Chapter 22 Aurora
AURORA
The moment the French doors open, my eyes snap up from my notebook.
I knew she’d come. I didn’t have the courage to knock, but something in me knew that I wouldn’t have to. I was right. I’ve only been out here ten minutes, and already, she’s here.
“Good morning.”
Mabel’s voice is still sleepy as she pads on bare feet toward me.
I let myself look her over, and the sight both quickens my breath and calms my mind.
She’s in a pink silk robe that hits her midthigh, the neckline open just enough to show pajamas with lace trim.
Her face is bare. No thick, black eyeliner. No bright pink lipstick. Just Mabel.
This was the worst part of sharing a room with her in Adelaide.
Seeing her dressed down and real. It made me feel things I didn’t understand—truthfully, I still don’t understand them—yet I still craved it.
Now I miss it. I miss it so much that now that she’s here, I can’t bring myself to look away.
Not even when she catches me staring. Her naked lashes flutter and she sucks her bottom lip into her mouth before setting a latte cup on the table, toffee from the smell of it, and taking a seat across from me.
She gives me a small, almost shy smile, and nods to the notebook in front of me.
“What’s that? Are you writing poetry?”
I drag my eyes off her long enough to glance at the open page filled with my loopy handwriting.
“Journaling.”
Not poetry. Not yet. But journaling is a start.
“About your Tour du Australia?”
“Well, right now I’m making a list of places I want to visit. If I get the chance.”
“Yeah?” Her mouth curls into an excited smile that I can’t help but mirror. “Can I know what’s on the list?”
“They’re pretty generic travel destinations, I think.”
“Tell me anyway.”
She lifts her latte to her lips and takes a sip without breaking eye contact, and there’s something so intimate about it that I nearly lose my breath. I avert my eyes to my notebook and read.
“Paris. Rome. London.”
“Good choices. Where else?”
“Marrakech.”
“Oh, Morrocco. Nice.”
I glance up at her and find her brows raised with interest.
“I’ve never been there. Why Marrakech?”
“There’s a garden there,” I say slowly. “Jardin Majorelle. I’d like to visit it.”
“Like a botanical garden?”
“Yeah. But kind of different.”
“Different how?”
I try to sound nonchalant, try not to geek out over it, but she’s so genuinely interested that my excitement boils over, and I start to ramble.
“Well, it was designed by a French painter, Jacques Majorelle, over the course of forty years. It was a lifelong passion project of his, with every single detail and plant being thoughtfully selected by him, but then he had to sell it in the 1950s. It was actually going to be bulldozed in the ‘80s, but then Yves Saint Laurent and Pierre Bergé bought it and restored it. Can you imagine? Botanical gardens designed by an artist and a fashion designer icon? It’s got these vibrant blue walls, and exquisite architectural details, and over two acres of exotic plants from all around the world. It’s supposed to be absolutely gorgeous. ”
Mabel smirks and arches an eyebrow. “How many other gardens are on your list?”
“Only a few.” I fold my lips between my teeth to tame my smile and give her a shrug. “It’s not the whole list.”
“Liar.” She laughs. “Tell me.”
I scrunch my nose and purse my lips, hesitating briefly. “You sure?”
Her eyebrow arches again, higher this time, and I laugh out loud. Morning coffee and conversation in your pajamas. Is this how it’s supposed to be? Fun and light. No anxiety. No judgment. Just peace.
“Okay,” I singsong playfully. “But remember, you asked for this.”
“I did. Now ramble about your gardens, plant nerd. I want to hear all about them.”
“Okay, so, there’s The Garden of Cosmic Speculation in Dunfries, Scotland. It’s like plants and science combined, and it’s only open to the public one day a year.”
“Cool name.”
“Right? Very cool name.”
“What else?”
“Well, there’s one at the base of Corcovado Mountain in Rio de Janeiro, and there are royal palms, and orchid houses, and giant Amazonian lilies, and even marmosets and parrots. Sometimes even toucans.”
“So, paradise. You’ve described paradise.”
“Exactly,” I say, nodding emphatically. “Exactly paradise. Then there’s the gardens at Chateau de Villandry in Loire Valley, France. It was built during the Renaissance, and it’s got these big, ornamental hornbeam hedge mazes. And, you know, if I make it to France—”
“When you make it to France,” Mabel interjects, her voice soft and encouraging, and I pause, words escaping me for a moment.
When.
When I make it.
She’s so certain that I amend my statement without questioning it.
“When I get there, I’ll have to see the Palace of Versailles gardens, too.”
“Of course. You can’t miss those. Do you have more?”
I laugh. “Mabel, there are like twenty places on this list, and I haven’t even scratched the surface.” I run my fingers over the letters on the page feeling the slight indentation from the pen and drop my voice lower. “It would take years to see them all.”
Years, and I haven’t even begun. I don’t know if I ever will.
Suddenly, the mood shifts, and I feel the grief start to creep in.
It’s always there, just on the edges of my mind, waiting.
I can fend it off for a while, sometimes for days or even weeks, but it always comes back.
And now, with the haze lifting, the grief is even more painful, because reality is so much worse than I realized.
My hand goes to my necklace on instinct, and I clutch the metal pendant, rubbing it with my thumb.
My parents and brother would be so disappointed in me. In what I’ve become. In what I’ve allowed to happen.
For my birthday one year, Paul bought me a world map and a tin of red thumbtacks. He said it was for documenting my travels. I don’t know where that map is now. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Brady trashed it with the rest of my things when I moved in with the Sinclairs.
Even the paper under my fingertips burns, and I have to fight off an overwhelming sense of shame. My mom loved my poetry. She saved all my notebooks filled with poems since kindergarten. Now I’ve been reduced to writing lists of places I’ll probably never see.
They’re gone. They’re dead. Their last memories of me were horrible, and even in their death, I’ve let them down. I’m trapped. I’m suffocating. I did this to myself.
I sigh and close my notebook. I have every intention of excusing myself, but then Mabel speaks up.
“You know there are a few botanical gardens near here, right?”
“I do know that.”
I try to keep my attention on my notebook, but like pulled by magnets, my eyes are drawn up again until they snap together with hers. Amber irises full of warmth and acceptance. I would dive into them if I could. I’d wrap myself in her confidence, in her optimism, and I’d never let go.
“Would you like to visit one with me?”
Her question catches me off guard, and for a breath, all I can do is blink at her. When she smirks, I give my head a little shake and speak slowly, hoping my voice doesn’t belie the butterfly-type nerves that have erupted in my stomach.
“Really? You would want to do that?”
“Absolutely. I love watching you geek out over plants. Going to a botanical garden with you is exactly my idea of a good time.”
Her tone is light and playful, like she’s fighting off a laugh, and her eyes sparkle with that flirtatious glint that sets my heart racing. I nod once. Twice. Several times, rapidly, unable to tame my excitement any longer.
“Okay. Okay, yes. Yes, I would love to. I would absolutely love to.”
“Cool. It’s a date.”
I force a swallow, my throat suddenly bone-dry.
“Yeah,” I croak out. “A date. When should we—”
There’s a banging on my bedroom door that makes us jump, and we both whip our heads around to stare into the room.
“Koalas,” a voice shouts in an English accent. “Koalas, Lil’ Ham!!!”
Then the same banging sounds from Mabel’s room, and the voice shouts again.
“Koalas! Wake up, Rossi! Koalas!”
And then he’s gone.
Mabel and I look at each other, then we both laugh.
Crue.
“Well,” Mabel says, pushing up from her chair. “Better get dressed, Lil’ Ham. Sounds like we’re going to meet some koalas.”
I groan as she saunters across the terrace toward her French doors.
“Please don’t call me that.”
She laughs once more before disappearing into her bedroom, so I collect my things and head through my own doors.
Today, koalas with the bands, and then later this week, a botanical garden date with Mabel.
A date.
I smile to myself as I pick out an outfit for the day.
Someone showing interest in something I love, showing interest simply because I love it, is something I haven’t had in such a long time.
Brady hates plants. He hates when I talk about plants.
Aside from my mom’s orchid, he doesn’t let me have house plants at all, and he tolerates my time in the garden only as long as I’m still playing the doting wife and housemaid.
But with Mabel...
Going to a botanical garden with you is exactly my idea of a good time, she’d said. She listens. She cares. And it’s genuine. I know it.
To feel seen is such a heady, addicting experience, and I find myself craving it more and more as the days pass. I find myself longing for Mabel, for the way I feel when she’s around. Needing her eyes and voice and scent. Needing her playful, calming presence. Needing her.
She’s earned a starring role in my thoughts, dreams, and fantasies, and I can no longer ignore the way she makes my stomach flip and my heart squeeze in my chest. I can’t ignore the way I want her, but I still try. Despite our foundation of truth, I lie to myself.
I tell myself that the way I feel for her is simply a normal, innocent reaction to kindness. It’s just been so long, that I’ve forgotten what it feels like. My connection with Mabel is nothing more than a harmless, innocent friendship. It’s normal. It’s harmless.
“It’s innocent,” I say out loud.
Even though I know, for me, it’s anything but.