15. Thirteen
Thirteen
Eden
“Do you like… dancing?” Creed asks as we work around each other in the kitchen, cleaning the post-dinner mess. His eyes twinkle with mischief, his nose red-tipped from a day spent romping around in the snow.
“Dancing?”
“Dancing,” he confirms.
Running my fingers through the ends of my hair, I try to think back to a time that I truly danced. If I had, I was very small. There certainly wasn’t any music floating throughout my home growing up, and to dance without music… what’s the point?
“I don’t know,” I shrug.
Creed nods, looking contemplative as he peers past me. The corner of his mouth twitches, and it dawns on me that he’s trying to keep a straight face.
“Out with it!” I sign, punctuating it with a swat to his arm.
“Fine,” he rubs at his bicep. “Follow me, but close your eyes when we get in there.”
Conceding, I trail after him into the dining room. The table has been pushed against the wall, the tiled floor spacious in the center of the room. The ceiling is high, as are the windows, giving the moon plenty of space to breathe light into the space.
“Close your eyes!” Creed demands. With a huff, I obey.
A minute ticks by. Scoots and footsteps echo from wall, to ceiling, and back again. Finally, he stills and fumbles with something.
My palms are itchy with anticipation and I rub them together, my mind begging me to take a peek. Suddenly, a scratching sound floods the room. My eyes fly open.
Creed is across the room, leaning over some kind of…
appliance? A large black disk spins in the center of a box.
His tongue pokes out in concentration as he fiddles with it, pressing his palm to the side periodically.
Like the music was plucked from thin air, a swell of instruments introduces itself. Goosebumps rise on my arms.
When he turns to face me, his brows are pulled low. “Does it sound alright? I can’t tell from the vibrations. It’s old—”
“It’s perfect,” I interrupt. It’s even better than the dress and sketch book. The way it fills the room, it makes the whole house come alive.
A dimple appears in his cheek and he steps toward me. His shoulders shimmy as he slinks forward, waggling his eyebrows.
“What are you doing?” I can’t help the giggle that scratches its way up from my belly.
“Dancing!” He throws his arms out and spins in a circle for emphasis.
“The music is slow,” I inform him. He only grins wider.
“You’ll have to lead. Go on,” he urges, inclining his head toward me.
Put on the spot, I flounder. It’s so silly, so improper, to dance in the dining room. If Papa were here…
“Try it, bird.” The use of my nickname typically infuriates me, but sincerity has wiped all traces of amusement from his face. All that remains is crinkled eyes and a soft smile.
Shoulders thrown back, I close the distance between us and hold out my hand.
He doesn’t hesitate to take it. From there, I maneuver his arm slowly, using the swell of the music as a guide.
Creed catches on, and soon our bodies are gliding around, his palm resting on my hip.
I don’t think twice; I close my eyes and place my other hand on his upper arm.
We twist and turn and spin, only existing within the music and each other’s companionship.
A throat clears. My heart skips a beat, and I’m out of Creed’s arms before I even open my eyes. Cecil’s in the doorway, his gaze scrutinizing. Neither Creed nor I make a move to speak first.
Cecil’s eyes trail me top to bottom, then do the same to his brother. With a blink, impassiveness returns and he raises his arm, fisting a large paper sack.
“I got booze.”
“You got…?” I trail off, my nose scrunched up as I wait for an elaboration.
“Alcohol.” His tone is flat.
“A-l-c-o-” I begin, my head whipping back towards Cecil. “A-l-c-o-h-o-l!?” All color drains from my face. Dancing is one thing—consuming alcohol is something Papa would have killed me for.
Cecil smirks and turns, leaving the two of us behind. I look to Creed for reinforcement. His smile takes up most of his face.
“Best Christmas ever.”
Creed was right. This is the best Christmas ever.
We’re sprawled in front of the fireplace again, but the warmth isn’t only on my skin. It’s in my brain, in my veins, in my soul. I may never be cold again.
“Should we dance?” Creed asks, lifting his head only to plop it back down into my lap. I push myself into a sitting position so that I can meet his eyes. The world tilts on its axis, and I blink hard to put it right again.
“No… I like sitting on this rug.” I tell him earnestly, smoothing a hand over the ornate rug beneath us.
Creed reaches up and traces a finger down the slope of my nose. “I like sitting on you.”
That might be the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.
A horrendous sound comes from either my throat or my nose.
A stifled snort to the side tells me that his brother found it amusing, too.
Cecil hides his laughter behind a glass of amber liquid.
Whiskey, they called it. I tried to take a sip, but promptly spit it back into the cup.
Cecil replaced it with a glass of something sweet.
The simple act of kindness made my chest ache.
The man is infuriating, making me endure such intense feelings. Even watching him now makes my pulse thrum and my stomach clench with anxiety. And… something else. Indefinable.
The lights are off, only firelight illuminating our surroundings.
The warmth of the flames make Cecil’s olive skin even richer, and his dark hair has an auburn hue that I’ve never noticed.
His cheeks are perfectly smooth—he must shave frequently.
I can almost see it, the way the razor would caress his skin.
So close to breaking the skin, skimming the surface…
A clammy palm on my cheek snaps me back to reality and I swallow heavily. My mouth is suddenly very dry. How long had I been staring at him?
“Are you okay?” Creed asks from my lap, his eyes glassy and eyelids low. He’s had quite a bit more to drink than I have, insisting he wasn’t as much of a “light-weight” as I am.
I’d say he doesn’t handle his alcohol as well as he thinks he does.
“I think I'm thirsty."
“I’ll go get you some water.” Cecil interjects, standing from the couch.
As soon as he’s out of sight, Creed and I snicker for no reason at all.
He abruptly stops, twisting his neck to face me head on.“Do you believe in heaven?” In any other situation I might think he’s being silly, but the look on his face suggests otherwise.
The answer to that is complicated, and I don’t have the capacity to think about it. I simply respond with, “Sometimes.”
Creed nods emphatically. “Me, too. I wonder if we’ll get in.”
I’ve known from a young age that I’m destined for Hell. There’s no absolving my sins. They’re soul deep—etched into me until the day I blink out of existence.
I don’t tell him that.
“You will,” I say instead. This makes him grin.
“Let’s make a promise,” he suggests.“If it’s real, and we get there someday, we’ll find each other. Even if it’s decades apart.”
I’m not sure if it’s his words or the poison in my stomach, but I might be sick.
Forcing a tight-lipped smile, I graze my fingers through the soft locks at the top of his head. I nod once.
“Say it.” His eyes are suddenly sad. “Promise me.”
Fingertips feathering down his freckled cheek, I pull my hands back to respond.
“I’ll always look for you, Creed. Always.”
The sorrow lifts from his features, and he closes his eyes. “Good,” he signs.
In my peripheral vision, Cecil waits with my water. Our gazes clash, and his expression mirrors exactly how I feel inside. A resolved agony.
I made sure not to promise, because it won’t be one I’m able to keep.