She has to all but drag me to the couch and wrestle me to sit, forcing my head between my legs as she rubs circles down my spine. When she starts to count, I am whisked away to the night in the elevator when Freya brought me back down from that attack.
How did I think I had it under control?
Tears drip from my eyes to the floor as the buzzing under my skin subsides. The crash after an attack is the worst. I am deflated and exhausted as I collapse on the couch and stare at the ceiling.
My sister sits silently by my side.
“What are you doing here?” I ask with a rasp in my voice.
“I came to check on you. Heard that little fit you threw and let myself in.”
“I did not throw a fit,” I argue, which we both know is a lie. The shards of porcelain scattered across the floor are all the proof we need.
“Freya told me what happened.”
I close my eyes and try to stave off the pain those words bring. “Is she okay?” I ask.
My sister scoffs. “No, she’s not okay, Julian. She’s heartbroken. A mess. Couldn’t even spend last night with her mom because she was so distraught. Cried on my couch until two in the morning.”
“I’m glad you were with her,” I say.
“Julian, knock it off!” Amelia shouts. “Stop acting like it’s over.”
“It is over, Mel. After the way I acted last night, there can’t be any doubt.”
“She loves you, you jerk. So does Archer.”
“The things I said to them,” I say with a wince.
“So apologize. They know you are imperfect, Julian, and they love you anyway. That’s literally what love is.”
Draping my arm over my face, I hide the tears that have begun to sprout again just from hearing her say that. I don’t want to even dare to hope that she’s right. Could I get them back? Could I really just apologize?
My sister stands from the couch and goes to the kitchen. I hear the sounds of her pouring water into a glass. Then I feel her hover over me.
Opening my eyes, I squint up at her.
“Come with me.”
“Where?”
“You need fresh air.” Reaching down, she takes my hand, pulling me to my feet against my will.
Without another word, she drags me out the door to my rooftop veranda.
There, beneath the moonlight, are two wrought-iron chairs, an array of plants in pots, vines crawling up the side, and a garden I usually tend better. Only this year, my attention has been diverted elsewhere, and the tomato plants are suffering for it.
Amelia hauls me across the veranda and directs me where to sit. Onyx follows us, crawling into my lap with another angry meow as my sister hands me a glass of water.
“Remember when we used to sneak Mom’s wine and drink it on the roof?” she asks.
I let out a huff meant to be a chuckle. “Yes. Until Dad found us and made us tell her the next morning.”
Amelia laughs. “She was just glad to find out we were getting along.”
“Yeah,” I mumble under my breath.
It grows quiet for a moment as we stare out at the city beneath our feet. The Seine stretched out in the distance. Parisian architecture carved into the skyline—rows of ivory-colored stone, wrought-iron balconies, and weathered chimneys. And for a moment, I think…I love it here.
