Chapter Fifty-Two. Rory
Rory
Rory thumped his head back against the train seat.
In the window, the pastures of Westbrook were making way to fields—herding constructions replaced by constructions harvesting the last of the crops, or rolling clover and ryegrass into hay bales.
Soon the train would plunge into St. Claire’s suburbs, and the last of the autumn fields’ smell would disappear, replaced by exhaust and stone.
He rubbed his eyes.
All weekend, Daye’s eyes had kept slipping away from his, her smile had kept dropping from her face like an afterthought.
But no matter how many times he asked if she was still angry about last weekend, if she was sad, no matter how many times he apologized, promised, cajoled, begged, no matter what he did, it felt like each moment she was slipping farther and farther away.
The irony of it would have made him laugh if he didn’t feel like breaking something, or crying.
For years he’d waited for this moment—the moment when Daye would no longer depend on him, the moment he’d know that Daye was with him not because she had to be but because she wanted to.
And now, now that this moment was finally here, all he could feel was an ominous unease that he couldn’t name and couldn’t fix.
He couldn’t help but reach for Daye, again and again, just to assure himself she was still there.
But the viscerality of it seemed to fade the closer he got to the city.
Not gone, but … quieter. Paler. Here, his time was parceled away into classes and assignments and nights at the pub.
Here, nobody’s eyes held silent accusations.
Nobody, not even Noah, asked how it was that he was still in the university. It was peaceful here. It was safe.
He couldn’t help feeling grateful for this separation, the way his life with Daye and his life in the city existed in parallel, close but not touching; no more than he could help the drowning wave of guilt that followed.
He laid his forehead on the window, looking at the city outskirts slipping and sliding away into the evening.
He could just see the faint reflection of the woman sitting across from him, her head slumped back against the seat, her neck a white, outstretched expanse.
Through the reflection, Rory traced the hyoid bone and cartilage, the jugular vein pulsing faintly.
What could Daye do with human vocal cords?
Could it be that using bird’s parts was the reason her throat seemed to bother her so much?
Would using human ones make any difference?
And was there anything else she could use, that he couldn’t weave from plants?
In his mind, he flicked over a roster of internal organs: liver and intestines and salivary glands.
Would any of these enable Daye to eat and drink?
Would he need to give her all of them, or would an esophagus and some taste buds suffice?
His eyes lingered over the trachea of the woman across from him, marking where he would have to cut to reach the esophagus behind it, how he would have to shift his hands to avoid the blood. His hands instinctively moved in his lap, mimicking the movement.
The woman’s eyes snapped open.
Rory jumped, looking away. In his lap, his hands tangled together, clasping hard enough that his skin mottled red and white. Shit. He blew out a breath, forcing his fingers to relax. He needed a drink. He needed this train ride to be over. He needed a redo for this weekend, this month, this season.
It was worth it, he reminded himself. It was worth it to hear Daye laugh, to know she was going to be safe, no matter what.
That it was over. Done. Or at least, that he had years and years before the syrinx started to deteriorate.
Decades, if he was lucky. The bird from last week was the last of it, and now—
“Fuck.” The bird from last week. The one whose cage and body he’d left in the clearing. A week ago.
How could he have been so careless? How could he have forgotten something like this?
He knew exactly how. The sound of his name on Daye’s lips, the feel of her voice vibrating against his tongue as he traced her breast. The whole train wreck of the weekend that followed.
The sense of approaching cataclysm, of things spinning out of control, was back, making his hands shake.
For a moment, he let himself imagine Daye’s expression if she ever came across the bird. He shuddered.
Breathe, he told himself. It’s been a week.
Daye would have told him if she’d already come across it.
And if she hadn’t by now, it meant that there was no longer anything to find.
The parrot was probably gone within hours of him leaving it there, courtesy of the foxes who denned a few feet away from the clearing, or some other scavenger passing by.
And the cage? Even if Daye came across it now, what were the chances that she would recognize what it was, let alone realize why it was there?
Slim, at best. There was no reason to panic.
It would be fine. It was fine. He’d fucked up, but, for once, no catastrophe had unfolded.
He exhaled. Outside, the last of the light slipped behind the buildings. The speakers crackled, announcing the next stop.
The woman across from him turned her head to look out the window, her neck flashing pale against the evening gloom outside. Rory looked away.
God, he couldn’t wait to get home already. Maybe Elliott would be up for grabbing a drink. Or Noah. Something strong enough to scorch the thoughts out of his head.
The train shuddered to a stop.
Rory got up, shouldering his bag and digging in his pocket for the ticket.
The ticketing construct unfurled from its place beside the doors with a series of soft clicks.
The doors screeched open, the last lingering waft of autumn fields vanishing, snuffed under the onslaught of metal, smoke, and asphalt.
Home, finally, Rory thought, inhaling deeply.
Without looking, he slotted his ticket into the construct and stepped down into the station.
And he was too busy navigating the late Sunday crowds and dodging clusters of tourists to remind himself that this wasn’t home at all, that his time here was finite, numbered in semesters, months, weeks, already slipping away from his grasp.