Chapter 12 Atticus
Atticus
But hers also was the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes over the fair moon, for a while hides, but cannot tarnish its brightness.
—Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
I sense Raven before she knocks. I know she’s in the hall. My power, it’s growing. I open the door and she stands, fist raised in the air, frozen for a moment before her eyes land on me. “Atticus,” she says, recovering from her surprise.
“I knew it was you,” I say, smiling.
I step back, waving her into my apartment.
She arrives with only a backpack and a singed antique trunk on a small cart. I push it inside and close the door behind us. Raven follows. Her gaze slowly moves through the room, and I watch her carefully, gauging her emotions.
“What do you think?” I ask. “I’ve tried to make it my own.”
“It’s perfect,” says Raven. “Like your taste.”
She isn’t wrong, but I can’t take credit for the apartment, not entirely.
It was furnished when I moved in. It’s on the second floor of a brick walk-up, with a living room, a small kitchen, one bedroom, and a bathroom, but it’s the design itself that spoke to me, called to me.
Crown molding, wood-coffered ceiling, a bespoke fireplace, William Morris wallpaper, built-in bookcases filled with the previous owner’s old books, tall casement windows, original wood floors.
It even smells like history. Musty, in a good way. And age.
She lets out a little gasp when her attention falls to the books. “Is that a first-edition Louisa Elmore?”
Louisa Elmore was a famous apotropaic wizard, a nineteenth-century scholar who studied the art of good luck symbols to ward off evil spirits.
Of course Raven would find the rarest one in the collection.
I laugh as she takes it off the shelf and moves to the couch to read.
The dark corduroy love seat is a leftover from the previous tenant, and it still smells of rose perfume and fresh linen.
“This is incredible.” Raven flips through the Elmore book, shaking her head and smiling. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“And spoil the surprise? The person who lived here before left a bunch of cool stuff behind.”
I sense Raven’s emotions swirling around her, not a tumultuous storm but a settling breeze.
She was excited about coming here, eager to leave her old apartment behind, but she’s also nervous for some reason.
When she looks up from the book, her dark eyes capture mine.
“This place is so you,” she says. “So Paris Left Bank.”
“Really?” I beam. I’m inordinately pleased about the reference. “I was worried it looked too try-hard.”
Raven shakes her head and admires my thrift-store valuables—antique lamps I found at Connecticut estate sales, a collection of miniature marble obelisks (a symbol of Paris), velvet curtains, and throws.
“Are you hungry?” I ask. “I’m cooking pozole.” The scent of stew fills the air. It’s my grandmother’s recipe, a dish that has to simmer for eight hours for the meat to melt, but it’s worth every second.
Raven looks over the linens I’ve prepared. “You’ve already done so much,” she says. “I wish I’d brought you something.”
I wave her off. “Please. It’s no problem. I was cooking anyway, and it is bad luck if you don’t have a little housewarming when someone new arrives. Elmore will tell you that.” I point at the book still in her hands, and she grins, relaxing in the chair.
I plate our dinner in large soup bowls. The rain’s started up again, and it taps lazily on the glass.
“Where’s Dorian?” Raven asks. “Is he coming tonight?”
“He’s working late at the museum,” I say. “They’re running behind on that big gala they’re having in a few weeks. A big shipment of donations came in for that exhibit, so his boss asked him to do some overtime.”
I hand over her bowl, and she holds it close to her chest. When she looks at me, her mood has turned somber. “About last night, when you two were…” Raven watches me, as if gauging how best to ask.
Raven seems to know something happened between us, something more than we’ve told her, so I deflect.
“You’re coming with us on our next book stealing mission,” I say. “We missed you.”
Her shoulders relax a little.
“Don’t feel like you’re a guest here,” I tell her.
“Thanks. I’m not sure I’ll be able to find another apartment this close to campus.”
“That’s why I offered it.” I smile, and she finally smiles back. It’s one of my life’s missions to see it. I sense a warm feeling rising up in Raven, a kind of swoop of pleasure that I embrace as my own.
We eat our dinner, perched across from each other on the bay window seat, our knees tucked up and our ankles slightly touching, as she tells me about her day at the library.
The dinner, while excellent, hearty and robust, is nothing compared to the feeling of Raven being here.
She’s a steadying presence, like a fire crackling away in the same hearth for years, its light and warmth a constant comfort.
This is the perfect picture of a cozy life.
It’s the safety of being near someone who knows me, maybe even better than I know myself.
When she’s done eating, I take her bowl and put it in the sink, saving the washing up for later. “Do you want to take a shower or…” I pull a bottle of red wine from atop the vintage fridge. “Do you want a nightcap first?”
“Sure,” she says, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Where’d that come from?”
“Another gift from the previous tenant,” I say, holding it up for her. It’s a little dusty, but I brush it off with my sleeve and inspect the label. “It’s a Bordeaux, bottled in 1913.”
“Wow, that’s probably incredibly expensive,” Raven says.
“Then that’s all the more reason we should drink it.”
Raven doesn’t argue as I uncork it. Immediately, an aroma of spicy black pepper and star anise wafts out of the bottle. I manage to find two glasses, pour for us both, and take a seat across from her again.
The wine is so red, so dark, it almost looks like blood in the dim firelight.
I hold the glass up, peering through it.
Time, literally bottled. There’s something magical about it, otherworldly and esoteric.
If I had to guess, the vineyard was owned by a wizard.
Probably a Sibylline alum. The aroma is seductive, like lips brushing against my skin. I suppress the urge to shiver.
The last time this wine breathed, a world war was just about to begin.
How much it’s missed since then. I notice Raven looking at me, but she turns away again, tucking her hair behind her ear.
She puts her nose in the glass and takes a sniff, and something changes in her face, a kind of relief, like she hasn’t taken a deep breath in a long time.
“Toast?” I say, holding out my glass.
She holds out hers, the rim hovering inches from mine.
“To good friends,” I say. “And good wine.”
“To best friends,” says Raven with a rueful smile. “Thanks for having me, man.”
The wine is dry and tangy, with a little bite. Warmth rushes into me, and I let out a soft sigh, the taste lingering on my tongue before it fades into a pleasant tingling in the back of my throat.
“Nice.” I nod, approving. As if I know anything about wine.
“It could breathe for a bit,” Raven decides.
“You think?” I ask.
“Maybe.” She shrugs. “I’m no expert. My parents are wine lovers. They say the tannins need to be exposed to the air to fully develop the flavor. To be honest, I’ve never been able to tell the difference.”
She’s lying. She’s rich and sophisticated and has always been comfortable among the finer things, unlike me, who’s just pretending. The aura around her head shimmers, like a mirage.
“The wine’s been waiting to be enjoyed for so long, you’re telling me it needs even more time?” I tease.
“Time makes things better.”
I tip my head to the side. “If you can’t enjoy things now, it’s a waste.”
“Maybe some things take time because they need it,” she says.
Her cheeks are already pink, and I’m not convinced it’s the magic wine’s doing.
The rain pelts the glass. The wind howls, making the window creak and whistle gently. These old buildings talk, but all I can hear is Raven. I can hear her heart. Not the beating but the aching desire, yearning for me, pulling at her.
I realize how close we’re sitting. Our heads bowed together, just as we used to when I’d spend the night in her room. Funny how her parents never minded that I was a boy. I think it’s because they knew about me even before I knew myself.
But do I know myself?
She wants me…and I…I’m struck by how earnestly I want her, too. The realization sits like a lump in my throat.
“Atticus,” she whispers. “All we have is right now, this moment.”
She waits for my reply, her eyes locked on mine, her features as rigid and still as a statue. Her gaze drops to my lips, and I feel what she’s feeling: You, you, you, I want you.
Her desire for me is so strong I’m overwhelmed by it.
I used to think not being straight was simple.
Instead of knowing what I was, I knew what I wasn’t.
Or I thought I did. But this gravitational pull toward Raven is bending the curve even more.
The borders of my identity have smeared, like water spilled on an ink drawing.
I am attracted to her. Have been. Maybe I never let myself recognize it before, out of fear.
Maybe it was never about what was on the outside to begin with.
Maybe I want to be with people who make me feel alive.
Raven and Dorian make life worth living.
My body warms as if I’ve been basking in sunlight while I look at her.
Beautiful, lissome, brilliant. What if I want to touch the lips that speak a thousand tongues, to taste the wine as she tastes it?
I listen for her thoughts, but they’re too jumbled to comprehend.
Like whispers from another room, distant and soft, they mumble in my ear, and I lean in as if to hear them more clearly.
“I want you, Atticus. I always have,” she whispers.
Raven’s full lips part. I can see she wants me to answer, but somehow, I can’t seem to find the words. Love is a quiet beast, a poltergeist. It can convince you it’s not there, even when it takes you by the hand and pulls you in.
I narrow the gap between us, our mouths inching closer together. But Raven’s so still, I can tell she’s holding her breath, like she’s afraid that if she breathes, the illusion will shatter and the moment will end. I sense her fear, her anxiety, at finally getting what she wants. Me.
“May I?” I ask. The alcohol makes me feel bold.
“May you…?” Her words are strained. Her shyness is so sweet.
I smile. “May I have this moment? With you?”
My question hangs in the air between us, Raven practically vibrating with anticipation, the tension rising, unfurling, begging to be eased.
“Y-yes,” she stammers.
And I kiss her.
Her lips are tight at first. Then, as the second stretches and the warmth between our kiss spreads, her mouth relaxes.
Her shoulders drop, her eyes flutter closed, and she lets out a wonderful sigh.
Emotions rush as our lips press, like a cup overflowing, pouring onto the table.
They wash over me, threatening to drown me.
She was holding herself back, but no longer.
All of the tension in her body releases when we touch.
More, she begs, more, as I kiss her.
I move over her, and her teeth scrape my bottom lip, tugging it down and sending a thrill of pleasure through my spine.
She’s growing more confident with each second.
She releases a small whimper of pleasure and squirms underneath me.
Her hands roam my body, like she’s exploring, too, reading me like she can braille, cuneiform, carved graffiti in Pompeii. Her nails draw lines across my skin.
She pushes me backward into the cushions, dragging her tongue across my jaw, my throat, tasting my skin as her fingers undo my buttons. It’s so good.
Her thoughts in her own voice ring out, clear as day. Yes. Yes. Atticus. Yes. More.
I respond to her touch, arching into her when her warm fingers wrap around me.
It’s like she’s the one who can read minds; she knows exactly where to touch, where to stroke, how to make me shiver.
My hand cups her breast and squeezes it.
I kiss her so tenderly. I don’t want her to stop. And God help me, I’m ready to explode.
And then I think about Dorian…His name bolts through my mind so fast, I actually gasp.
“No,” I say. “No.” I push her away, pulling her hands off my groin. I can’t do this.
Raven’s eyes are cloudy, dazed, and she stares at me. “No?”
Dorian loves her. This is all wrong. If I let this go on any longer, it would destroy him. How could I ever do that to him? To us?
I shake my head, zip, and button. “I should go.”