COMPLETE DARKNESS
“I’mlistening,”Imanage,as my heartbeat spikes into the stratosphere, because I have no idea what he could need to tell me that would make him so nervous.
He takes a deep breath and turns away from the window to face me. “When my mom co-hosted these retreats, she used to do a quick social media check of guests who registered to come to Ravenwood, especially for the solo weekends like this one. She just wanted to make sure that she was prepared for anything since she was welcoming strangers into our home.”
I nod in encouragement for him to continue, although I am having trouble understanding what this has to do with Delaney or the secret relationship that she thinks we have.
“When she died and I inherited the house, I took over processing the paperwork so that Delaney could keep planning the retreats.” Each word he says starts coming out faster than the last as if he worries he might lose his nerve again. “Everyone has some form of social media these days, so when I couldn’tfind a single account that matched the information on your registration, I decided to Google you, and I ended up finding your blog on the Book & Barrel website.”
My body stiffens as I think back to the things that I’ve written about in the blog. Silly, pointless, and amateur book reviews, along with recaps of events that we’ve hosted, none of which I expected anyone but our small circle of regulars to read.
If he found my most recent review about Evelyn’s book, then that means he knows all about my curse and how I claim responsibility for my parents’ deaths. We already discussed that we both lost our parents, but I didn’t revealthataspect of it. There’s no way he would want to be anywhere near me if he knew about all of that, though, so I hold on to the small shred of hope that he is bringing it up to inquire about a wine that I mentioned in a book review or ask that I recommend Ravenwood in an upcoming post.
“Which ones have you read?” I ask, just to be sure.
“All of them,” he admits, and I use the dish towel to cover my face in horror like a small child.
“They were great,” he adds. “I didn’t plan on reading all of them, at first. But the way you write is so—”
“Horrible,” I say, more as a general statement to this conversation, but it comes out muffled from behind the towel.
“No, your writing is warm,” he corrects. “Funny. But also serious, especially the one about Evelyn Graves’s book. I read that one first since it was the same book that Delaney chose for this retreat.”
All the blood drains from my body as he confirms that he knows the worst of me and is probably about to let me know that I am one of the red flags that his mom used to pre-screen for. But instead, he lowers his voice. “When I read your words, it was as if you were inside my head. I’ve never heard anyone else explaintheir grief that way, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.”
I stay hidden behind the towel as it all clicks into place. The interest, the repeated attempts to talk to me. It was all so that he could find the nerve to tell me this, that my words somehow meant something to him. To think, this entire time, I was seeing the attention as something totally different.
Even though I understand that now, my skin still tingles at every point of contact as he reaches out to lower my hands from my face and remove the towel from my grasp. He sets it aside and takes a small step back to give me space to process what he’s just told me.
“I’m confused,” I admit. “How does your reading my article relate to Delaney’s theory? Did you tell her about it, or did she catch you reading it or something?”
I try to think of scenarios where his reading my article could result in her thinking that we were some sort of secret couple, but I am even more confused about why the article resonated with him so much in the first place.
We already established that we both lost our parents, but the bulk of my review was actually about how I appreciated Evelyn Graves’s protagonists’ radical ownership of all the bad things that she had done, and the destruction that her curse had caused. I only briefly mentioned my parents’ deaths in there, and more as an anecdote to help readers understand why I connected with that part of her character.
I wonder if maybe that’s what he is struggling to say, and ask, “Wait, are you trying to tell me that you are cursed too?”
He laughs without humor. “No, I’m not cursed. It was my own stupid pride that got my parents killed, and nothing more.” Before I can process his admission, he continues. “I told you earlier that my parents died in a car accident not far from heresix months ago, but what I didn’t tell you is that the accident was in my car, and the entire situation was entirely my fault.”
My stomach drops but there is nothing I despise more than people trying to absolve me from my mistakes whenever I take ownership of them. Trying to explain it away, or offering forgiveness that he never asked for, would be a monstrous thing for me to do in this moment, especially when I see the pain that I live with every day reflected in his eyes as they look into mine now. It’s the kind of pain that only comes from surviving a loss so profound that your entire life is forever altered as a result.
He doesn’t need someone to absolve him. He just needs someone to listen and to understand. And while I can’t take away his pain, just like he can’t take away mine, I can at least do that: listen and understand.
I tilt up my chin to meet his eyes and ask the question that most others wouldn’t dare to. “Why was it your fault?”
He lets out a breath, as if he was desperately hoping that I would ask exactly that but can’t believe that I actually did. “I had a setback in my career a while back and let my dad and our entire firm down with some of my choices. I worked really hard after that to make up for my mistakes, and ended up having a successful year financially, so I bought myself my dream car, a McLaren, and brought it over here to show my parents.”
I nod because I know the car, and also to show I am listening.
“They were here for their anniversary. They always blocked out the weekend so that there weren’t any retreats, and they would just relax and reminisce on all their blessings, because they were both sentimental people. I didn’t call before asking if I could come by, because part of me didn’t want to give them the chance to say no. It was rainy that day too. Not as bad as what’s going on outside right now, but enough that when I got here, they had to huddle under an umbrella to come outside.
“Even though they both said that they liked the car and were proud of me, it wasn’t enough. My pride was still so fragile that it felt imperative to me that they drive it, too, so that they could really see the proof of how hard I had worked. My dad tried to decline by pointing out that the roads were slick and that he was just trying to enjoy the weekend with my mom. But I insisted, and my sweet mother saw how much it meant to me, so she pretended that she really wanted to drive it, because that was the only way my dad would agree.”
I swallow down the bile that rises in my stomach as I already know the gist of what’s coming, but keep my eyes locked on his, committed to hearing his entire story without flinching.
“My mom is a great driver, and the McLaren is known for its handling, so even though the roads were wet, there was zero part of me that was worried about their safety. I smiled like a kid on Christmas morning when they drove up the driveway and out onto the road. When it took a while for them to come back, I felt even happier, thinking that they must have really loved it, or that they ended up taking turns because my dad decided that he wanted to drive it, after all. But when I tried calling them after an hour and got no answer, I knew something was wrong. I borrowed their car to drive the route to the highway, and that’s when I saw the fresh skid marks that led to my mangled car down in the ravine.”
I put my hand out behind me to steady myself against the counter, rocked by the weight of his grief as if it were my own, and accidentally knock over three of the freshly cleaned champagne glasses in the process. The delicate glass shatters on the countertop behind me, and I whip around to contain it before any pieces fall on the ground, which causes a particularly large piece to lodge itself in my right thumb.
