right then.

Daye shook her head. She looked somewhere between resigned and desolate.

“I need to keep going to the university if I want to find a way to do it,” he continued.

Guilt was seeping into his bones, clamoring so very loud.

But not loud enough for him to stop. “And that’s not the only thing I need to figure out.

You’ll only be able to do surface transitions right now.

At least, I assume you will. We will still need to replace the inner structure—I guess every five or six years, now that you’ll stop growing taller? Maybe a bit more?”

Daye’s eyebrows creased in confusion, but Rory kept going. Suddenly, words and reasons were lining up, and he was anxious to get them all out before they disappeared again. There were reasons why he couldn’t come home yet. Valid, actual ones.

“So, you see? There are still so many things I need to figure out before I can come home. I don’t have a choice yet. But I promise it won’t be long. A year or two more at most. See how much I learned since January. At this rate, I’ll find everything we need in no time.”

Daye closed her eyes. She did that sometimes when she was upset with him. As if, when she couldn’t see him, she couldn’t hear him, either.

Rory put a hand on her shoulder and added, softly, “I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I’m not coming home yet. I’m sorry I didn’t say so earlier this weekend, and let you find out like that.

Nothing went the way I thought it would.

I just—” He paused, smoothed her hair back.

“I love you. I’m sorry. I hate seeing you so sad.

And I hate even more being the reason for it.

I promise it won’t be long until I’m home. ”

Daye’s eyes remained scrunched tight. She looked like she might cry, though Rory knew it was impossible, that she wasn’t able to.

But it was enough for him to panic a little.

His hand on her shoulder tightened, more grabbing than soothing.

He made a conscious effort to loosen his hold. “Please, Daye. Please look at me.”

Her eyes opened. Rory sighed with relief. It wasn’t that bad, then. “Will you forgive me? I know it’s a lot, and you’re right to be angry with me. But, please, I have to go back soon, and I don’t want to go like this. Please forgive me.”

A moment of silence, then “Yes.”

Rory hugged her to him. Daye leaned her cheek against his shoulder, and everything that was jagged in him started smoothing out.

For a while he simply held her, murmuring in her ear how sorry he was, how much he loved her; feeling his heart slowing, muscles he didn’t know were clenched unknotting.

Nothing seemed as disastrous with Daye’s body nestled against his.

Bit by bit, he could feel the world righting itself until all he felt was Daye’s breath against his neck and, if not triumph, at least rightness.

Peace. He got to hear Daye speak and laugh.

He and Daye were no longer fighting, and he got to keep this—his life, Daye and the university, side by side—for a few more years.

For now, it was more than enough.