“Yet,” I add, my tone daring him to try and snatch any of these journals away.
“Azalea, please.” He stands and takes a step closer to me.
I falter at the word ‘please.’ The desperation on his face is almost terrifying, and I much prefer the defeated expression he was sporting not long ago. “Don’t read them.”
“Why? What’s inside?” I demand.
“I can’t tell you.”
“But I wrote them? How can I not remember writing them? Is this some part of the curse?”
“Yes and no.”
“What does that mean?”
“I can’t—”
“Well, what can you tell me?!” I bark, my anger climbing.
He lets out a slow breath before clasping his hands together behind his neck and hanging his head.
“I can’t—”
“Oh, fuck this.” Grabbing one of the journals at random, I begin reading the entry out loud.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. He’s made me care about him. And that makes me hate him so much more.
I look up at Braxton, seeing him wince from my words. I grab another journal, waiting for Braxton to walk over and rip it from my hands, but he doesn’t. Based on his body language, it’s clear that he’s accepted his defeat in this situation, which is far more unnerving than if he were to be violent with me right now.
Braxton showed me the garden’s today. They’re quite lovely actually. I asked him if he could start planting forget-me-not bushes, as those are my favorite.
I stop reading even though there’s more to this passage. I’m stuck now, trying to remember what my favorite flower is. Are forget-me-nots my favorite? But if they aren’t why would I ever write that they were? I’ve always liked the bouquets delivered to my room, even though I wished they came from someone else. Now I’m contemplating if I liked them so much because they were, unbeknownst to me, made up of my favorite flower. Feeling a pit begin to form in my stomach, I grab another journal.
How can I both miss home and feel like I am home? What sense does that make? I fear this curse is making me lose my mind.
This, so far, has been the one I related to the most. Feeling like I’m starting to sail on more understanding waters, I grab another journal at random. This passage is longer and not filled with questioning thoughts. The moment I start reading it, I realize it’s an entry of a memory.
I can’t believe tonight was even real. After dinner, Braxton took me over to the stables where both of our horses were saddled. I was wearing the red dress I had made for a special occasion, and tonight just felt like the right night to wear it. Although, it did make riding rather difficult, so I ended up joining Braxton on his horse.
I stop. This one’s familiar, but it couldn’t possibly be. It doesn’t make any sense. Tightening my jaw, I keep reading.
He took me to the edge of my favorite cliff. It was where we met when I left home for the first time and traveled here to Brindlewald. Just as the sun was setting on the horizon, I felt him tap my shoulder. When I turned to face him, he was down on one knee—
I slam the journal shut.
“What is this?” I throw the journal at his feet with disgust. I feel the ink-written words stain my soul, muddling my mind. “Were you going to use them to make me feel crazy?”
“What did you read?” Braxton inquires, beginning to thumb through the pages.
“My proposal,” I spit. “In that journal, in my handwriting, is how Phillip proposed to me, but instead of Phillip’s name being in it, it’s been replaced with yours. Why would you do that?”
My head begins pounding as I try to make sense of anything I just read. A part of me knows I wrote these. A part of me even remembers bringing the quill to paper when I let myself really think about it, but the more I think about it, the more my head begins to throb.
“None of this makes sense.” I rub at my temples, rocking my body forward and backward as I do so.
I go back to my happy place. I imagine Phillip. I imagine how it feels to be held in his arms. I imagine his lips running along the column of my neck. I remember the day he proposed to me. I remember so vividly every emotion that leapt to life inside me. I remember turning around and seeing him. His dark hair.Wait, no.That’s Braxton’s hair. His deep brown eyes.No. No. No.Those are Braxton’s eyes.
But I remember.
