Romeo’s thick, icy veneer seems to be wearing thin. He kept his distance on Wednesday after the strange “You still think that was your mistake”business the day before, but he forgot to brush his hair all day. Selby noticed the second she walked in the door and smiled as though she found it charming, but he disappeared soon after and came downstairs with his hair plastered down a little while later.
Yesterday, he changed the pace a little, spending most of the day indoors, sitting at the desk by the bay window overlooking the front garden. He had pages laid out allover the desk, all of them covered in his tiny, tightly curled scrawl. He started working before I left to inspect the progress at our house, and he was still busy by the time I got back. He’d drawn colorful squiggles all over several pages and long red lines with big arrows on some of the others.
Curiosity got the better of me.
“What are you writing?” I’d asked.
He’d seemed surprised to see me even though I’d called out to him when I arrived. “I’m not writing. I’m just…making notes.”
I’d toyed with the idea of explaining to him that those two things were one and the same but thought better of it because of how he looked. And how he felt. And how it felt to be near him.
His eyes were big, glazed over in that dreamy blue way that used to tie me in knots. The way that still ties me in knots. The mood around him was calm. So peaceful it felt like we were in the eye of a storm. Like bad weather had been raging for years but had suddenly fallen still. It was so serene and tranquil that it almost made me believe the storm would peter out and the eyewall of the backside would evaporate and spare us.
He worked for hours, writing things down and then crossing them out. Moving pages around and then backagain. I sat on the sofa and read. Or I pretended to read. What I really did was watch Romeo and wonder where he was, where his imagination had taken him, and what it was like there. I offered him tea once when, really, what I wanted to say was, “Take me with you. Wherever you go, Romeo, take me there too.”
When Selby came home, she took one look at Romeo and said, “Jesus.”
She broke the word into two distinct syllables and said it on the back of a forced outward breath. Then she turned to me, fixed me with a brilliant smile, and asked how my day had been.
This morning, Romeo is back at the desk, and Selby is running late. She’s in the kitchen in business attire, with a towel still wrapped around her head.
“Can I make you something to eat?” I offer.
Yeah, yeah. That’s right. I hate her, but my mother, a saintly woman who refers to my mortal enemy as an asshole, raised me well. I have manners. I know how to be a good house guest.
“Oh my God,” she says. “That would be amazing.”
Fuck.
Now, I actually have to do it.
“How ’bout some eggs? How do you like them?”
“Poached, please.” She pulls a cute little kissy face at me. One that I suspect has got her what she wants a lot in her life. I hardly have words to describe how immune I am.
I walk over to where Romeo sits and put my hand on the desk to gently bring him back to Earth. He blinks as if he wasn't expecting to see me, and his eyes soften in a way that makes Stupid Me think maybe he’s happy to see me. Maybe he’s missed me like I’ve missed him. Maybe his life doesn’t make sense without me either.
It’s a notion that’s obviously more a symptom of my declining mental health than anything else.
“How ’bout you,” I say. “How’d you want your eggs?”
Romeo’s lips start parting to speak. “Oh, he’ll have poached too,” says Selby with a dismissive little wave. “I’m just going to run upstairs to do my hair, but the pans are in that drawer and…oh, you know what, just get Romeo to help you with anything else you need.”
Romeo gets up and pads into the kitchen. We move around each other in a way that doesn’t feel forced. I make the eggs, and he makes the coffee. I put the toast in the toaster, and he catches it when it pops and butters it while it’s hot.
By the time Selby gets down, we’re sitting at the kitchen counter and breakfast is ready.
When Selby has eaten and is ready to head to work, she raises her eyebrows high and says, “Now, Rome. Just a gentle reminder tousethe wicker baskets I bought for you to store allthatin.” She points to the desk, grimacing slightly, then, to ensure there’s no misunderstanding, she adds, “Not next to.In.”
She leans down and kisses him on the cheek. For the first time in a long time, I don’t let myself look away when she does it. I watch as she leans down. I see her soft, pouty lips pucker. I see Romeo too. It’s not that he flinches as such. He barely even moves. It’s that there’s something robotic about him. Something practiced. He receives the kiss. He doesn’t brush it off or squirm out of it. But his eyes don’t change at all when it happens. There’s no warmth in them. No creases at the corners. Not even fine ones.
My heart starts to pound.
Holy shit.
What if my mom is right. What if Selby really is an asshole. What if it’s a fact. What if the way I feel about her isn’t just because she took the thing I love most from me. What if it’s not just because she wore white and smiled beatifically as she did it, with no fucking clue she was killing me. I’ve hated her for so long and with such passion that, for years, I haven’t been sure whether she really is terribleor I’m just a sad, jealous fuck who can’t accept that I can’t have what I want.
What if Selby really is awful?
