Chapter Fourteen
I can’t quite believe I’m actually here.
Lying in a bed big enough to fit four of me, staring at the canopy above, blinking against the pale spill of morning light and methodically working through yesterday.
The police interview was fairly standard and not nearly as invasive as I expected.
Kenneth had awakened in the hospital and was cooperating, despite the gunshot wound in his shoulder.
The big mystery around the who and why lingered, and I didn’t have that information to give.
That is, until we stepped on Rhys’ private jet and he revealed what little he knows about his mom, Della-Mae.
Sensing how it pained him, almost as much as returning to this manor, I let the subject drop and focused on the here and now.
We can leave playing detective until tomorrow, as long as we’re together and none of us is suffering more than the other.
We all have our damage, but it’s the small glimpses of belonging we must cling to.
Yesterday morning, I wasn’t sure where I would belong.
Now I know this is where I’m supposed to be, even if it is against the advice of my newly appointed lawyer.
Rhys brought me here, despite his discomfort, because it’s somewhat safe and we might find some answers, but I think it’s more than that.
He has so much unresolved damage. Perhaps I can help him work through some of it, or at least heal enough of it so he can stop hating the world for not noticing his suffering sooner.
And to everyone’s surprise, Clayton is right here too, putting aside his reservations, vowing to stay and help me fight this invisible foe. I dare not think too far ahead.
My thoughts return to the cream canopy. The sheets are smooth, cold in all of the areas untouched by body heat, either from myself or Rhys.
It was somehow agreed between the boys that I should remain closer to him for now, whilst his emotional scars are raw and exposed amongst the luxury of the manor.
It’s selfish and incredibly insensitive, but I’m almost thankful for the distraction.
Rhys’ volatile mood takes eyes off me, shifts concern elsewhere, stops them from asking if I’m okay, if there’s anything I need.
What I need is some normality, but it’s been so long since I’ve experienced anything close to normal that I don’t even know what that is anymore. It’s just easier if no one asks.
For a long stretch of time, I just lie there, lost to my silence.
Although it’s not quite silent with the hollow thumping of my heart pulsing in my ears and creating its own type of noise.
I don’t want to be the first one up, wandering around halls that hold a thousand whispered secrets I can’t hear.
Yet soon enough, my bladder makes that choice for me.
Rhys stirs slightly as I slide out from beneath the cover, and I slip him a pillow to hug instead of me.
The room around me is gorgeous in a way that almost feels hostile.
Heavy drapes hang in a deep forest green, polished floors that reflect the light in long, diluted streaks, furniture arranged with a meticulous precision that screams of wanting to make a good first impression.
Funnily enough, the decor style here is similar to Rhys’ frat house back at Waversea.
There’s a certain lack of familiarity, something sterile in the darkly grained wood and imposing wardrobe.
I pass through on my tiptoes, feeling like an uninvited guest in a hotel room.
Stepping into the hallway, I find it empty.
A canyon of portraits, potted plants and closed doors.
For all I know, there could be music pounding through the walls, but cocooned in my mind, I creep as though I might disturb someone or something if I didn’t.
From the memory of the brief tour Rhys gave me last night, I locate the bathroom.
I can’t say I was interested in much other than the smell of food and aged paper that drew me towards the library.
I dare not think about the large mahogany table amongst the stacks and stacks of bookshelves down the hall, or I might end up becoming purposefully lost amongst them as I did yesterday evening.
For as long as my eyes would see straight, I scanned the spines and forgot about the rest of the world.
Opening one of the only doors that will open, I hiss, holding a hand up against the gleaming white.
Squinting through my fingers, I look upon the vastness of the room unshielded by blackout blinds and flooded in the harsh daylight.
A huge claw tub sits beside the window, facing a wall-mounted mirror.
I narrow my eyes at the tiny red light in the corner of it, initially believing it to be a camera but upon closer inspection, the mirror switches on and reveals itself to actually be a TV. Of course it is.
I take my time relieving myself and washing up, finding a brand-new toothbrush in one of the main drawers beneath the basin.
In fact, I take far longer than necessary, because for the first time since leaving Kenneth’s captivity, I’m alone.
Taking myself over to the empty bathtub, I lower myself into it in the satin pajamas Rhys provided and simply sit there.
Unlike staring at the canopy, my thoughts aren’t surface-level anymore.
Unlike staring at the canopy, I don’t have the comfort of Rhys’ body beside mine.
Now, I’m staring directly at myself in the mirror, and I finally do what I’ve been resisting for days.
I fall apart. Silently, violently. In the reflection, my shoulders shake while fat, ugly tears stream down my face.
They drip into the black satin at my collar, disappearing as if they never existed at all.
Through the haze, I seem to conjure images I’ve been suppressing.
The blank stare Kenneth gave as his face transitioned from one personality to the next.
The eye of the tranq gun staring me down until a dart flew free of its chamber.
The hopelessness I spiraled into when I truly thought no one was coming for me.
The despair I felt at not accomplishing anything, of wasting my life in a way that would have my parents turning in their graves.
The cycle continues, sobs racking through my shoulders and back until they ache, but I ensure not a single sound escapes me.
I’m not crying for attention. I cry because no one is watching. I cry because I’m finally able to.
Sometime later, once I’m convinced the puffiness of my eyes won’t settle anymore, I find myself meandering down to the kitchen.
Without Rhys tugging me along, I gaze upon the manor with fresh eyes and soundless ears.
Every few paces, I pass another closed, locked door.
Eyes of portraits follow my careful footsteps, my nape prickling at the sense of being watched.
There are secrets knotted into its wallpaper, its shadows, its perfectly arranged furniture.
I grip the railing of the staircase, feeling the cold wood seep into my palm, and wonder if I’m standing inside a place built from beautiful materials and ugly memories.
It’s like living inside someone else’s ghosts while still outrunning my own.
A feat I wouldn’t be strong or stubborn enough for if it weren’t for the men who brought me here.
I didn’t even fight them about going back to Waversea.
My degree is drifting away into the abyss of a gap year I didn’t want to take, but I don’t see any other option.
I’ll add speaking to the Dean to the to-do list I’m ignoring.
Following the scent of deeply roasted caffeine, I enter through the open archway to see Clayton perched at the island, rubbing sleep from his eyes and nursing a steaming cup.
In front of him, his phone plays with a video I can’t make out over his shoulder, but the light catches the sharpness of his jaw.
I take a moment to study the muscles of his back pushing against a soft gray T-shirt, the way his blond hair is rumpled and wild.
He’s a god amongst men, my stoically damaged protector.
Too good for this world, yet tethered to it by his internal scars.
Clay glances up the second he registers movement, and something flickers across his face.
A subtle brightening, as if he had been waiting for someone to enter, specifically me.
Tapping the countertop lightly with a single knuckle knock to draw my attention to his hand, he then signs, slowly and deliberately, with a pinch of concentration between his brows.
Good morning. How are you?
Everything inside of me turns warm and mushy. Upon closer inspection, I see that the video on his phone is actually a signing tutorial. My lips part, instinctually preparing to reply with my voice, but I close them again with a small smile.
Morning. I’m okay. How are you?
I keep my hands slow and precise, sticking to the basic, generic responses that his tutorial would have taught him.
The seriousness with which he watches is endearing, his mind working to put those movements into words.
Then he looks up and nods his response, not commenting on the lingering redness of my eyes.
Holding out his index finger, he runs his opposite first back and forth over it.
Practice?
He almost looks shy asking, which is ridiculous.
I could never reject him for wanting something so earnest and simple.
Yet it’s so much more than that. This is an invitation for him to step into my world instead of forcing me to be present in his.
As my heart tightens in my chest, I settle onto the stool opposite him.