Chapter Fourteen
Moskins
I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, but none of them are as painful as the one currently walking around my house.
My balls are at risk of turning blue and falling off, and it’s nobody’s fault but my own.
I could have dropped Winter off at her place and forgotten everything she said.
I could have ignored her jealousy and pretended it didn’t matter.
But I’m a goddamn masochist.
Winter strolls into the home office, where I store my first-edition novels and spend time alone.
I enjoy the smell of wood and leather and find myself hanging out in the armchairs or at my desk more times than I can count.
Usually, I’m dicking around on my phone or staring at the bookshelves that line two out of the four walls.
The prized collection of classics cost me an ungodly amount of money, and the ones strategically placed on the built-in shelves are only some of them.
The rest are still displayed in glass hutches and entertainment stands in two other properties.
I let Emaly choose which ones she wanted to keep in San Diego, and I am still sad she wanted the only editions of Little Women and Frankenstein that I could find.
“Wow.” I hear her breathe as she runs her hand along the edge of the shelf. When she gets halfway down the line of nineteenth-century titles, she stops and stares at one in particular.
I know exactly which one she’s reaching for before she even turns to me with a skeptical arched brow. “You acted like you didn’t know who Charlotte Bronte was,” she accuses, holding up the copy of Jane Eyre.
I do my best not to look like I’ve been caught in a lie and lift a shoulder. “Must have forgotten,” is the answer I settle with.
One she doesn’t believe. “You like books.” It’s not a question, or even something she expects confirmation over.
It’s a simple statement as she carefully puts the novel back in its place and then continues scanning the other titles.
“Have you read all these, or is this just for looks? There must be hundreds here.”
I debate whether or not I want to be honest, but I’ve admitted more about myself to her than to anybody else.
“I’ve read all but three,” I admit, trying to act casual about it even when she shoots me a surprised but impressed glance.
“English has always been my favorite subject. When people were bitching about having to write a report on The Scarlet Letter or Moby Dick, I was diving in and highlighting everything I could.”
She mock-gasps, a hand flying to her chest. “I hear writing in books is punishable by death.”
My cheek twitches with the threat of a smile that takes everything in me not to give her. “That is only for the heathens who dog-ear book corners.”
Winter plays along. “And you’d never dare.”
“Never,” I tell her with a flicker of amusement.
She opens another book to inspect the pages, frowning at the lack of highlighter or ink smudges in the margins. She won’t find any on these. Other editions, sure. But not my collection.
“These editions cost too much for me to write down my thoughts in them,” I say, still sitting behind my desk. I needed the distance from her—the block of a large piece of polished walnut to separate us before I did something stupid.
Stupider than bringing her home.
Dumber than pinning her against a wall.
Again.
I scrub at my jaw, wiping away the thought before my erection comes back in full force.
“I find reading to be a peaceful escape from reality when I no longer wish to live my own life.” I gesture toward the shelves.
I love the various colors. The gold foiled font on the spines that stands out against the dark, aged wood.
This space may be my favorite. “Why live one life when you can live thousands?”
Her eyes soften, but there’s still some level of skepticism in them. “Is your life so bad that you need to escape it?”
I lean back in my chair. In her eyes, I probably sound like a privileged crybaby.
And in many ways, I am. I’m lucky to experience wealth and good fortune despite my upbringing.
But I’ve had to work past a lot of shit in order to be content with where I’m at.
“We all have things we try to escape,” I reply, tilting my head. “My past is mine.”
I don’t elaborate, and she doesn’t press.
Smart girl.
She nibbles on her bottom lip, and I can tell there’s another question coming regardless. “Do you openly try to hide this side of you for a reason?”
“And which side is that?”
Winter lets out a small, quiet breath. “The human one. People can relate to that. It isn’t a weakness, Thomas.”
I’ve never liked anybody calling me anything other than Moskins because it reminds me of them. Of the very past that I want to brush away and lock up in the deepest pits of my mind and never think about.
But coming from her mouth, it feels right. As right as when Emaly calls me by my name. My skin doesn’t crawl. My stomach doesn’t sink. No. She causes the opposite reaction.
“I never said it was a weakness,” I huff out, crossing my arms and resting them on my chest. “Maybe I just don’t give a fuck what people think of me. Have you ever thought of that?”
She’s contemplative, her body turning away from mine as she gives her full attention to the pricey novels. “If you didn’t care about what people thought, then you never would have met me. One day, you’ll have to be honest with yourself.”
Fat chance that will ever come to fruition.
“What do you think I’m lying to myself about, oh wise one?” I quip, not seeming to faze her with my sarcasm.
She still doesn’t turn when she answers, “If I had to guess, everything.”
For once, I’m quiet. And the more I think about it, the more I become annoyed. Because who does she think she is to assume she knows anything about me? She doesn’t.
She doesn’t know the sleepless nights.
The endless training.
The counseling sessions.
The foster homes.
The secretive midnight phone calls with Emaly using the prepaid phone she’d gotten me when my mind trapped me in nightmares.
I praise Emaly for the work she put into becoming a doctor.
There are kids who dream of being under her care.
But I don’t offer myself the same courtesy because then I’d have to remind myself of how far I’ve truly come.
And that means acknowledging the people who could have prevented me from this path, and the trauma that instilled.
I swallow.
“That’s quite the hypocritical comment,” I tell her, leaning forward and setting my elbows on the edge of my desk. “Since you’ve been lying to yourself this whole time about not wanting me when it’s obvious you do.”
The remark hits exactly where I want it to, and her nostrils flare as she soaks it in.
“You don’t know me,” I inform her. “You will never know me. Not fully. There’s only one person who can.”
I want it to hurt. I want it to make its mark so she stops trying to dig her way in further than she already has. Because if she keeps going, she’ll discover everything I’ve worked so hard to keep hidden away. She’ll hit the vault I’ve let sink into the abyss and try opening it.
Once that happens, I don’t know what will be left of me.
Winter faces me, her shoulders stiff and square. On guard. Mad, perhaps. But her face is softer than it should be. Like she…pities me.
What the fuck?
“The only person who knows the real me is my sister,” she says calmly. “And sometimes, I’m not even sure she knows me at all. Because there are pieces of me that I’m still trying to figure out myself.”
I stare at her.
She stares back.
“You can try to hurt me,” she adds, her voice far too soothing.
“But I see right past it. If you wanted to seal yourself off from everybody in the world, you wouldn’t have brought me here.
You wouldn’t have hired me. Because you wouldn’t have felt the need to prove anything to anybody.
So, you’re lying. You do care. And that pisses you off. But guess what, Thomas?”
I’m silent, fisting my hands together and clenching my jaw as she psychoanalyzes me.
She smiles, but it’s empty. Void of any emotion that’s usually molded into the curve of her lips. “Nobody can hurt me by being cruel and hateful because I already torture myself enough by being the same way.”
A lump in my throat forms that I try swallowing down. “You shouldn’t.”
“I can say the same,” she counters. Then she produces her phone from her pocket and looks down at it. “My Uber is here.”
She ordered a ride? “I could have driven you home, Winter.”
Her empty smile widens only by a millimeter, looking suddenly tired. “You could have,” she agrees. “But I’m saving us both that headache.”
She barely makes it past the threshold of my office before I call out, “You know more of my secrets than I do yours. It’s only fair you even the playing field.”
Winter studies me for a moment before shaking her head. “Who’s to say I haven’t shared just as much with you? It’s about being receptive to the information.”
What does that mean? “One thing,” I all but beg her. “Just one.”
She stares at me for what feels like forever before she looks away. “I miss being hugged. I miss the comfort. I miss feeling…loved. I don’t know what that’s like anymore or if I’m capable of it.”
That’s all she leaves me with before walking out, the front door opening and closing behind her as my front door camera pings from my phone.
I stare at the space she occupied only seconds ago, trying to decipher what secrets she divulged, all while wishing I could chase after her. Beg her to tell me more. Hug her.
But would she let me?
*
Emaly’s gaping face takes up the phone screen, and I worry her eyes will dry out if she doesn’t blink soon. “You did what?” she asks.
Sighing, I pick up the fussy feline and show her off to the woman on videochat. Oreo has forced me to lie on the couch with her for the last hour because she didn’t want to move from where she’s been curled up in a ball on my chest.