Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The sun beat down on my face, thawing me from the inside out.
I always forget how much I like the sun.
It was the same, though, every year when the first signs of spring appeared in warmer weather and lighter coats.
The last few months had come and gone in a blur of John Hughes movies, bowls of cereal, and one too many stolen glances at my demon of a roommate.
Having someone to share in my hermit-like antics had been nothing short of lovely.
When the weather had finally gotten painfully cold in Darling, when the weather was stormy and thunder shuddered against the glass panes of my window, there was really little else to do but huddle under a blanket and watch films. The cooler temperatures miraculously resulted in Mortimer sticking around, too, coming in for dinner one day and never leaving.
There was probably a very logical–David Attenborough explainable–reason that the flaky outdoor cat that came and went as he pleased was now a shadow at my side.
I’m sure I could find the answer on the side of a tuna can, in the folds of a warm blanket, or in the whispered words of a grumpy demon who just knew it would make me happy to have him around.
Whatever the reason was, it was probably the first winter I’d enjoyed in a long time.
I usually paraded around my apartment in gloves and several layered sweaters like the knitted Michelin man just to keep my body warm, but that was no longer necessary.
It wasn’t because my shit bag of a landlord had gotten his act together, no, but I’d come home one day and the old creaks in my apartment had just stopped.
The unrelenting draft from the window had all but disappeared, and I rarely heard the whining of pipes from deep within my walls.
‘Stay’ by Maurice Williams and The Zodiacs continued to play from the little red radio that sat on the bench next to my grandparents.
That rusty old contraption had seen more years than I had and spurted out song after song as if it wasn’t clinging on to life.
The tunes that played out through the speakers told the story of my grandparents’ marriage, each tune succeeding in pulling another fuzzy memory from their minds, resulting in the quiet laughter that carried me around the garden.
Memories of prom, where the dresses were too poofy and the hairstyles too big, to church weddings, where the champagne was too strong and the hairstyles even bigger.
Under the guise of tending to the rhododendrons the morning I’d summoned Thallor, I watched my grandparents for a moment.
I’d gotten to spend more time with them over the Christmas break, which had done little to reprieve me from the thoughts that rattled around inside my head.
But the holiday break had been a necessary one.
For a couple days, Thallor and Mortimer were left to their own devices, and I was sure they were wreaking havoc on my fully stocked fridge.
I’d left Thallor a list of Christmas films to watch for when the mood struck him, as well as his present–a stack of steamy cowboy romance with lots of riding, none of which had to do with horses or bulls.
Jude had ended up pushing back our date to the new year, suggesting we go out on New Year’s Eve instead.
He’d said something about jetting off to Napa for Christmas whilst I was standing in my kitchen staring into the vacant interior of my fridge, questioning the morality of hiked rent prices.
I’d almost keeled over when he’d sent me a picture from inside an actual jet.
A jet that was, for all intents and purposes, bigger than my fucking apartment.
Being home with my grandparents had been the wholesome end to a distressing and difficult year, and whilst I enjoyed being in their company, I couldn’t stop myself from searching for Thallor in the deepest parts of my mind.
The thoughts simply crept in. Slowly. Quietly.
It happened at the breakfast table, in the garden, and when I was searching through the endless clutter in my grandfather’s garage.
It had happened in the shower too, but I’d drenched myself in gasp-inducing water to stop my mind from spiralling further.
But, try as I might, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about him.
His actions from that night, as blurry as they were, played on my mind like a broken DVD player.
They slipped into the corners of fear and doubt and wrapped them in something warm.
In something safe. The more and more time we spent together, the more intoxicating and confusing my feelings became.
The lines between us–like static–became unfocused and unclear.
Because none of his actions were those of a demon.
There was nothing in the words he said or the things he did that screamed of the monster inside him.
When we’d curl up on the sofa–the distance between us getting smaller by the day–I’d ponder what it would be like if we were in one of my favourite films. I’d ask myself what it would be like if he were Blane McDonagh, Bender, or Jake Ryan, and I were Molly Ringwald.
I’d think about what it would feel like to be the leading lady who finally got the guy.
I’d always allow myself one brief moment to ruminate on what it would be like before letting the thought drift away.
Because as much as I wanted it to be, my life was not a movie.
It wasn’t fiction at all. Thallor wasn’t the lead in a coming-of-age film, and I wasn’t the girl waiting by the window to be picked up in a red Porsche.
I could never have him, and he would never want me.
I turned my attention back to the flower beds in front of me at the same moment my grandfather came up behind me. “Hey kiddo, want to come in for some lunch?”
Before I even had a chance to politely refuse, my stomach let out a whining gurgle. “I guess my stomach has made the decision for me.”
“Runs in the family,” he said as he patted his belly heartily like something straight out of a Coca-Cola commercial where Santa Claus stands by a large plate of cookies. “All that work Maura has me doing, I’m still not sure how I’ve put on so much timber.”
“And yet you still look as charming as you did back then,” I smiled up at him before I pushed myself up onto my knees and stood up. “I’ve got the photo on my kitchen wall to prove it.”
My grandparents had always explained to me that old age was a privilege. A gift. One, that so few people were willing to accept, but it was. In my grandfather’s cuddly build, in each wrinkle and each line, I didn’t see age, but instead all the happy moments that had led to this very point.
I followed him up the pebbled trail, tipping out of the way of a sprawling brand before smiling over at my grandmother.
“Maura, those marigolds sure do lighten up this garden,” I mused before pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“Are you coming inside? Gramp’s is making lunch, and Isaac said he would pop round too. ”
Maura immediately perked up at the mention of Isaac. She’d always loved him. A sentiment that I suppose made sense. He was, in every sense, including literally, the boy next door. Athletic, handsome. And always nice to the strange girl across the road with the old soul and the hand-me-down clothes.
I think a part of her always expected us to get married.
Like all hopeless romantics, she wanted to believe that our story would be one for the ages.
And I’m sure at some point we had one of those silly little pacts where you promise to get married if you’re still single at fifty.
For all intents and purposes, I’m pretty sure we were still engaged, and Esme was just his hot bombshell of a mistress.
My grandmother had been more than a little disappointed when Isaac had announced that he had a girlfriend–one that was not me–despite my protests that Isaac had and always would be the brother in my story and not the love interest. Upon meeting Esme, she’d instantly fallen in love, as most people did.
She was sunshine, sugar smiles, and never failed to make me laugh.
And whilst I loved Isaac, having Esme in my life was something I wouldn’t trade for the world.
“How are your parents doing?” Maura asked Isaac as my grandfather cleared away our plates.
There was something so heart-warming about chicken pot pie and being in the kitchen I grew up in with the people I loved most. The back of my wooden chair creaked softly as I settled into it.
With every passing minute, I seemed to slip further into my food coma until I couldn’t resist placing a hand on my full and slightly bloated stomach.
Unlike the fuss and noise that usually came with being pregnant, my food baby just made me feel content and relaxed.
I looked up at Isaac and found him doing the same, catching his eye before we both descended into uncontrollable fits of laughter. Chicken pot pie for the win.
“Yes, they are good,” Isaac mumbled through his words as he wiped his tears away. “Dad is busy working, I think he's in New York this week for something or other. And Mom is mom. Always very active in the Darling community…and apparently everyone else’s business too.”