Chapter 25 MARCEL
Chapter 25
M ARCEL
Spying on her through the kitchen window was becoming a worrying habit. He felt like a voyeur, watching as she swung her legs lazily in the water, perched on the edge of the pool. The sun was toasting her shoulders and lighting up her faraway smile. A strange prickle ran across his stomach. Was she thinking about last night? Marcel hadn’t slept a wink. Half of him was annoyed at having gone too far; the other half, at not having gone further. He wanted to sleep with her, to have her in his bed, to see what that beautiful copper hair looked like against his pillow. Which was kind of problematic, because a woman like Siobhan would want something more than just a roll in the hay, and he wasn’t prepared to give her that. He closed his eyes for a second to get his thoughts in order. He shook his head as though coming back from a trance and emptied half a bottle of sports drink down his throat. All right, he shouldn’t have gone along with the game, but criticizing his temporary madness after the fact wasn’t going to do him any good. He had to be practical, cold like steel. He would act like nothing had happened, pretend it had all been innocent role-play and that he let himself get carried away because ... Well, damn it, he was human. He would behave completely normally, although inside he was reaching the end of his tether. And if she raised it, he would play dumb. I don’t know what you’re talking about, princess. I was just playing a part. Weren’t you?
“She’s a great girl, isn’t she?”
Charmaine’s hoarse voice burst into the kitchen. Marcel tensed suddenly, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. A trickle of sweat made its way down his back in a solitary trail toward the base of his spine.
“I see you’ve become great friends in my absence,” he replied, screwing the cap back on the bottle.
“Yes, we have. And you’d better not jerk her around, or I swear on the Bible, I’ll take her side.”
Marcel turned around and looked at her closely.
“What do you mean by jerk her around?”
“I mean what I mean.”
“Wow. You should have been a public speaker,” he said.
Charmaine flapped her hands violently.
“Don’t you change the subject, young man. When are you going to tell her?”
“Tell her what?”
“All of it. About the pseudonym, about Mom ... All of it. You haven’t told her shit. You’re still hiding behind that whole melancholic, mysterious act.”
A feeling of unimaginable resentment swelled up in his heart. Marcel lowered his gaze and played with the bottle. For years, he had been gluing the pieces of himself back together. Time had lessened the pain of certain memories, but the prospect of unburying them made him feel sick. His stomach churned just thinking about it.
No chance.
He was a lone pilot and had every intention of continuing to be.
“Digging up the past isn’t going to fix anything.”
“What doesn’t fix anything is bottling up all that resentment. And, anyway, now that you’ve invited her into your little tormented writer bubble, the least you could do is be honest.”
“I didn’t invite her. I can assure you she gate-crashed the party all by herself.”
“Perhaps only because you left the door ajar. Think about it.”
“I don’t have anything to think about, Chaz.” He opened the refrigerator decisively and put his drink inside. “What the hell is going on with you? What is going on with everyone? First Alex, then those crazy women on Twitter, and now you. Siobhan is ... a temporary colleague. Period.” He adopted a bored expression. “What do you want me to say? When we finish writing the novel, she’ll go her way, and I’ll go mine.”
A melodic and prolonged mm-hmm emerged from Charmaine as she nodded her head.
“Try saying that again like you mean it. Like you believe it,” she said. Marcel narrowed his eyes and sighed noisily. “Okay, whatever, right now I don’t have time to help you mature emotionally. I’m going to Lakeview to see Dad. You should come. There’s a lot of paperwork still to go through.”
“I’ll drop by later. I promised Siobhan I would take her to the Ninth Ward. I’ll need the Chevy, so leave me the key before you go.”
A thunderous cough rose from the depths of Charmaine’s chest.
“Ninth Ward? Couldn’t you think of anywhere better for sightseeing?”
Marcel shrugged.
“She asked me.”
“No way ... So you’re going back to that shithole just because she asked you. Well, well, well. She’s really got you by the balls, huh?” she exclaimed, winking to soften the blow.
“Cut the crap, will you? It’s your fault for talking too much.” He pointed his index finger at her. “If you hadn’t taken it upon yourself to resurrect the wonderful family story of the Duponts and their post-Katrina feats, Siobhan wouldn’t even know what the Ninth Ward was.”
“Maybe. Anyway, you’re going to take her. I think the white queen has closed in on the black king, and he’s about to be checkmated,” she speculated.
“Ha! My god, Chaz. You have no fucking clue about chess. The queen can’t checkmate on her own.”
“Oh my lord,” she murmured. “For such a smart guy, you’re a real dumbass sometimes. Well, have fun in the burbs. And don’t forget to go see Dad today. Till later, Kasparov.”
The Chevy Silverado slowed to a stop at the corner of Caffin and North Galvez Street. Marcel lowered the windows and pointed out a small patch of dry grass in the middle of nothing. The sunlight beat relentlessly against the asphalt.
“It was there. That was where the house was before the storm destroyed it. And that plot over there used to be a movie theater,” he said.
There was a note of sadness in his voice.
For someone who didn’t know New Orleans, the Ninth Ward might pass for a neighborhood on the rise, with some new buildings and well-tended yards. But that image only represented a small part of the reality. It only took a stroll around the streets to realize that, twelve years later, the tragedy of Katrina still lingered in the foundations, stones, abandoned houses, deserted blocks, shuttered businesses, and roads devoured by weeds and deformed by potholes. For every newly built house there were four or five empty plots and a dilapidated car sitting forgotten next to a gas drum on some porch. On the facade of one ruined building, orange spray paint, faded by time, declared:
F IX
E VERYTHING
M Y
A SS!
The initials explained everything. That slogan, perfectly expressing the discontent at the lack of effective response by FEMA, had become very popular in the weeks following the flood and was still present in collective memory.
Siobhan removed her sunglasses and took it all in from the passenger seat.
“There’s nothing left,” she said. She seemed confused. “Charmaine said the house was still standing.”
“It was demolished by a contractor from Texas. All this was houses,” he continued, turning off the engine and unfastening his seat belt. “And now there’s nothing but weeds. Around eight hundred thousand people left after Katrina; it was the largest migration in the US since the Dust Bowl exodus in the thirties. And lots of plots just stayed empty. A while back, the local government started to expropriate the ones that were overgrown to auction them off, but our city government is slow and ineffectual; an endemic problem that’s not helped by the corruption, of course. Let’s just say that most of the apples in the city barrel are rotten.”
“Yes, but ... how can it still be like this after twelve years? It’s an outrage,” she said. “And I thought the recovery of the World Trade Center after 9/11 was slow!”
Marcel sighed with resignation.
“There’s something you should know about NOLA.” Siobhan turned her head to give him her full attention. “Everyone loves the music, the food, the colonial architecture, Mardi Gras ... As for the people ...” He gave a dramatic pause, embellished with a shake of the head. His features hardened. “And speaking of 9/11, the Federal Reserve coughed up millions to rebuild New York after the attack. Same after the earthquake in San Francisco. What did Bush do for New Orleans? They put people in trailers and shut down access to subsidized housing so they had to live like goddamn refugees in their own country. Fucking bastards,” he muttered.
Siobhan put her hand on his arm in a gentle caress that set his skin on fire. And yet, strangely, it calmed him.
“Um . . . are you okay?”
He nodded silently. He felt more and more comfortable talking to her. It was like she had the power to release the anger that he’d been bottling up for years. And the feeling gave him a sense of relief.
“I haven’t been here for a long time, that’s all. You know what? Sometimes I dream about New Orleans, and when I do, I’m always in the city during the flood,” he confessed.
It was the first time he had ever told anyone.
“I guess coming back to search for your family must have been really tough.”
“It was worse for them. After all, I had my life in New York. Baxter Books was going to publish my second novel, and Alex was already negotiating the contract for the third; things were starting to go well. But yes, it had a profound effect on me, seeing with my own eyes that the news reports were true. The storm didn’t just destroy the homes we grew up in; it destroyed our memories and the spirit of the neighborhood.”
“Chaz mentioned that the insurance company behaved terribly toward you.”
He laughed indignantly.
“You know how much they offered my father in compensation? Four hundred and ninety-five dollars.”
“What? That can’t be right. You’re kidding me.”
“I wish. Those sons of bitches claimed the policy covered damage caused by the hurricane but not the flood. Anyway, he was one of the lucky ones. Most folks in the Ninth didn’t have insurance at all, or if they did once, they had stopped making the monthly payments. In case you hadn’t noticed, this neighborhood is poor and Black.”
“And the state did nothing to help?”
“There was a program called Road Home, but it still wasn’t enough. In the end, I managed to find a decent place in Tremé for them. It cost me an arm and a leg, thanks to speculators, but ...”
“You weren’t about to leave them out on the street.”
“Precisely.”
“To your credit.”
“I just helped them get back on their feet. Anyone in my situation would have done the same. I mean, I never got on well with my dad, but he’s still my dad. As for my sister ... Well, I owe pretty much everything to Charmaine.”
“It’s interesting—she says the same about you. When we first met, you did nothing but brag about your $15,000 sofa, but I know you bought the house in the Garden District and that you donate a lot of money to the city’s recovery.”
“She told you that too? I think Chaz and I need to have some words tonight.”
“Don’t you dare, you hear me? Or you’ll have this New Yorker to deal with.”
“Pah, you don’t scare me, Brooklyn princess.”
It was admirable that he could hold her gaze as he uttered such a bare-faced lie.
Because, in truth, he was scared of Siobhan.
Not of her exactly, but of her light.
That blinding light that suddenly prevented him from seeing the right path.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t underestimate me, Mr. Black.” Her reply cut through the air like a sharpened knife. God, he loved this woman. “Speaking of Brooklyn, did you stay down here for a while?”
“No. I got out of here as soon as I could. Things got ugly. Shootings, thefts, holdups, gang fights, police brutality ... The National Guard were patrolling the streets as if this was fucking Fallujah. They even implemented a curfew. I’m not surprised people took to the bottle, or OxyContin, just to get through it.”
The echoes of a cheerful melody floated through the air. Suddenly, a brass band of African American musicians in uniform appeared, marching across the street, followed by a funeral cortege, dancing to the rhythm of the music. The parade gave off a carnival atmosphere as it snaked through the cracked, weed-speckled streets.
Siobhan stuck her head out the window.
“What’s this?”
“A funeral, Big Easy–style. We call it second line .”
“Sounds great. A perfect way to say goodbye.”
A melancholic smile appeared on Marcel’s face.
Perhaps that was New Orleans’s strength: despite everything, there was always something to celebrate. Although maybe that was also its weakness. Whatever happened, the city always found a way to carry on, no matter how hard things got. And, in some way, that gave him some peace.
“You know what, Miss Harris?” he said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “You’re in luck. Tonight, you’re finally going to learn what real music is.”
A few hours later, they settled into a small restaurant in the heart of Marigny, one of the city’s most charming old Creole neighborhoods. Night had just started to descend, and the lights of the bars and restaurants twinkled as they came on.
“See, gumbo is like jazz: a cultural emblem of New Orleans,” explained Marcel, smoothing the napkin across his knees. “A music critic once said that gumbo is culinary jazz and jazz is musical gumbo. August isn’t the best month to eat blue crab though; maybe we should have ordered the smoked meat,” he mused, more to himself than to her. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Bon appétit.”
Siobhan nodded and sampled a spoonful of the stew they had just been served along with a chilled bottle of white wine.
“Mmmm.” She savored the mix of rice and crab with her eyes closed. “Delicious,” she said, to her companion’s great satisfaction. She ate another spoonful before asking: “How do they make the broth so thick?”
“Dark brown roux, okra, and sassafras leaves, a contribution from the Choctaw natives,” he explained. “Some see this dish as a connection to the okra soups of Africa; others link it to French bouillabaisse, or even to the Cajuns, the French Canadians who settled in Louisiana after being expelled from Acadia by the British Crown.”
“That’s a lot of influences.”
“It makes sense, given New Orleans’s colonial past.”
“You should write a novel set here, Marcel.”
A conspiratorial smile appeared on his face.
“Actually,” he said, his voice lowered confidentially, “that’s what I was thinking of doing after ... you know”—he glanced to either side to make sure his words didn’t reach the wrong ears—“killing Willy.”
“Seriously?”
“Well, yeah. A thriller set in a dystopian future, with a New Orleans almost engulfed by water and devastated by climate change, and a serial killer striking fear into the population. Alex didn’t like the racial focus I wanted to give it. He said it was too sensitive for the times, blah blah blah. Anyway, I’m planning to write that novel one day.”
He paused, realizing it was the first time he had ever spoken to anyone about his projects, apart from his agent or his editor.
Of course, Siobhan wasn’t just anyone.
Siobhan was Siobhan.
The only person who truly understood his passions and frustrations.
“So, it’s true that a wounded bird returns to the nest sooner or later.”
“What?”
Siobhan shook her head.
“Nothing. I was getting sidetracked. It’s a brilliant idea, Marcel. Really. I suppose you would be getting deep into your thriller right now if I hadn’t appeared on the scene, so ... I’m sorry to have ruined your plans.”
She looked genuinely sorry; Marcel knew her well enough to be sure she was.
“Well, technically the first to arrive on the scene was Letitia Wright. And anyway”—he averted his gaze and focused on his plate, unable to meet those disarming blue eyes—“to be honest, I had had a bad bout of writer’s block. I hadn’t written a single line since I finished The End of Days . Nada. Zilch. I had a terrible fear of not living up to expectations. And to top it all off, Mira Yamashita wrote a dreadful review in the New York Times that nearly finished off my career.”
There was a silence.
Siobhan broke it.
“A critic is just a critic. They shouldn’t have the power to prevent a good novel from occupying the place it deserves, or to drain the soul of a brilliant author.”
He noticed a muscle tensing in her neck. If only he had the balls to kiss her right then. But all he could do was whisper, “Thanks,” under his breath before hiding behind a slug of wine.
What a coward.
“Why are you thanking me? For telling the truth?”
“No, Siobhan. For helping me recover my ability to tell a story. If it weren’t for you and Two Ways , chances are good I’d still be lost.”
If someone had told him weeks before that he would be thanking Little Miss Happy Endings for getting him out of his creative rut, he would have laughed in their face.
“Don’t you think that’s a bit drastic? Sooner or later you would have gotten unstuck. You were born to write, Marcel. It’s in your blood. I know you started as a child. Chaz told me.”
Marcel sighed.
“Of course she did,” he murmured.
“What I’m trying to say is that you have no reason to thank me. I haven’t done anything. I’m not important. You would have had the same experience with any other romance writer who crossed paths with you.”
What he was thinking at that moment was:
Like hell. Of course you’re important. There’s no one like you, Siobhan Harris. Shit, can’t you see? There’s not a woman in the world who could hold a candle to you. You ... You’re special.
What he said was:
“You wanna try the pecan pie?”
A bottle of wine later, the world seemed somewhat less complicated. The night was just getting started, and the lively Frenchmen Street exuded a chaotic energy, embodied by the go-cup culture of drinking in the street, playing in the street, dancing in the street. The bars and restaurants alternated with jazz clubs—perhaps not as elegant as Preservation Hall, in the French Quarter, but much more authentic—which were the very essence of the city.
Marcel stopped at the door of the Blue Nile, bathed in blue neon lights, and said:
“This place is the epitome of what a New Orleans jazz club should be. It’ll be packed to the rafters in half an hour. So, if you’d like to discover some real music, it’s now or never. Do you want to? Please say yes.”
“Of course I do.”
Inside, the temperature was quite pleasant. On the stage, a band was playing renditions of stomp classics, marking the up-tempo beat by stamping on the floor; it was impossible not to join in. They walked up to the bar. Marcel asked what she would like, and she went for something strong: a Sazerac.
“Well, well, well. It would appear that Miss Harris has grown up,” he joked.
“Oh come on. I’m not a porcelain doll.”
People kept flooding in, and space was becoming tighter, so they had to squeeze together while they enjoyed their drinks.
“So, is there live music in all the venues in this neighborhood?” asked Siobhan, stretching up to direct her question past Marcel’s shoulder.
Her breath tickled his earlobe and he liked the sensation. Why deny it?
“In all the major ones, yes. And the musicians always play, audience or not. Ragtime. Dixieland. Blues. Hot jazz. All sorts of things.”
“Living here is like being at a party that never ends. Don’t you miss it, even a tiny bit?”
“Nah. I have all I need in New York,” he said.
He looked her in the eye.
He felt a scorching heat creeping up from his stomach to his solar plexus. And he knew it was all starting to fit together.
Or fall apart.
It was her.
Her and nothing else.
Siobhan drained her Sazerac and returned the glass to the bar with a decisive bang.
“Let’s go,” she ordered.
“Where?”
“To dance.”
“But . . .”
“No buts, Mr. Black.” She raised a finger to her lips. “Not tonight.”
Marcel laughed like an idiot and allowed her to lead him onto the dance floor. The musicians were so close you could feel the energy of the trumpet, the rhythm of the clarinet, and the sensuality of the saxophone emanating from the lights and shadows of the stage. Siobhan started to sway to the sound of “Basin Street Blues,” and ... God, she was a good mover.
“That’s the way, girl!” he called out, cheering her on.
The rocking of her body fascinated him. At what point had the naive Miss Harris turned into this impossible blend? Siobhan seemed to be all the elements at once: water, earth, air, and a lot of fire. He couldn’t recall ever having wanted anyone so intensely. He decided to join her and follow her steps. Hip to hip. Fingers interlaced. Arms up. Turn to one side. Turn to the other. And start again. Her joy for life was infectious. His face seemed to ache with happiness—was that even possible? Feeling like this was a balm for the soul.
Then the mood changed, suddenly becoming much more intimate.
The first chords of “Anyone Who Knows What Love Is” announced that it was slow-dance time. Marcel stretched out his arm, palm up, in a gesture that Siobhan understood perfectly. He took her by the waist, and she interlaced her fingers around his neck; both were soaked with sweat, but neither cared in the slightest. He looked down at her from his height with low-lidded, penetrating eyes. The crowd around them became blurry and irrelevant as they turned in small circles on the dance floor.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” asked Siobhan, tilting her chin slightly, beautiful in her uncertainty.
“How am I looking at you?”
“Like I was two scoops of ice cream. Just like last night.”
Marcel tried not to show the inner smile that glowed in his chest.
“Last night? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Siobhan smiled, beautiful and fierce.
“So we’re going to keep pretending nothing happened, are we?”
Which in reality sounded more like: It’s an irrefutable fact that we were about to get it on in the backyard of your house last night. Just because we’ve spent all day avoiding the subject won’t make it go away.
“Nothing happened.”
Which in reality sounded more like: The irrefutable fact is that if you hadn’t gotten the giggles at the crucial moment, I would have given you the ride of your life in the pool.
In an attempt to deflect, he said, “Come on, let me enjoy the moment.”
“Wait, wait. Enjoy? Who are you, and what have you done with my friend?”
Friend. He shook his head. “How flattering. I don’t know if I’m ready for that level of commitment.”
He caught the skepticism on Siobhan’s face and grabbed her tighter, contradicting his own words; she ran her fingers along the hairline at the back of his neck with a delicacy that made his skin bristle.
“Well, I don’t think you’ll have to play the role of ‘friend’ for much longer. Luckily, we’re nearly finished with the novel,” she said. And she fluttered her lashes deliberately to lower his defenses. It worked quite well.
“Good thing too. Because being your ‘friend’ is starting to become unbearable,” he replied, fixing his gaze on her mouth.
It would be so easy to forget everything and stay in that moment forever.
With her.
The taxi dropped them back in the Garden District at around two in the morning. Marcel got out of the car and grappled to extract Siobhan, who could barely stand. She staggered, but he caught her around the waist in time.
“Ohhh ... Thanksshhh,” she said between hiccups. “You’re like a nineteenth-century gentleman, Mr. Black. A gentleman—hic!—rescuing a damsel in dishtress.” She tried to curtsy and very nearly ended up on the ground.
“Very good, damsel. It’s time to go sleep it off. Come on.”
Without releasing his grip on her, he pushed open the gate. Siobhan started singing “Fever” at the top of her lungs.
“Shhh ... Lower your voice. You’ll wake the whole goddamn neighborhood.”
“But this is New Orl—!”
She couldn’t finish her sentence. Marcel covered her mouth and gave her a warning look. She brushed his hand aside.
“Okay, okay, don’t—hic!—be like that. You know something?” she asked as they moved toward the porch. She lost her balance again, and Marcel caught her. “Oopsss ...” She giggled drunkenly. “Fighters first, lovers later,” she chanted like a little girl.
Marcel laughed. She really was a very funny drunk.
“And ...” She stopped in front of him and put her arms around his neck provocatively. “You like me. You’re crazy about me,” she assured him, despite her difficulty getting the words out.
“What?” He moved away, trying to repress something like a nervous smile. “What makes you say that?”
“Only the fact that I have eyes in my head,” she replied, opening her eyes wide. Marcel pried her hands from his neck. “I know you want to”—she pointed at her chest—“the word beginning with F . Me.”
“Is that so? And what is the word beginning with F ?”
Siobhan moved her lips to his ear and whispered:
“F-U-K ...” She stopped and scratched her neck thoughtfully. “Hang on, I think I forgot the C ... Hic!”
“My god, Siobhan. You’re in no state to be spelling.”
“Hey!” she said and slapped his shoulder. “Don’t mess with me. The thing is I like you too. You’re,” she started to say, although her tongue tripped her up again. “I like ev—hic!—I like everything about you.”
Then she leaned forward, grabbed him by the cheeks, and boldly kissed him on the lips. It was an innocent kiss, a clumsy brush of the lips, but damn it if that tiny gesture didn’t stir something inside him. It was like drinking a glass of bourbon in one gulp. Of course, that insignificant peck shouldn’t really have made his heart race, nor did it explain the fact that he suddenly felt quite blurry.
Marcel placed his hands over hers, still on his face.
“Why did you do that?”
“Because I can. And because I want to. And because you’re very handsome. And tall. And sexy.”
“And because you’re drunk.”
“Yup, that t—hic!—that too.”
Siobhan started to laugh hysterically and resumed her singing, so Marcel had no choice but to hoist her up and throw her over his shoulder. He grasped her by the calves and made for the porch.
“Party’s over. Let’s see if you’re still laughing when I tell you about this tomorrow morning.”
“There’s a great view from here,” she murmured, before prodding his buttocks with her index finger.
“Did you just touch my ass?”
“No, no, just a bit.”
“Without my consent.”
“Oh, I think I’m getting dizzy ...”
Marcel quickly lowered her and took her in his arms.
“Hey. Hey, Siobhan. Are you okay?”
She made a small noise, leaned her head on his chest, and closed her eyes.
Charmaine appeared in the doorway just as they were about to enter.
“What the hell is all this racket? Do you know what time it is?” she said. Then her brow furrowed with worry and she asked: “What’s wrong with Siobhan? Is she ill?”
“Ill? She’s drunk as a skunk.”
“But what did she drink?”
“You’d be better off asking what she didn’t drink.”
“Why did you let her drink herself senseless, idiot?”
“So now it’s my fault? I’m not her nanny. Stop with the sermonizing and stand aside. My back’s killing me.”
Charmaine shut the door and urged him to take Siobhan to her room. Marcel ran his eyes up the staircase and wondered how best to manage the situation.
“You’re kidding, right? I can’t go all the way up there with her in my arms.”
“Come on, man, get on with it. It’s only about four steps.”
“Oh yeah? Well, you carry her, then, Superwoman. Let’s see if you can get past the third.”
Charmaine tutted.
“All right. She’ll have to sleep in Dad’s room.”
“No way. I’ll take her to the sofa. Do me a favor—could you bring pillows and clean sheets? And some water. She’ll need to hydrate.”
Marcel went to the living room and lowered Siobhan carefully onto the sofa. He sat next to her and unfastened her sandals and put them on the floor, next to her purse. When his sister returned with sheets and pillows, he used one set to make her comfortable and the other to improvise a bed on the floor.
“You’re sleeping there?” she asked in surprise.
“Of course,” he replied as though it was obvious. He removed his shoes. “You don’t want me to leave her here alone, right? What if she wakes in the night feeling nauseous? Someone will have to hold her hair back ... or whatever you do.”
A very irritating little smile took shape on Charmaine’s lips.
“Didn’t I tell you, little bro? This queen has crushed the king.”
Marcel sighed with pure exhaustion.
“Go to bed, Chaz.”
Alone at last, he sat down again next to Siobhan, who was sleeping soundly, oblivious to Marcel’s inner torment. He watched the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Her serene expression gave him a rush of tenderness that threatened to drown him in emotion. He brushed a strand of hair off her face and stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. And as he watched, he wondered what might have happened if he had met her at some other time in his life.
But the answer was that there was never a right moment to meet a woman like her.
“Happy endings don’t exist. Happy endings don’t exist,” he repeated like he was trying to convince himself of a mantra.
Siobhan moaned, murmured something unintelligible, and turned over.