Chapter Sixty-Four. Daye
Daye
“Say my name,” he’d say as he moved inside her.
“Tell me you love me.”
Orders and instructions. Scripted words that ran a course and vanished. And then Rory, too, vanished into his other world. Leaving behind nothing but damp stains on the sheets and dirty dishes in the sink.
It was a relief to see him go.
“Just give it a try,” he said one time as he braced above her.
“Try making sounds whenever something feels nice. You’ll like it.
” Words that were once open-ended, cupped hands waiting to be filled, were now an imperative, a full stop.
So Daye groaned now as he moved inside her. It never felt natural to her.
Sometimes, it seemed like since she’d gotten a voice, they spoke less than ever.
Sometimes, when his eyes were focused on her, it seemed like he was looking through her. Like he wasn’t seeing her at all.
Sometimes Daye couldn’t bring herself to wait for Rory by the gate.
She’d hover in the woods, just out of sight, letting the noise of his footsteps wash over her, letting the birds tell her of his movements.
But always, the sound of his voice would find her, reel her in, march her back, back, back into his arms. After each time, his arms were tighter around her.
His lips thinner. His words fell on her like hail: Stay.
Don’t go. Wait for me. Kiss me. Tell me you love me. Tell me, tell me, tell me.
But still, the next time, Daye hid again.
It wasn’t all bad. There were moments of tenderness.
Moments when who they used to be—before the experiments, before the university, before the nightmares and loneliness and fear—seemed almost within reach.
There were moments when Daye became lost in Rory’s closeness, drinking him in.
When his hands were soft on her body. When his smile tugged a smile out of her.
When it was just the two of them, heads close together in conversation about nothing at all.
But they were like the glint of sun on the water, firefly-bright and fleeting.
Gone all too soon.
Because, sooner or later, Rory would get that look in his eyes. Would lick his lips. Swallow. And Daye would feel the strings forming around her body. She started dreading the moments when Rory’s lips parted. His words tugged at her and spring tugged at her; double hooks, tethering her in place.
Spring continued.
Spring always continued.
Rory came to her, once every two weeks. Sunburned.
His skin smelling of sweat and wheat fields, of soot and foreign spices.
On the calendar, June melted into July. July into August. The bluebells were still in bloom; the daffodils still turned bright yellow faces to the sun.
In the depth of the woods, where shadows dappled the ground, Daye could still find an occasional snowdrop, stranded out of time.
They all were.