The memories, surprisingly, aren’t as painful as they have been. Perhaps it’s time. Or perhaps it’s Olympia’s warm body pressed close to mine that makes it feel as if the pain has drained from them.
‘I’m so sorry about your parents,’ Olympia murmurs after a long moment. ‘That must have been really hard.’
In this moment it feels easy to talk with her. ‘It was,’ I say. ‘My mother died of cancer a couple of years after Dad.’
‘Oh,’ she breathes. ‘That’s awful.’
‘Yes,’ I agree, because it was awful. ‘I do have lots of lovely memories of her though.’
‘I don’t remember mine,’ she says. ‘She died when I was very young. And I never knew my father. You’re lucky to have memories.’
I stare up into the branches of the tree, remembering other things. My simple childish thought that I could take on extra work after school to help pay the family debt. The way my father shouted at me that it would take a lifetime to repay, not a paltry few euros from a paper round. The blood in his study, on the carpet and the wall behind his chair. The way I made no difference to him, none at all.
But all I say is, ‘In some ways.’ I don’t want to bring the subject of my father up and all the bitterness that brings with it.
‘Ulysses always gave me a Christmas ornament,’ she says, giving me the grace of a change of subject. ‘And I’m a little sad I won’t get to see what he bought me this Christmas.’
I glance down at her, conscious once again of what I’ve taken her from. ‘I’ll buy you one,’ I tell her.
She’s smiling, though. ‘Don’t you dare. Not after you practically buried me in gifts.’ Her smile fades a little. ‘But you have to let me give too.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ulysses never made any demands of me. Never had any expectations, either. Initially, that was what I needed, but…after a while, it started to make me feel as if I was still broken.’
The Christmas-tree lights cast colours over her lovely face and all I can think is that there is nothing broken about her. ‘In what way?’ I ask, curious.
‘Oh, well, I told you he cosseted and coddled me. I didn’t have to give him birthday presents or make time for him. He didn’t expect me to get good marks at school either or have ambitions for a career.’
I remember my father and his own expectations of me, which were high. ‘Some people might find that reassuring,’ I say.
‘I know,’ she admits. ‘And like I said, I liked that at first. But after a while, I started asking myself why he didn’t want anything from me or even have hopes for me. It was as if he thought I’d never get over what happened to me and I’d be destined to live as a recluse in his house for ever.’
I study her face, her lovely golden eyes, and I can see how that would frustrate her. She has a passionate, fiery spirit, desperate for some kind of outlet, and yet her brother stifled it. He suffocated her with kindness, no matter that it was well meaning.
‘And do you want me to place demands on you?’ I ask. ‘Have expectations of you?’
‘As if you haven’t had demands and expectations already,’ she says, a glint of humour in her eyes. ‘I like it, though. So yes, I want them.’
I shift, easing her off my chest and rolling onto my side, propping my head up on one hand so I can look down into her face. ‘Why?’ I ask, curious as to why she likes it.
‘Because it’s as if you just assume that I’m as strong as you, as if that’s not in any doubt, and so… I am.’ She runs light fingers down my side, making my skin tighten. ‘Your demands show you care, too. In fact, I think you care very deeply.’
I’m uncomfortable with that observation, yet instead of changing the subject, I find myself asking, ‘So, being demanding equals care?’
‘Well, doesn’t it? I mean, you didn’t kidnap me for nothing. You kidnapped me to hurt my brother, to gain revenge for your parents. Because they died and you loved them.’
My heart tightens, no matter how I ignore it, and I get the sudden feeling that she can see right through me. That her golden eyes can read my every thought. It’s uncomfortable to be so vulnerable and extremely unfamiliar and I don’t like it one bit.
It’s true though, isn’t it? You loved them and, in the end, that love mattered not at all.
‘Rafael?’ She’s frowning at me, as if something in my face has given me away. ‘What’s wrong?’
I want to change the subject, yet the way she’s touching me, her fingers tracing patterns on my skin, seems to draw the words from me even though I don’t want to say them. ‘I loved them, it’s true,’ I say. ‘And I had an idyllic childhood in many ways, but…’
Her dark brows draw together. ‘But what?’
Anger flickers to life inside me, a steady, burning flame. ‘My father killed himself.’ The words are blunt, harsh. ‘So what did it matter that I loved him? He certainly didn’t care.’
