An hour later, Maddy sits in my lap, lazing back against my chest and playing with the fingers on my left hand. Her fingertips rub at the faint lines of scars, at the hard patches of old calluses and blisters. At the proof of a life lived beyond this study.
She’s slipped her sweatpants and chunky socks back on, and a fresh log spits in the fireplace. The room is warm and golden and hazy, and strands of caramel hair keep tickling my nose. I stroke them down, my throat clogged with unspoken words.
“Your hands look strong,” Maddy murmurs, flipping my left over to inspect my palm.
“They are,” I say simply.
It’s true. After the accident, once my leg healed—as much as it ever would, anyway—I faced a choice. I could either let my new limitations define me, curl in on myself and give up, or I could find workarounds. Find new ways to keep my body strong, my muscles primed, my reflexes sharp.
Besides, there’s not much else to do on this island except work and exercise. And endless push ups are an excellent way to punish oneself for overwhelming survivor’s guilt.
Done with her inspection, Maddy places my hand on her stomach, then sighs and tips her head back against my shoulder. For a moment, we’re silent together, breathing in sync, as the fire dances in its grate. Maddy’s cinnamon scent weaves its way through my lungs.
“I could sleep here,” she says.
“Indeed you could.”
I certainly wouldn’t be the one to stop her.
“Sometimes,” Maddy confesses, “I feel like I could stay here forever, in this study with you.”
My arms tighten around her reflexively. “You could do that too.” My voice is light, casual. No hint at all that my heart is throwing itself against my rib cage, hitting hard enough to bruise.
Maddy snorts, shaking her head back and forth against my shoulder. “Hardly.”
I say nothing, but my arms loosen an inch.
She’s right, of course.
As though sensing my plummeting mood, Maddy sits up and spins to face me on my lap. Her eyes are bright and determined, her hair wild from our activities tonight.
“Come with me,” Maddy says. Her words sound rehearsed, like she’s played this moment over and over in her head. “There’s some weird pagan festival on the east coast of the mainland next week. I’ve been reading about it, and I want to go and watch. Come with me, West.”
My throat closes, and my head shake is jerky. Maddy’s expression falls, but it’s nothing compared to the ashen despair coating my insides.
“Why not?” she pleads. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal. We can come back after.”
Can we? For how long?
How long will this bright, adventurous young woman be happy here? Be happy withme?
And how can I let myself head out into the world, out toward joy and laughter andfun, when half my expedition notes are still untouched and my friends’ legacies are incomplete?
“I can’t,” I rasp.
This manor is a prison of my own making, and I haven’t served my sentence yet. Even though every cell in my body yearns to sayyesto Maddy, to sweep her off on a grand adventure, I can’t do it. The proof that I’m not done here yet is crumpled across my desk, the endless sheets of notepaper thrown into disarray by Maddy’s earlier thrashing.
Maddy’s jaw sets. She raises her chin in challenge, her whole body rigid in my lap.
“So you’re just going to rot here for the rest of your life. Locked in a cage of man pain. Is that it, your lordship?”
I scowl at her but say nothing. What is there to say?
“And you’d rather let me go—” Maddy’s voice is so raw that my chest splinters down the middle “—than consider any other option. Than try for some kind of—offuture.”
My scoff is cruel. Maddy flinches back, and I hate the pain in her eyes, hate the tense set of her shoulders, hate every fucking thing about this, but there’s no other path.And perhaps,a cool voice whispers in the back of my brain,if you break her heart now, it will be easier. You can both move on.
Is that kinder to her? To me?
