Chapter Forty-Two
My dear, sweet baby girl,
I already know that writing this letter is going to be one of the hardest things I’ll ever do—and my life hasn’t always been an easy one.
If you’re reading this, you’ve turned eighteen. I can’t possibly imagine that. You’re so small right now, with your first birthday just around the corner—so wide-eyed, so curious about the world around you. I wish more than anything that I could have the chance to explore that world with you. To witness your first steps, your first words… I won’t be surprised if one of them is “mango,” because you devour enough of that puree for someone three times your size!
There’s so much I want to say to you. More than I could fit on a page, or on a hundred pages, for that matter. But time is precious, and scarcer than any of us want to believe. I hope you don’t understand that yet. I hope that your life still feels infinite.
I have a thousand wishes for you, my sweetheart. I wish for you to know nothing but peace in all your days. I wish for every one of your dreams to come true. I wish for you to never experience pain, or loss, or heartbreak.
But that’s not the world you were born into. And I can’t change that, no matter how hard I try.
So I’ll constrain myself instead to a single hope. A request, of sorts. I know that I’m not being fair, asking you to do something for me when I’ve left you alone; if life were fair, I would be there at your side, guiding you every step of the way.
Instead, this letter will have to do the job.
What I want most of all is for you to have a normal life.
I want you to go out into the world. To find people who love you, and to love them in return. I want you to go to school, and to learn anything and everything that you desire. I want you to make friends, and make music, and make mistakes. I want you to find what inspires you, and pursue it at all costs.
I can’t bear the thought of you living under my shadow. I want to leave sunshine in my wake, not darkness.
You’re asleep as I’m writing this, you know, which is quite the rare occurrence! I think that little stuffed lamb is helping to make it easier for you. I call her Ella, but maybe you’ll give her a name of your own someday. If you still remember her, picture this: you two are about the same size right now—really!
I should be taking advantage of the opportunity to catch some shut-eye, myself—but if your father caught me writing this, he would want to know what it says, and I can’t let that happen. He won’t be able to understand—not now, and maybe not ever. He’ll find this once I’m gone, with instructions to give it to you on your eighteenth birthday, and I know he’ll comply with that.
I hope you’ve been patient with your father. He can be overbearing sometimes, and I’m sure that might get worse after I’m gone—but it’s only because he loves you and wants you to be safe. He tried very hard to keep me safe, too, and I don’t fault him in the least for trying. I would have loved him my whole life, if I got the chance. More than almost anything, I want you to find someone like that for yourself. Someone whose smile makes your chest ache. Love is a scary feeling, but it’s a precious one. People say that love and hatred are opposites, but I don’t quite agree. I think that love is the opposite of regret. To have loved, and to have been loved, is the most important thing in any lifetime. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.
And you, my sweet baby, are so very, very loved. You, above all else, made my time on this earth worthwhile. You are my whole heart, and I hope that my memory can find its place in yours.
Love you forever,
Mama
I can feelher warmth in every word, like a physical glow in my chest. I’ve seen the pictures. I know she was beautiful, with a smile that could light up a room—a cliche, maybe, but cliches have to come from somewhere, right?
And she was funny, too. Teasing me about the mango puree, mentioning that I was the same size as the little lamb that I clutch to my chest now—once fluffy and white, I’m sure, but ragged and gray now, stained with my own bitter tears. I can imagine the laughter in her voice—a voice that I know, somehow, though I have no real memory of her speaking. A sweet alto, more musical than mine, but just as familiar. Ingrained in me, perhaps, from my time in the womb.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, fresh tears welling in my eyes—I don’t know how they haven’t all dried up by now. “I’m so sorry.”
I’m not worth it. I never deserved her love.
Papa says he loves me, but he’s been handing me off to nannies his whole life. Everyone on campus seems to want me dead at this point—except for Harper, and I haven’t spoken to her after the fiasco at the GODs house a few hours ago; I locked myself in my room as soon as we got back to the tower, and she hasn’t so much as knocked on my door. Maybe she hates me now, too. I can’t blame her for that. If not for me, she could have had a blast at that party—and if anyone didn’t associate her with me before, they will now. Maybe she’ll also become a pariah, and I’ve ruined her life as well as my own.
That’s all I do, isn’t it? I hurt everyone who comes near me. I know I hurt Papa—I could see it in his eyes every time that he told me how much I looked like my mom. I hurt Harper when she extended her kindness to me.
Worst of all, I’m haunted by the thought that I may have hurt my mother, too.
Ever since I first read the letter, that notion has nagged at me. She knew that she was going to die soon. I’m sure of that much. And when I found her journal, I thought I had the key to finding out what really happened. That’s why I told Papa that I wanted to come to this school, to her school. Her allusions to a secret Order were so promising…
But I haven’t found any answers. I haven’t found anything to disprove my deepest, most agonizing fear:
Did she somehow die because of me?
With a daughter like you, who could blame her? I bet she did it herself…
Marissa’s words wouldn’t be nearly so painful if a part of me didn’t believe they were true.
I kiss Ella on the head with trembling lips, letting the pages of my mother’s words slip from my hands. I don’t know what to do anymore. I can’t shake aside the memory of Ryker’s eyes across the room. Just like the first night that we met, when I thought I saw something in him that reached out to me—but different now. Empty. Cruel.
Was this his plan all along? To grow close enough to me that I would trust him, confide in him… give him what he needed to tear me apart from the inside out?
I pull in a long, shuddering breath. The tears have finally stopped, though the taste of salt still engulfs my tongue.
I won’t break. If I have nothing else, I still have my instincts—and I’ve spent my life learning how to survive.
I made it this far, somehow. The only thing left to do is to keep pushing forward.
After a weekend spent shut in my room, I get up on Monday with a new plan: I’ll ignore all of them right back.
I’m not going to risk going back to the student union, but they can’t take away my classes. I drown myself in my studies. The library becomes my second home—they can’t find me when I’m burrowed away in the stacks, guarded by walls of paper and leather binding. My teachers can’t stop me from turning in assignments, even if they are ignoring me otherwise. Well, mostly ignoring me. I’ve still caught Marko staring a few times, undressing me with his eyes, though I always rush out of the classroom before he can pull me back. If he tries something else, I’ll have to find a way to take care of him once and for all—I’d take Freddie up on his half-joking offer if not for the fact that he’s become a stranger to me.
The grief and anger still come in bitter waves, but I stifle them by doubling down on my work. Reading until my eyes water, writing until my hands cramp.
All of the studying means less time with Harper, but I think it’s good for both of us. She deserves better company, and I have an easier time closing off my heart entirely when I’m alone. She still brings me food when she can, and she sits next to me in our philosophy seminar, which Ryker seems to have dropped entirely—but other than that, we barely speak. My closest companion is my mother’s letter, which I’ve taken to keeping on my nightstand. No need to bother with privacy when nobody cares enough to even come near my room.
None of it is a pleasant way to live, but at least I am living. Living in vicious defiance of all the people who tried to break me.
That’s something. Right?
I’m in the midst of one of my late-night study sessions when my phone buzzes.
I ignore it at first. Probably just the usual from Papa: Checking in. He’s started texting my main number rather than the phone stashed in my duffel, which just goes to show how little he expects me to say to him—my updates aren’t worth being kept secret, even to someone as paranoid as him. He taught me a long time ago that he doesn’t care about anything beyond my studies; as far as he’s concerned, I’m doing great. I’ll reply later, telling him that everything is fine. Just like I always do.
For now, though, I’m plenty occupied—sitting on the floor at the very end of the library’s Ancient Studies aisle, with four heavy textbooks and my tablet sprawled around me in a circle. The pleasant musk of wood and old books hangs in the lamp-lit air—a smell that I’ve come to associate with quiet comfort.
I’ve pretty much soared ahead of the rest of my Greek class, not that any of them know it. The basic structure and grammar have become intuitive enough that I figured I may as well start using them to learn more—and where better to start than the Iliad? The library has almost a dozen different translations, so I picked the simplest, grabbed a copy of the original text as well as a couple of dictionaries, and sat myself down to see just how much I can decipher.
μ?νιν ?ειδε θε? Πηλη??δεω ?χιλ?ο?
ο?λομ?νην, ? μυρ?? ?χαιο?? ?λγε? ?θηκε
Sing to me, muse, of the wrath of cursed Achilles, son of Peleus,
Who delivered endless torment upon the Achaens
From what little I know, Achilles is meant to be a hero, but if I’m translating this right, it doesn’t sound heroic whatsoever. Homer’s words are awed and terrified, not admiring.
How many of our so-called heroes are cruel at heart? And why does that cause desire to grow instead of diminish?
I wonder if Achilles had blue eyes…
Another buzz from my phone.
Huh. That’s weird. Papa doesn’t tend to double text.
I pull it out of my pocket, unsure what to expect—and the sight of the screen surprises me with a pulse of warm relief.
Harper: Hey are u in the library?
Harper: I want 2 come hang, if that’s ok :)
So sweet, so casual—all at once, I’m swamped with guilt for how I’ve been mostly avoiding her since the Halloween party.
Why shouldn’t I spend a little time with her?
Me: Yeah. Ancient Studies section.
Me: :)
Within a couple of minutes, she’s rounding the corner of the shelves, visibly out of breath, with an armful of heavy hardcover books clutched against her red blouse. She’s upped her makeup skills since joining Omega Phi, opting for subtler contouring rather than her more avant-garde looks from before—she’s always been pretty, but now she’s an outright stunner.
“Hi,” she says breathlessly, dropping to her knees in front of me. The books spill out of her arms onto the floor, and she busies herself with tidying them into a stack.
“Hey. You look good.” A grin warms my face. “Like, really good.”
“Thanks to Faith,” she says with a wide smile of her own. “I mean, I’ve always been pretty good, but that girl is a makeup genius. I think she’s gonna do cosmetology postgrad.”
“And what about you?” I incline my head towards the teetering heap of hardcover volumes in front of her. “It sure looks like you’ve found your academic calling.”
“Well—no,” she admits with a laugh and a roll of her eyes. “These are yearbooks, actually. For Omega Phi. I’m not, like, obsessed with my sorority… well, I’m a little obsessed. But whatever. I knew they were cool before I even came here—you know, Insta stalking and all that—but holy shit, Lia, you wouldn’t believe some of this stuff. Did you know an OP grad ran for fucking president in the late nineties? As a third party candidate. And she almost won. Third fucking party!”
She flips open one of the books as she rattles on, flipping idly through its pages—all filled with photos of gorgeous young women. Laughing, dancing, partying, rallying… it stings a bit to see them all so happy, so comfortable with one another… but it’s a bittersweet pain. Even if that sort of life can never be for me, I can still appreciate its beauty.
“It’s probably not that interesting to you.” A hint of sheepishness creeps into her tone, and when I look up, her grin has shifted to a slight wince. “Oh God, I’m totally rubbing this in your face, aren’t I?”
“No—no, not at all.” I reach out to twine my fingers with hers—the warmth of physical contact with another person is almost overwhelming, and I find myself tightening my grip. She returns the gesture, her lips tilting back upwards into a smile.
“I missed you, you know,” she says softly. “Over the past couple of weeks. And I never properly apologized for Halloween?—”
“Don’t,” I insist, leaning in closer until our foreheads nearly touch. “Please don’t. It’s not your fault. You were trying to help… and that means a lot to me.”
Something glints at the corners of her forest-green eyes. Tears? Oh no?—
“Don’t cry,” I insist, straightening up in alarm.
“It’s happy crying,” she insists, pulling her hand away from mine to wipe furiously at her eyes. “I was kind of starting to think you hated me?—”
What? “Of course I don’t hate you?—”
“But if you want to hang out again, we totally should. Like, ASAP.”
“I’m kind of booked with studying, but… after that final philosophy paper is due? Next Friday?” I offer. Unbridled eagerness blooms inside of me—I really did forget how amazing it feels just to talk to her, to see her smile and know that my words are what inspired it.
“Yes, totally—wait—shit, no.” The brightness fades from her eyes, and she bites her lip in frustration. “That’s the first frat hockey game of the season. GODs versus Zeta Alpha Rho… it’s a huge deal.”
My excitement deflates, but I fight to keep my face neutral. “Right. Big event for sororities, I bet.”
“Big event for everybody. The whole school’s gonna be there.” She shrugs, as if to indicate how silly she finds it—but she’s not fooling me; this sort of thing is practically what she lives for.
A hint of tentative optimism creeps back into me. I don’t want to test my luck, but…
“If the whole school’s gonna be there,” I say carefully, “maybe I could come with?”
Harper’s eyes grow wide, her jaw dropping slightly. “You’d come with me?”
Crap, maybe that was too much. “I mean, only if you want?—”
“If I want? Of course I do! I just thought, after last time?—”
I don’t give myself a chance to hesitate, just launch straight into a hug, my arms wrapped tightly around her back, face buried in her shoulder. She returns it instantly, squeezing me until I feel like I might burst, and now it’s my eyes that are swimming with tears. I didn’t realize just how much I’d let my heart freeze over, but now it’s melting, and God, I’m a mess—but a good mess. A grateful mess, safe in the arms of my friend.
“Forget about last time.” I convulse in a watery sob-laugh. “This’ll be different. With the whole school there, they won’t care about me. What would they even do, throw hockey pucks at me?”
“Have I ever told you how funny you are? God, I missed you so fucking much.” She gives me one final, crushing squeeze, then pulls back and holds me at arm’s length, beaming through her tears like the sun through a rain shower. “This is going to be perfect. This—oh, shit.” Alarm floods her face, the smile dropping away as she blinks rapidly. “Lia, uh, you’re kind of sitting on the book.”
Oops. She’s right—when I threw myself into the hug, I didn’t even notice the pages of the yearbook rumpling under my touch. I reach down to straighten them out?—
And freeze.
The girl on the paper in front of me. Arm in arm with another young woman, both of them alight with dimpled smiles.
I know that face.
“Lia? You good?” Harper checks, voice lilted in concern.
“Yeah. Fine.” I somehow manage to coach my voice into something convincingly casual, despite the fact that my heart is trying to pound its way straight out of my chest. I close the book and return it to the stack in slow motion, a thousand half-formed thoughts spiraling through my head.
Without a doubt—that’s her. In the yearbook. In Omega Phi.
My mother.