Round Twenty-One
ROSE
I perch on the stone hearth in front of a crackling fire in Ollie’s living room, an old-style encyclopedia open on my lap and a warm cup of cocoa by my thigh. I allow the firelight to illuminate the glossy pages, an image of the famous pharaoh ruler Hatshepsut staring back at me.
She was a king. A powerful leader with unprecedented power.
That she married her half-brother is just a small, not-so-insignificant detail that forces my lips into a wrinkled smile, a soft snicker rolling from my chest. Both of which are legions better than how my heart pounded for the first thirty minutes after Ollie’s truck rolled out of his driveway.
Distraction. That’s what I needed. And Hatshepsut, it turns out, was the perfect solution.
The wind howls outside, beating against the front of the house until the timber groans and the windows rattle. Snow falls onto the skylights, stealing what little light this dreary day offered and making it difficult to gauge time.
I could take a peek at the clock on the wall, or the digits on Oliver’s oven, obviously.
But I’m trying so insanely, sickeningly hard not to.
Because if I get up and check the time and find out he’s only been gone thirty-one minutes—when it feels like he’s been gone an eternity—I might tear my hair out and cry.
And I really don’t want Ollie to get home at that exact moment to witness how horrifyingly close I am to the end of my tether.
So Hatshepsut it is. Her family drama entertains me, even if it’s all a bit icky.
Her rise to power gives my mind something else to focus on, and her legacy—one of trade and prosperity, not military conquests—brings me comfort as day turns to dusk and the crackle of the fire keeps me company, almost drowning out the sound of my own breathing and the ferocious wind.
You’re doing great, Rose!
Until headlights flash across the front of the house, bright beams illuminating the living room and driving home just how ridiculously dark I let it become in here.
My pulse skitters at the sound of tires crunching on gravel.
At the soft squeak of brakes, and right after that, the deafening silence when the motor switches off.
My throat closes, abused by a lump of nausea thick enough to refuse fresh air to pass through. My lips turn impossibly dry, and my hands tremble with a violence I can’t explain. Just as I can’t explain why I toss the encyclopedia to the hearth and snatch up a thick steel fire poker instead.
A headache thuds in the back of my skull, reminding me exactly where my head hit that woman’s windshield, and at the slam of a car door, a whimper bursts from somewhere deep in my soul.
Heavy footsteps thump up wooden stairs, and in response, adrenaline floods my veins.
It’s not a choice I make. Not something I consent to.
My body merely reacts, hijacking my limbs and shakily pushing me to my feet.
I cling to the steel rod and focus on the curved, sharp end.
Clumsily, I knock my mug of cocoa over, so dark liquid spills across Oliver’s book, onto the stone hearth, and over the edge.
It dribbles into the tiny cracks between floorboards.
Stop freaking out. Stop freaking out. “Stop freaking out.” I choke on the tears clogging my throat. My lungs ache for fresh air. My heart… Jesus. I need a reprieve from fear for just a damn minute.
I don’t know who I am or why the world terrifies me. But I know what I feel.
“Rose?” Oliver stops at his front door and grabs the handle, giving it a twist. “I’m home.”
My throat clears on a gasp, my lungs stretching to capacity. I spin and set the fire poker back on the hearth, whipping up the book as cocoa soaks into the pages and splashes against my shirt. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”
Ollie unlocks his front door and pushes it wide. “Why’s it so dark in here?” He flips the lights on, illuminating the room and chasing all the shadows away. “Rose? What’s wrong?”
“I spilled cocoa. I’m so sorry.” I snatch up the spilled mug and carry both across the room, striding into the hall, and the kitchen right after, then I slam the book to the counter and put the mug in the sink.
I snap paper towels from the holder by the fridge, my hands shaking, tears burning as they flow onto my cheeks and dribble south.
I keep my back to the entryway and hastily wipe the pages of the book.
“I’ll clean the floor in a second,” I call out, forcing strength and faux nonchalance into my voice.
“I’ll mop it up properly, I promise. Do you have cotton buds so I can get into the cracks of the floor before it—”
“I’m standing right behind you. Not touching, ‘cos I don’t wanna scare you.”
“Argh!” I cry out and spin, tears flooding my throat and cutting off my air.
Again. I press the open book to my chest and use my shirt to absorb more of the mess, and because he’s right here, staring at me that way he does, I lower my gaze.
Shaking my head, I snatch the entire roll of paper towels and blow past the man in shorts and a tank top.
It’s like the cold doesn’t touch him. Like the snow doesn’t bother him at all. “I’ll clean the mess, I promise.”
“Rose.” He turns again and follows me back to the living room. “What’s going on?”
“I spilled the cocoa.” I’m a broken record.
A scratchy, dumb, pathetic record. But I busily tear several squares from the towel roll and set them on a clean section of floor, then, placing the book over them, face down, I come back to the hearth and soak up the mess I’ve made.
“I knocked it over when you came up the steps.”
“I scared you.”
“Startled me.” I toss the used paper towel into the fire.
Should I? Is that bad? I don’t know. But each dripping ball sizzles and catches alight, disappearing into nothingness.
If only I could make all my mistakes disappear so easily.
Every dumb tear I cry. Every stupid tremor in my hands when I have nothing to be afraid of.
“I’ll buy you a new book, I promise.” I hurriedly wipe my face, thankful that my back is turned to him.
“Someday,” I amend. “When I get a job and become a normal, functioning member of society again. With my first check, I promise to replace the book I ruined.”
“It’s fine. Rose.” He crosses the room—I’m thankful for the sound his shoes make against the floor—then he lowers into a crouch beside me, his knee touching my arm and his hand coming forward to rest on the hearth.
Leaning toward the fire, he turns his face and forces himself into my vision. “Relax.”
“I’ll relax when I clean this up.” I toss the next soaked bundle into the flames and grab more towel, following the trail of cocoa down the front of the hearth and onto the wooden floor. “I especially need to clean the floor. The milk will turn sour soon. It’ll settle between the cracks and smell.”
He grabs my jaw, startling me with his firm grip and commanding tug, then he forces my face up until our eyes meet. “First time home alone didn’t go well, huh?”
“Why do you have a bruise on your face?” My breath comes out in an explosive exhale.
Sour milk and stained floors be damned, I twist and plop my ass onto the hearth, pushing his hand from my face and grabbing his instead.
I gently slide the pad of my thumb over the already purpling bruise. “What happened?”
“My friends hit me. They can be really mean sometimes.” He curls into my touch, content like a happy kitten. “Good thing I announced it was me at the door, huh?” His eyes flicker to the fire poker on the stone hearth. “How close was I to death?”
God. I sniffle and drop my gaze. I’m a friggin’ mess. An embarrassment. If I were a stray dog walking the street, too skittish for human interaction, they would’ve put me down by now.
“Rose?” He sighs, the faint taste of mint tickling my tongue. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
“I know.” I swipe the treacherous tear dribbling over my cheek. “I lost track of time, then I stood up to answer the door—” Liar! “But I knocked my mug over instead. I ruined your book. And your floor. And—”
“Stop.”
“Did I chip the mug, too?” I rasp. “I didn’t even check. But as soon as I get my life together, I’ll pay to fix everything I destroyed, I promise.”
He twists and settles on the hearth beside me, resting his elbows on his knees and his arm against mine, then he nods toward the encyclopedia, with the pages already crinkling from moisture damage. “There are a million novels in this house you could’ve read, but you chose a reference book?”
“I keep trying to read novels, but I get a chapter or two in and realize I’ve already read it.
” I sniffle and wipe my nose. The cocoa on my shirt quickly turns cold, but the fire at my back makes me hot.
It’s a brutal contrast that leaves me sweating and with goosebumps at the same time.
“I already finished Alana’s book.” My heart gives a heavy thud.
A good thud. One that has everything to do with the pride I feel for a stranger, and nothing to do with fear.
Or encyclopedias. Or spilled cocoa. “It was really good.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” He leans into me, tapping his shoulder against mine. “I liked it. Especially the kissy stuff.”
I snort, lowering my gaze to the floor. “Apart from her book, I feel like I’ve read everything else. So, I pulled the encyclopedia off the shelf and opened it to a random page. Which kinda worked out well, because it turns out the pharaohs had some serious family drama going on.”
“Yeah?” He toes his sneakers off and kicks them across the room. One lands a full ten feet from the front door, while the other rolls under the couch. “What’s the tea?”
“Hatshepsut was a female king doing the dirty with her own half-brother.”
His nose wrinkles with disgust. “Gross.”