Chapter Twenty-Five An Indulgence
Chapter Twenty-Five
An Indulgence
Griffin
I awaken to a sliver of sun beaming across the den.
It’s dark on the lower floor of the Lark household.
No lamps are on, just sun highlighting wood paneling and dust-covered photo frames.
The whistling wind still pounds against the windows.
It’s quiet in the house. No more footsteps in the kitchen. I don’t know what time it is.
I shift under the sheets. A cat jumps off the bed. I watch as Steak darts up the stairs.
Huh.
My feet nudge something at the end of the bed. I sit up. My head still feels heavy, but it gets lighter, more faint, when I take in the sight before me.
Beverly is kneeling beside the metal bed frame—half on the floor, half on the bed.
An abandoned puppet tangled in needle and thread lies across the sheets.
Her eyes are closed as her head rests on the back of her hand.
She sends out little exhales through her parted lips, a small snore, as if she were caught mid-sentence before passing out.
She was lying to me when she said she wouldn’t get behind on her work. I know she was. And now she’s exhausted herself.
Has she been caring for me all night?
I swallow, watching as the sun filters through the window of the front door, illuminating her blond hair splayed across the sheets.
Her nail polish, alternating each finger between mint green and pastel pink and baby blue, is chipped as usual.
Little shimmers of dust motes sparkle around her head. I smile to myself.
I’ve never been a big believer in heaven. Not after my parents. Not after losing Robin. But if I did believe, if I did think that there was a reason for most things, I might—just maybe—believe that Beverly Alice Lark is an angel dropped to this earth just for me.
I lean forward, bending at the waist to cup the curve of her jaw. So soft. So delicate. So unfit for my calloused hands and ragged exhales with too much smoke as a teen and too much recklessness in my twenties. But I’m caught in her, selfishness and all.
Beverly must know how I feel by now.
We’ve been so close. Touching but not. Tiptoeing around truths.
She must know how I feel.
Who wouldn’t feel this way around her?
When you find someone who laughs like Beverly, who is kind like her, who makes silly voices for fun and is so unabashedly genuine like her, you don’t let that go. My thumb strokes over her pink cheeks. I’m drawn to her, like a greedy moth to a bright, everlasting flame.
Suddenly, Beverly slowly blinks awake, bleary-eyed and tired. I should look away—be ashamed that I was watching her sleep—but I’m not.
She sits up. She looks barely conscious. Her palms immediately rush to her shaking shoulders. Goose bumps erupt over her skin right as another breeze hits the front door.
“Come here,” I murmur.
I tuck my palm under her elbow. Maybe still thinking she’s asleep, she stands without question. I scoot over—the mattress squeaking miserably as I make room on the pullout couch. I open the covers. Beverly crawls in beside me.
Her limbs are cold as ice. I take her hands and breathe into them to warm her palms. Her body is stiff, but she doesn’t pull away. As I wrap my arms around her back and tuck her closer, her head fits like a missing puzzle piece against my chest.
Together, we both ease into sleep once more, holding each other under the covers.
I’m being indulgent. I’m being selfish.
But I can’t stop growing closer to Beverly, even if I wanted to.