Chapter 30 Rosabelle
Rosabelle
“To be clear, when I said you should say something to the group, I meant, like, you could say hello,” James says, cutting into the stack of waffles before him. “What you said was good, too—I mean, no, actually, it was horrible—but,
you know, helpful— Hey, is this okay?” He looks up at me, the knife and fork paused in his hands. “Or should I make the pieces
smaller?”
I stare at the plate.
My plate.
Syrup drips steadily down the jutting edges of the neatly severed waffle stack, powdered sugar dusting the rim of the dish,
melting in the heat of so much crispy batter. There’s a little bowl of mixed berries on the side, and I stare at them a moment.
I can’t believe they’re real.
I can’t believe this isn’t some kind of trap, that I could theoretically reach out and put one in my mouth without being forced
to kill someone first.
My head is pounding.
I’m dangerously depleted. My heart is a mess.
James insisted on sitting right next to me and I’ve come unraveled ever since.
I kept my coat on if only to serve as a buffer between our bodies, but occasionally his thigh brushes against mine and each time this happens I think I might climb out of my own skin.
The world around me is all knives and sharp focus; my body bristles with aching awareness; and all my carefully managed pain has been torn from its trappings, demanding attention.
I don’t know how to explain to James that in order to help me he has to get away from me.
I’ve lost all control.
My right arm was trembling so badly by the time our food arrived that I couldn’t hold my knife. I kept thinking of Clara,
my mind at war with my heart, guilt spearing me even as I tried to rationalize my situation. I know I need to be strong enough
to get back to the island, to manage myself and my emotions. I need to be strong enough to save Clara.
To kill Klaus.
I told myself over and over that eating all this food while Clara starves will help me help her—but my arm shook so hard the
silverware kept clattering against the plate as I tried to cut a piece of waffle. The more this upset me, the worse it got.
The knife dropped out of my hand so many times I wanted to scream. I kept hearing her voice—
Rosa. Are you dead?
I couldn’t calm myself down.
I don’t know, I’d said to her. Are you?
I’d heard the unspoken answers in her silence, all her pain implicit. It took her so long to respond.
No, she’d said.
I clench my hands in my lap now, twisting the soft material of the jacket in my fists, but this only chases the shudder higher up my body.
I feel sick with sensation, my heart pinwheeling in my chest. I’m too vulnerable.
I’m distracted by this exhaustive ache in my body, this low-grade fever that spikes every time James so much as looks in my direction.
The diner is so loud. These people are so loud. This world is so loud—
The honeyed scents and strangle of sounds are dizzying. So many people talking, and talking over one another. The ring of
a bell. The slam of a door. Clara would love it here. Bursts of laughter. Muted shouts. A child begins to cry and James flinches
at the sound, his body seizing. Clara would love the painted mural on the wall. A chair falls over. The child stops crying.
A blur of motion. Another burst of laughter. James shifts in his seat, tensing. Releasing. The ring of a bell. The slam of
a door. James glances at me.
My breath catches.
My heart beats harder.
“Rosabelle?” he says.
I look up at him. He’s so close. His face is so close I could keep counting the scatter of freckles across the bridge of his
nose.
I left off at seven.
I’m trying to remember his question.
“Thank you,” I say faintly. “That’s fine.”
He searches me a second longer. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll make the pieces smaller.”
The lights seem to flare around me, sounds surging into indistinct noise.
The ring of a bell. The slam of a door. Clara would love these plastic menus, their colorful colors.
Booming laughter. A child screams and James hardens in his seat.
He takes a breath, stretches his neck. I watch as a cryptic feeling moves across his face, his eyes closing.
The scrape of chairs. Metal pans crashing.
Plates hitting tables. James exhales; slowly reanimating, his leg grazing mine as he adjusts.
I overheat. Ice water is poured into glasses.
Clara would love the black and white checkerboard tiles underfoot.
The child screams again and James sits back.
He takes a deep breath, his eyes unfocusing.
Clara would love the neon sign in the window.
I haven’t been inside of a restaurant in over a decade.
My memories of experiences prior to that are rare and scattered, snatches of color and texture.
The ring of a bell. The slam of a door. James sighs, his hands stilling.
The sizzle of oil. The ring of a bell. The ring of a bell.
The ring of a bell. The slam of a door. The ring of a bell. The slam of a door.
I reach, in my mind, for a weapon.
“Hey,” says James. “You okay?”
I turn to face him and I’m delivered a shock to the chest. Being with him is like being brought violently back to life, over
and over. I anchor myself here, in his eyes, my heart beating harder and harder until something inside of me finally loosens,
my lungs expanding behind my ribs. The relief I feel around him is intoxicating. I’m soon soft in the head, loose in my bones,
distracted by the fringe of his dark eyelashes as he studies me.
I need to get away from him. I need—
I need help.
I want to climb into his lap. I want to push up his shirt, drag my hands down his bare chest, press my face to his heated
body. I want to breathe him in. I want to lick the salt off his skin.
I want to scream.
I’ve never had thoughts like this in my entire life. I don’t know how I’m even conjuring these fantasies.
“Rosabelle.”
I’m staring at the column of his neck. The slope of his shoulders. His arms—
I drag my gaze upward.
James is staring at me again, but his eyes are darker. I watch his chest lift, his voice tight when he says, “Why are you
looking at me like that? What are you thinking right now?”
“Nothing.” I turn away in a panic, my face hot, and I look up to find everyone staring at me.
“This is weird,” Winston says, shoveling waffle in his mouth. He gestures between me and James with his fork, still chewing.
“This is so weird.”
“It’s not weird,” says Nazeera.
“It’s super weird,” says Adam, who sits back in his chair and sighs.
“She was having trouble with her silverware,” says Nazeera. “That’s not weird. He’s being helpful.”
Adam scowls. “I’m not talking about that.”
“I am,” says Winston, shoveling more waffle in his mouth. Then, to James: “Didn’t she just shoot you? And now you’re sitting there cutting her dinner into small pieces?”
James doesn’t lift his head when he flips him off.
“Look, I get that she’s hungry,” says Adam, “but are we really supposed to just sit here and eat our food and not discuss
the situation?”
“She’s not hungry,” James says. “She’s starving.”
“I’m not starving,” I lie.
James ignores this, turning to his brother. “If you’re hoping to get information out of her, we need to keep her alive. She
needs sustenance or she’ll be in no state to help anyone. She hasn’t eaten in days.”
“Days?” Adam stiffens. He looks at me. “Why would you go that long without eating?”
Winston’s fork clatters to his plate and I look up to find him gaping at me, a dot of syrup glistening on his cheek. “Oh my
God,” he says to James. “Oh my God, this is why you tried to make soup. The swamp water in the kitchen was for her, wasn’t it?”
I turn to James, my hands unclenching from the jacket.
James glares at Winston. “Shut up.”
Winston cackles. “You were trying to cook for her!”
The memory of James’s voice rises up inside my head—
You need sleep. You need soup.
Do you like soup?
I feel like I’ve been punctured.
“Fuck you, man. You have no loyalty.”
“Okay, where the hell is Warner?” says Adam loudly, looking around.
I add a note to Adam’s file: conflict makes him uncomfortable.
“He said he was coming,” says Nazeera, tossing a loose end of her shawl behind her shoulder. She frowns, stabbing a piece
of potato before dipping it in ketchup. “He should’ve been here by now.”
Winston opens his mouth to say something, but Nazeera cuts him off with a stern look.
“Also, Winston is sorry.” She turns to face him as she says this. “Aren’t you, Winston?”
“Not really.”
“Fine,” she says. “You want a psychological evaluation? You’re an emotionally stunted gargoyle who uses snark and sarcasm
to mask deep, oppressive sadness.”
Winston scowls, about to protest—
“Yeah, okay, that’s true,” he says, spearing another piece of waffle. “Though I take issue with the word gargoyle.”
Still, James doesn’t thaw.
In fact, he’s only gotten tenser, cutting the waffles as if he’s performing surgery.
“You made me soup?” I ask him quietly.
I watch him swallow before he shakes his head. “I tried,” he says. “I made swamp water instead.”
A tide of feeling swells inside of me, heat pressing against the backs of my eyes. I’m suddenly afraid of what might happen
if we’re ever alone—what else I might allow myself to feel for him.
How much I might want from him.
James finally looks at me and his gaze is so intense I can practically feel the pulse between us. He exhales unevenly, the tension in him dissipating only a little. Then he pushes my plate in front of me, ceramic scraping softly against the Formica. The pieces are bite-sized now.
I look from him to the plate.
Then back to him.
“Start small,” he says, placing a glass of water in front of me. “Open up your appetite slowly.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
I reach for my fork and nearly drop it, steeling myself as I try to control the tremors. I have to give up on my right hand
and use my left, which is shaking only a little, and though the motions are awkward, I finally manage to spear a piece of
waffle.
The effort leaves me feeling out of breath.
“Stop staring at her,” James barks at the others. “Let her eat her food in peace.”
They look away like chastened children, turning their eyes to their plates, or else around the restaurant. James stares pointedly
into the distance, his hand clenched around his water cup.
Slowly, I bring the bite to my mouth.
Sugar and heat dissolve against my tongue. Pressure builds behind my eyes.
My chest nearly caves in.
“Hey, what are you guys doing here?” comes a friendly, booming voice.