Chapter 45 When Home Becomes A Person…Persons
WHEN HOME BECOMES A PERSON… OR PERSONS
ALICE
Iwas wrong. It’s not a good thing, and I don’t think I can gaslight myself into thinking otherwise.
I’m so alone.
I’d almost forgotten how that felt.
Strangely, the world keeps moving without them.
Everyone walks past, chattering about what they’re going to do for Labor Day weekend and how excited they are for fall weather. Always looking forward. Always planning for a future they’re so sure will come.
My blank sketchbook mocks me from its place on the café table.
I lean back in my chair and close my eyes.
A sweet voice speaks gentle words behind me.
She’s someone’s mom, or maybe a grandma, whispering wisdom on a phone call to someone she loves.
A group of teenage girls laugh a few tables over.
Someone has a crush. They’re going on a date, and they need to figure out what to wear.
I tune out after that. The rev of an engine floats through the open window, created by the hard-pressed foot of a man who’s probably having a mid-life crisis.
A bird titters at my feet for crumbs. The milk steamer whooshes.
Dishes clank together when one of the baristas swings by, plucking empty mugs from deserted tables.
The soundscape of a café in summer makes a comforting blanket for the restless mind. Gives me lots of things to focus on all at once, so there’s no room for bad thoughts except one.
It’s weird being in Mad Mug without Jessa behind the counter.
I shove the rest of my chocolate croissant into my mouth and wash it down with cold cappuccino. My tongue barely tastes them—they’re just sustenance now.
I’ve already checked the tree in the park three times. But as I pass by it on the way home I figure, what’s a fourth time gonna do?
Have me slamming my fist into the bark and pulling my knuckles away bloodied, apparently.
“Fuck!” I grit out, cradling my hand to my chest.
The kids playing kickball in the field pause and curl their lips at me in confusion.
“Sorry! Nothing to see here!” I say, forcing a grimaced smile.
I know I look insane, muttering curses and bloodying my hand on a tree in a children’s park. I mean, who does that? Insane people. That’s who.
But that’s where I’m at.
I glare at the living wood and all the dead loves carved into its trunk. Initialed scars spread over the bark, big and small, old and fresh. How many of these romances does this tree serve as a headstone for?
A and C.
J and N.
B and… I can’t make out the other letter. Is it an R or another B?
Whatever.
I pull my utility knife from my bag—glad I tossed it in there for the gallery set up yesterday—and carve five letters into the bark.
“Hey!” a high-pitched voice calls. I glance down to find a kid with a missing front tooth stomping over. “You’re not supposed to vanda-ma-lize things.”
“And you’re not supposed to talk to strangers,” I volley back.
The kid’s eyes widen, and he scurries away, realizing I’m right.
My phone buzzes. I sigh, knowing what I’ll find on the screen before I pull it from my pocket.
Today: BIRTHDAY!!!
I was fourteen when I added the alert to my calendar. All caps. Three exclamation points. I enjoyed how I could gift myself some excitement.
But it’s not only my birthday anymore.
I sigh, tossing the phone into my bag along with my utility knife, and admire my shoddy woodworking skills.
R A H J O
At home, I stare at a blank canvas for an hour before giving up.
For dinner I eat lemon cake; it feels doubly sentimental as I lick the sweet icing from my fork. For dessert, I treat myself by donning my Arcadian leathers. They’re the only piece of them I have, since Harley’s final grip on my hand didn’t leave any marks.
I grab the sword Jessa gave me and pretend to look fierce in the full-length mirror of my bedroom. I snarl and growl, swing the blade through the air in the patterns she taught me.
It doesn’t make me feel better.
My shoulders sag as I stare at myself.
I wish I could have lived up to what they expected, wish I could have put up more of a fight against Maven. But I made my choice, terrified of the thought of losing them, and took the deal she offered me.
I run my hand over the rough leather, trace the stitching with my nail. I’m still impressed that Ori made this for me. It must have taken him days to complete.
God, it’s so stupid how much he’s in my head after everything. Almost as much as Harley and Jessa. Almost as much as Ryan.
Things between Ori and I feel… unfinished.
I sigh, tilting my head to the side. My unruly curls hang loose down my back. Would a true Champion tie their hair up? Braid it?
“This is silly,” I mutter at my reflection. “Playing dress up like a child.”
But I don’t move, mesmerized by my mirror image. I lose myself in it—and all the what ifs of competing crash over me.
I don’t think I realized how much I wanted it. Not just them, but a future to look forward to again.
Somewhere between imagining the third trial and ten years down the line, a shimmer catches my eye.
No.
Wait. There, in the corner.
What is that?
I blink. Shake my head. But it’s still shimmering.
“Are you serious right now?” I ask, in awe.
The ghosts of my grandma’s house quiet, as if they too are shocked by the image of Arcadia forming in the ripples that spread over the mirror.
I promise never to come back to this place…
My promise to Maven blares like an alarm in my ears. I wasn’t specific, was I? Did I do that on purpose? Did my subconscious gift me a loophole as a birthday present?
“Holy shit,” I whisper, panicking as I dart around the bedroom looking for my phone. “Holy fuck. Holy shit.”
I quickly text Steph that I’m taking an impromptu trip to Montauk with Harley and Jessa for my birthday, and that I’ll be without service for a while.
I toss the phone on the bed, slap two hair ties on my wrist, and grab my sword before facing the mirror again. My jaw drops at the image beyond my transparent reflection, because it’s not the Meadow I see within the shimmering pane, but the center of an arena.
Arcadia’s calling me.
More than that, it’s offering me a chance to fulfill a broken promise.
Gooseflesh spreads over my skin.
It’s only been a few days since they’ve been gone, but if those few days have been any indication of my new forever, I’m going to wither away by November. Turn to mulch like the fallen leaves.
Tears well in my eyes.
I’m not ready to return to the ground, and I’m tired of not living anymore.
I step through the looking glass.