My attention shifts, toward the balcony window, toward the pearl railing covered with crawling ivy and doused in pink petals. A breeze rustles them, and they skitter across the white paint. Drifting toward the glass, I unlatch the door and step out into the balmy night.
I think…I want Castor.
A moment passes with the warmth of that idea settling inside me.
I want Castor.
My thoughts clear, allowing me brief reprieve.
Then, a dark shadow vaults from the ground.
I jerk back as Castor’s cloth shoes settle on the rail. Delicate as the landing petals all around, he steps to the balcony floor in front of me.
“Love,” he whispers into the space between us; those frail inches shiver.
My heartbeat tumbles as my mouth dries.
A thousand things race through my brain all at once—go to him, don’t, scream, don’t, apologize, don’t, cry, don’t—but I’mleft stuck in between every action, frozen, eyes fixed on him. My past crawls to the surface, like a cadaver scratching at its casket in a shallow grave.
Is he mad?
I can’t tell if he’s mad.
I don’t know if I can scream for help.
I don’t know if Iwantthe help that’s here when he’s here for me.
Should I play the victim? Should I make sure I act grateful that he’s come to save me?
Will he buy it?
Is it the truth? Or just another lie I throw my entire body into in an effort to keep surviving?
Castor takes a step toward me, and I remain perfectly still. His hand lifts, grazing my cheek.
Peace hits me, hard, muddling my senses, suggesting that Castor hasn’t just comeforme—he’s broughthomewith him. Not the home I’ve known with its rules and constraints, the one he offers, with love and adoration.
“If you want to stay here,” he whispers, voice cracking, “just tell me.” His fingers coast against my hair before his arm falls back to his side. “If you want nothing to do with me already, I understand. All I ask before you turn me away forever is that you might pretend to hate me. At least then I may be allowed to pretend you think of me, every so often. The hope might grant me a few months more. I would like that, I think. Just…a few months more to yearn for you.”
He’s…giving me the choice?
Is it a test?
How can it be when he can’t lie to me?
Is this choice really all up to me and what I want? Without pressure?
I can’t spend my life sympathizing and sacrificing. I can’t spend my life people pleasing. I can’t let someone else make this decision for me.
I can’t.
It hurts to swallow as I take a miniscule step forward, toward him.
My dress made of his magic whips in a sudden breeze.
Somehow, my hand finds his cheek, and I watch as every part of him succumbs tome. His flesh welcomes my touch with all the desperation of something starved.
For reasons my scrambled brain cannot concoct, I say, “Frel abandoned me. I’ve been pacing for hours. All by myself.”
