Chapter 22 Dreamscape #2
Her smile is kind as she pats the space between her and an older woman on the fountain's edge. The stone is damp from fountain splatter, and I hesitate to sit.
“I don’t want to get a wet spot on my butt,” I say.
The queen and her friend laugh, and I cringe, but they don’t push me to join them.
The woman next to the queen is old, like Nana.
She’s got wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, and they deepen when she purses her lips to look me over.
A weird scent hits my nose, and I realize she’s got a cigarette pinched between her fingers.
But the smoke wafting off it doesn’t smell bitter; this is sweeter.
The queen’s friend takes a slow drag. Smoke puffs out her nose before she speaks with a smirk. “Want some, dearie?”
“No?” I say, more a question than an answer. My wide eyes flick to the queen, who laughs again.
“You can’t offer the child a joint,” the queen scolds in that kind, smooth voice. It’s like a lullaby. “Alice, this is the twins’ Memaw.”
“You’re Ori’s grandma?” I ask, tilting my head at the old woman. I glance between the two women who don’t look alike at all. Where the queen’s features are soft, Ori’s grandma is sharp.
“Sure am,” she says, lifting the smoking stick to her lips. “And you’re Ori’s Champion? ‘Bout time you wandered in here. Was getting sick of the other one.”
The queen sighs, and her dainty fingers pinch the bridge of her nose.
“You mean Maven?” I ask.
Ori’s grandmother grunts.
“What my mother-in-law means is that she’s excited to meet you. She doesn’t spend a lot of time in the castle or town anymore, but she’ll make more appearances now that both you and Maven are here,” the queen explains. “She’s going to start mentoring you both on what it means to be a Champion.”
“Why don’t you live in the castle anymore?” I ask.
“Unfortunately, their Pop passed on a few years ago, so I moved out to a cabin in the woods for some peace and quiet,” Ori’s grandmother says. She waits a beat, sucking on the cigarette again. “You know, four out of six things you’ve said have been questions. Curiosity like that once killed a cat.”
“My Nana says my curiosity is what makes me creative.”
“Sounds like a smart lady.”
“She is,” I say. “My mom’s smart too. She’s a scientist, so she’s curious but in a different way.”
The queen and Ori’s grandmother share a look, and it makes me scuff my toe on the cobblestone.
“Alice, dear,” Ori’s mother says, softly. “Do you miss your family?”
My brows knit. “That’s a silly question.”
Ori’s grandmother snorts, and smoke comes out her nose.
“Of course, I miss them,” I continue. “They’re my family.”
Sadness darkens the queen’s eyes; they churn like storm clouds. “And they treat you well?”
“Yeah,” I say, confused.
“They never hurt you?”
“No, they’re my parents,” I say, getting frustrated. “Why would they hurt me?”
“Sometimes family doesn’t act as family should,” the queen says, again with that smooth voice. “I only wanted to make sure. Maven’s family wasn’t kind to her.”
“Well, mine don’t do that,” I huff, crossing my arms.
“I believe you,” the queen says.
“You enjoy it here, Alice?” Ori’s grandmother asks sharply, and I shrink back. “Does Arcadia make you curious enough to want to stay? If you never found that portal home, do you think your new friends could become your new family?”
Waking from my dreams of Arcadia is soft.
Not a jolt, not a gasp, not a snap of my lids, but a slow flutter of my lashes.
They tickle my cheeks as I rouse to a dark living room, lit only by the movie’s selection screen previews rolling on repeat.
The DVD player whirs. It’s likely overheated, but it serves as a calming underscore to Jessa and Harley’s deep-sleep breathing.
We’re a tangle of limbs, blankets, and pillows, and even with the air conditioning making the house crisp, I’m on the verge of too hot.
My shoulder is notched in Harley’s armpit, my cheek pressed to his rising and falling chest. We haven’t moved much in our nap.
Jessa’s the only one who’s shifted in slumber; her head has claimed my stomach as a pillow, and her arm is woven between my thighs, hand reaching across my body to wrap around Harley’s calf.
A smile sneaks onto my lips.
I take my time soaking in how peaceful they look. Gratitude slides between my ribs and wraps around my heart as I gently brush a strand of Jessa’s bleached bangs off her forehead. The longer I stare—the longer I linger in this content their presence brings—the louder Memaw’s voice is in my head.
Do you think your new friends could become your new family?
The answer is annoyingly clear: they could. If I let them.
It’s that nasty second bit that has my fingers pausing their trail down Jessa’s cheek.
Ryan became my family. I put him before everyone, sometimes before myself. But that’s relationships, right? You take turns putting each other first. It all evens out if you stay together long enough.
These two are clearly willing to do that for me. They show up when I ask them to. They don’t push or pry in ways that make me uncomfortable. They made space for Ryan’s ghost at our coffee-table dinner.
When everyone talks about my life to me—my therapist, my friends—they always use words like moving on or pushing through. I know they don’t mean to have this effect, but those terms make me burrow into my bitterness.
Sure, I don’t want to feel this terrible, but I also don’t want to move on or push through. That feels like a disservice to my love. That feels like I’m trying to find a replacement. But there could never be a replacement. That’s what’s so fucked about it all.
But maybe, there could be a table of four with three seats filled instead of one. Not a replacement—an addition.
The urge to capture this moment seizes me.
It feels monumental. Singular. An earthquake; a shift of the tectonic plates under my feet.
My free arm somehow contorts enough to snag my dying phone from the couch behind us.
I open my camera and set it to video, then I swivel it around us at different angles, capturing how our bodies mingle.
This is my next piece.
My fingers itch as I lock my phone and toss it back onto the couch.
I hold my breath as I detangle myself from Jessa, lifting her head off my lap and laying it onto the blankets beneath us. She doesn’t stir, completely knocked out. I slide away from Harley, and he sucks in a quick yawn, sleepily curling into the empty space I leave.
I pause, kneeling next to both of them, and again, gratitude strangles my heart. I don’t want to wake them, but I need to thank them.
I bend and press a gentle kiss on Jessa’s forehead. I twist the opposite way, lips pressing an equally soft kiss to Harley’s. But unlike Jessa, when I pull back, Harley’s eyes are open and gazing up at me.
“What are you doing up?” he asks in a deep, slumber-laden rasp.
He’s a vision—sleepy smile and dimpled cheeks spotted with freckles, thick white lashes hanging low over glittering irises, and long fingers combing through messy locks.
“I’m going to go paint,” I whisper. “It’s the middle of the night. Go back to sleep.”
Harley blinks, slowly, and then squints—he doesn’t have his glasses on, so I’m sure I’m blurry this close.
“Can I come?” he asks in that same, sleepy rasp.
I tilt my head, emotion swelling in my throat. “Why?”
“I like watching you when you’re at peace,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious explanation in the world.