Chapter 30 Raven
Raven
Of course I was under the spell, and the wonderful part is that, even at the time, I perfectly knew I was. But I gave myself up to it; it was an antidote to any pain, and I had more pains than one.
—Henry James, The Turn of the Screw
Drops of rain pelt the gray pavement as I climb the stairs to the apartment door, thinking only of Atticus, hoping I’ll find him waiting for me inside.
When I come in, the wind rattles the windows, making the building creak and groan.
The room is dark and cold. Lightning flashes and thunder rumbles.
It’s unusual, an autumn thunderstorm in Vermont.
I shake off the rain, but I’m already chilled to the bone.
“Atticus, can we talk?” I call into the apartment.
Nothing, no sound, no one answers back.
He’s not here. I can’t apologize. I said such hurtful things, and meant none of it, not completely.
I don’t know what I was thinking. I was angry, and hurt, and I lashed out.
When I rushed after him, I lost him in the storm.
I thought he was going home. Now I’m alone, and filled with regret.
I hadn’t meant to snap at Atticus. Not really.
I was just jealous, thinking of him and Dorian together.
Shivering, I light a fire, put on the kettle, shower quickly to wash off the grime from the tunnels.
I keep expecting Atticus to walk into the apartment, but he doesn’t.
So I wait. I drink tea and stare out the window, hoping to see him coming down the street, hunched over in the blustering wind.
I promise myself that when he walks through this door, we’ll figure out what to do next together.
Like we always do. Maybe I’ll take him to Paris with me.
When there’s a knock at the door, I almost trip over the coffee table in my haste to answer. The second I fling it open, an apology dies on my lips.
Aspen, standing under an umbrella.
“I heard what happened,” he says. His cheeks are pink from the cold. “They really fired you?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say distractedly.
“Are you okay?”
I almost laugh. “Am I okay?” I repeat.
Aspen frowns. “Can I come in?”
Atticus’s warning wedges itself into my thoughts. Can I really trust him? Can I trust anyone? My heartbeat flutters. “I just want to be alone,” I say, slightly pushing the door closed.
“Raven—”
“What we had was fun, but I think it’s best if we end it. I’m sorry,” I tell him.
The look of hurt on his face is convincing, making me believe for a brief moment that I’ve ruined the last good thing I have in my life, but I close the door anyway. I wait, listening for his footsteps to retreat before I head back upstairs.
Why is it that whenever I open my mouth, I always make things worse?
I busy my mind with reading. I pull blankets that smell like Atticus over my shoulders to stave off the chill; he never comes.
I add more fuel to the fire, always glancing out the window, but the streets are empty.
I eat dinner in silence, staring at a door that never opens.
I wake after an hour’s nap when I think I hear it creak, but it’s just the wind.
Atticus isn’t coming home.