Chapter 12
Our walk from the library is cold, misty, and silent. He’s popped the collar of his leather jacket and hunched forward, hands deep in his pockets, his face managing to be both lovely and surly at once.
I have no idea what to say. I’m still processing that this is happening. I had been sure he’d call my bluff. It lights a candle of hope in my chest that he didn’t let me leave. That being said, I want him to be the first to talk this time. I wonder how long I can hold out.
He’s leading me down a stone walkway lined with giant oaks and maples showering us with a confetti of brown, red, and orange leaves. I’ve never been this far into the west quad. A part of me wonders if we’re even still on Payen’s campus.
I want to ask him where we’re going. I should ask him where we’re going. I look up at Hayden’s profile, those sharp cheekbones, the artful cut of his jaw, those fierce violet eyes.
“Of course.” Hayden’s voice is all amused irony. My eyes shoot up, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the book at the top of my stack. “Frankenstein. Surprise, surprise.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say, narrowing my eyes.
Hayden’s gaze finds mine. He gives me a slow, enigmatic smirk. He shrugs one shoulder and looks away.
“Melancholy girls and their Mary Shelley,” he teases.
“I am not melancholy,” I spit as I simultaneously think, I am totally melancholy. “There’s nothing wrong with being melancholy,” I amend.
“Never said there was.”
“You can’t make all these reductive assumptions about me—or anyone, for that matter—just because you happen to notice a book I’m carrying.” I don’t like how much it stings, the idea that I’m just like everyone else in Hayden’s eyes.
“I would never,” Hayden says, the violet in his gaze dancing. He shoots me a tiny, crooked smile, and my cheeks grow warm.
“Where are you taking me?”
“We’re almost there. You’ll like it.”
“We’ll see about that,” I say, lifting my chin at him.
We reach a thick copse of trees and brush, just south of unkempt. Hayden pulls an overgrowth of bush back to reveal a rusty iron gate with little angels carved on the front.
“You first,” he says, watching me. Tentatively, I reach down and push it open. I pass the gate, pushing through another narrow passageway of overgrown flora, and suddenly find myself in a clearing, staring up at a gorgeous stone church.
It’s modest, the kind of church you’d imagine Jane Eyre coming across during her long, lonely walks, the exterior roughened by rain and time, moss nestled in between the rough-hewn stones.
What it lacks in width it makes up for in height.
Its pointed roof is quite tall, as is the lone tower capped with a spire that looks needle-sharp in the darkening sky.
The spire’s tip grazes the low, thick ceiling of clouds.
I find myself walking forward, slow and dreamlike, taking in the long, narrow windows of stained glass, the sumptuous colors of emerald, ruby, and sapphire. With the heavy wooden front door’s accents of black iron hinges and knobs, it reminds me of a jewelry box. Or an old pirate treasure chest.
I run a finger across the twisted metal gate that fences in the crumbling tombstones that surround the church. It’s difficult to know where I want to stare most: the stained-glass windows, the epitaphs on the graves, the strangely compelling spire at the very top.
“Well?” Hayden’s arm brushes my shoulder. “Do you like it?”
“How did you know I would?” I say, too awed to be annoyed.
Hayden stoops slightly, close enough that his hair brushes the crown of my head.
He taps the cover of Frankenstein. “I made a…reductive assumption.” The words rustle strands of hair at my temple, and I shiver.
“This church is from the late Romantic Gothic period. Same as our girl here.” Hayden smooths a finger across Mary Shelley’s name and straightens like it’s no big deal, like he didn’t just send an entire bolt of electricity through me with his words, his proximity.
“You got one thing wrong,” I say, dazed. Hayden raises his brows. “I don’t like it.” I bite my lip. “I love it.”
Hayden’s face softens into a genuine smile.
I follow Hayden through the second gate, but head toward the churchyard while he continues to the church entrance. He stops at the door when he realizes I’m not following. I’m scanning the graves, seeing if I can make out any of the names or dates.
“What are you doing?”
I jump a little at Hayden’s voice, suddenly so close. How does he do that?
“Paying my respects to the locals,” I say. I squat in front of a grave whose inscription seems mostly intact. I brush the dirt away from the dates with my bare fingers.
“Did you know Mary Shelley lost her virginity on her mother’s grave?” Hayden flashes a teasing glance my way.
“It’s a likely rumor,” I say, dutifully scraping at the debris-covered epitaph, “but still a rumor.”
“Is it, now?” Hayden says, his mouth lifting on one side.
“I know,” I sigh. “I was disappointed too.” He makes an amused noise.
“She fell in love with Lord Percy at her mother’s grave.
That part’s true. She visited her mother’s grave so often that she said her tombstone was the only mother she’d ever known.
” There’s a moment when the only sound is the crumble of dirt as I finish digging out the years from the carved letters with my hands.
“How romantic,” Hayden says.
“I know you’re joking, but it actually is.
” I’ve finally uncovered the dates. When I read them, my throat thickens.
“Look,” I say, pointing to the tombstone.
“Florence Penry. She died when she was twenty-three. Her husband, Silas, died when he was fifty-six. He never remarried. He lived thirty-three years without her.”
“Is that all? That’s nothing,” he says with disdain, squatting beside me.
“Look, I get your whole I’m too cool act makes you immune to devastatingly romantic things,” I say, “but maybe I don’t need your sarcastic commentary.”
“I wasn’t being sarcastic,” he murmurs, his gaze finding mine. “Thirty-three years is hardly a lifetime, is it?”
“You…” I clear my throat. “You think you’d wait longer for your love?”
Something unfathomable and fierce ripples across Hayden’s face. The skin around his eyes tightens, the notch between his brows deepening for a moment.
“Yeah.” His voice is low, rough. “Yeah, I would. Would you?”
“Sure,” I whisper, breathless. “For love? I would.” I suck in a lungful of crisp autumn cold, trying to regain my balance.
Hayden wipes a hand across his jaw. He searches my gaze as he slowly stands.
“Well, what do you think, Rose Shelley?” The corner of Hayden’s mouth flickers.
He holds out a hand to me, and I take it without a thought.
He yanks me up like I’m light as a fallen leaf, and I stumble against his shockingly solid chest. His eyes trace my face.
“Could you fall in love in a graveyard too?”
It’s my turn to give him a long, enigmatic look.
How could I ever tell him that I’m sort of doing it right now?
I press a thumb against the cold teeth of his jacket zipper.
He smells perfect; the wind keeps swirling his spicy male scent through my hair.
I can’t help the way my lips part, the way I press my torso against him.
I know I’ve let myself get carried away when something passes over Hayden’s face and he takes a step back. I curl my arms to my chest, rubbing the feel of his cool fingers from my wrist.
“It’s getting cold, come on,” he says, looking away. He turns to the front door before I have a chance to reply.
The inside of the church is gorgeous. Light spills in through the stained-glass windows, covering the tiled floor in rich purples and reds and golds. The wooden pews are old and polished, worn down by time and use. Everything feels hushed, like the space itself is holding its breath.
It smells like old, sweet wood and frankincense.
I recognize the distinct smoky floral scent from my Catholic youth.
It’s strangely nostalgic. There’s a gold-plated basin full of holy water.
I trace my fingers in the water, making figure-eight ripples.
Hayden gives me a wide berth as he passes, glaring down at the basin.
“Come on in, the water’s fine,” I say, flicking some holy water in his direction. He jumps out of range, his eyes bulging in horror.
“Do you have any idea what would happen,” he says scathingly, “if you got me—this—wet?” He plucks a corner of his jacket, shakes the leather at me.
I laugh. I can’t help it. Who knew dark, “dangerous” Hayden cared so much about his apparel? He scowls at me, and it’s so petulant, I laugh harder, the peals echoing against the stone walls and high ceilings. I sink into a pew.
“Wasn’t that funny,” he mutters, eyebrow raised at me.
“Sorry,” I say, wiping my eyes. “That felt good. I needed that.”
Hayden’s face softens, and he slides into the pew next to me.
We fall into a reverent quiet. I let my head fall back, taking in the high ceilings, the gorgeous portraits of stained glass.
The one I can’t stop looking at is of a golden-haired saint in a white robe skewering a humanlike shadow demon.
The saint’s spear pierces the demon through its chest. The creature’s inky, amorphous head is thrown back, jagged shapes of black making a sharp mouth roaring in pain.
“So tell me,” Hayden says suddenly, reaching over to pluck Frankenstein out of my arms. “Why is this your favorite book?”
I never told him it was. But Hayden has this uncanny ability to read me so well.
“The same reason it’s anyone’s favorite book,” I say, setting aside my textbooks to take my weathered copy back. I open the pages to a black-and-white illustration in the back. “It’s my favorite because I fell in love with him.”