She presses her back to the wall, the farthest she can get from him. “So you’re moving to New York?”
A chasm opens between them.
It’s easier to hear her say it, and a part of him is glad this is happening now. Now, when she can write her for herself. Now, before he falls so in love with her that he can’t recover from losing her.
“I’m not done seeing the world, James.” Nelle’s voice cracks. “We had a plan. You dropped out of school. We were going to traveltogether. How could you make this decision without even telling me? Until yesterday, I was dependent on you.”
Defensiveness rises up in James. “I’ve always believed you could write for yourself. Or did you forget about the night in DC?”
She winces. “I remember.”
“I can’t run forever.” It’s hard to say what he needs to say when he can read the torment on her face. “You have a choice to make. The world or me.”
He doesn’t want either of them to make sacrifices. If she chooses to travel the world, he will leave for New York without her. It breaks his heart, but he has to do it. He opens his bag and pulls on a sweater and gray pants. No part of this feels like a clothing-optional conversation.
“I could give you the same ultimatum,” Nelle says. “Go to New York or be withme.”
“I ran away with you, Nelle.” James buttons his pants. “I left my home, I traveled across the world, and I’ve shown you everything I can. But our money’s basically gone, and I want to have a life now.”
“And traveling with me isn’t a life?”
“It’s not what I want forever.” The words fly hot but true. Their relationship, whatever it ends up being, will be better for it. He takes a deep breath and says the last part, the part that terrifies him. “I have enough money to buy two plane tickets ... if you’ll come with me.”
“I don’t want to go back with you,” Nelle says. “I can’t believe you’d rather live a boring, rooted life, going nowhere and doing nothing.”
James sighs. “You know, Penelope has studied every aspect of your family, this cycle of writers, for decades. Maybe she’s right. Maybe, by nature, it’s impossible for you to be content.”
When Quill crafted Nelle, after battling the grief of his lost daughter, he fashioned her out of desperation. Hewanteda daughter more than he wanted tolovea daughter. Because he had already loved one, and no successor could compare. That hunger, that need, that inability to sit with what is already there and be grateful ... is that not Nelle?
She stares at him. A lingering, burning stare.
James’s frustration subsides into guilt. “I’m sorry, I crossed a line.”
God, he didn’t mean it. He was only trying to hurt her. To hurt her for turning him down.
“I know you want to travel, but I can’t afford it anymore. IknowI want to be in New York. I need to be there. Traveling isn’t what I want anymore, but you still are. Come with me, and we can start a lifetogether. You are so special to me. Not because of how you were created, but because you’re curious and confident and fiery and vulnerable, and I love you—”
She storms out.
He gives her a minute to cool down, then trails after her.
But the living room is empty. She is nowhere among the startling cleanliness of the place. Every surface is spotless and colorful, sunlightstreaming through the windows into the cozy living room and kitchenette. A vague memory of Penelope wiping things down floats into mind.
Outside, an engine starts. James swings open the front door in time to see the back tires of the rental car spinning down the road. As the vehicle floats up the hill and out of sight, James reaches for the pendant around his neck. He squeezes the vial, still holding a few drops of Nelle’s ink, and almost rips it from his neck to throw into the loch.
But he should return it to her, in person, as proof that he is not keeping it.
In the bedroom, he dumps out his backpack of dirty clothes and stuffs it full with Thomas Quill’s moth-nibbled shirts and baggy pants.
When James closes the door behind him and starts down the hill, he is greeted by a cold Scottish morning. Wind hisses in a dance between brown grass and sunlight, leaves scuttling on the unpaved road. As he walks to the closest town, his destination across the Atlantic, he fights back tears, this unfamiliar misery embedded like a hatchet in his gut. More bitter than heartbreak. Hopeless without her beside him.
The gray, swallowing pain of losing a friend.
Part Three
Quills
Chapter 27
