“Oh, it’s all right,” I answer. “I wouldn’t mind some company tonight.”
“Better the dog than my daughter,” Mrs. McPhee murmurs.
“Mom!” Delilah cries.
“Say good night, Delilah,” her mother replies. She waits with her arms crossed, and it’s perfectly clear that she’s going nowhere without Delilah. I must admit, I’m a bit offended. But then again, she doesn’t realize her daughter’s boyfriend is a prince who would never compromise his true love’s reputation.
Delilah leans up and pecks my cheek. “Sleep tight,” she says, and she follows her mother out of the guest room.
I strip down to my boxers and crawl beneath the covers. Frump sits up and cocks his head, and I scratch between his ears. “Some pair we are,” I sigh. “Lost in translation. Maybe instead of thinking of all the good that could come from escaping that fairy tale, we should have spent a bit of time considering the aftereffects. You can’t talk, and I can barely get through the day without messing something up.” My mind flashes back to an image of Jessamyn lying on the floor. “She was so still,” Iwhisper. “And there was so much blood. It’s different here. It’s a world of permanence. Consequences stick. You can’t just turn a page and have the sword wound heal. For heaven’s sake, Rapscullio falls nine stories in the climax and walks away without a scratch as soon as the book is closed. Here, cuts bleed and bodies break and there are no second chances.”
Frump opens his mouth as if he is about to respond, but all that emerges is a whimper.
“I promised Edgar I’d take care of Jessamyn for him. Clearly I’m doing a rotten job. Yet once I tell Edgar what happened to her, surely he’ll want to switch back. And that would break Delilah’s heart.”
Frump puts his paw on my arm. For a moment, we just look at each other, and it doesn’t really matter that he can’t speak, because I know exactly what he would say if he could.Oliver,he’d tell me,tomorrow’s bound to be better.
I flop back onto the pillows, crossing my arms behind my head. Frump curls into a donut against my side and harrumphs into the covers.
I imagined a perfect life. I thought that escaping the book meant every dream I’d ever had would come true. But dreams, it seems, have costs. For every person you make happy, there’s another one you disappoint. Sometimes I wonder—if Queen Maureen or Captain Crabbe were to see me in school, with my new clothes and my friends, would they even recognize me? Would Iwantthem to?
Outside, the moon is a silver sliver. Every night, the shadow eats a slice of it, until it’s nothing but this hollow rind. I feel the same way; with each day, I lose a little more of myself.
Frump snores in his sleep, his legs twitching, as if he’s chasing Seraphima. Carefully I draw back the covers and slip out of bed, padding down the hall until I am standing in the dark outside Delilah’s bedroom door.
I turn the knob as silently as possible and slip inside.
She is lying on her back, her dark hair fanned across the sheets, like a mermaid’s underwater. Her skin reflects the moonlight, and the covers are tangled at her feet. She’s wearing a T-shirt that seems to have swallowed her whole.
When you see the sunrise every morning, you get used to it. You forget to gasp at the mixing of the colors, at the way the sun’s rays spill over the mountains and light the ocean on fire.
Being with Delilah every day, I’ve forgotten how absolutely stunning she is.
Delilah’s eyes open slowly and she jumps, nearly levitating on the bed. “Holy crap, Oliver,” she says. “You scared the hell out of me!”
I take a step backward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just— Why are you staring at me like that?”
“You’re not wearing any clothes. . . .”
I glance down, mortified to realize I forgot to dress before leaving my room. “I’m so sorry. I’ll go—”
“No!” Delilah says, swallowing. “This is good. Very good.”
I hide my smile and sit down on the bed. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Delilah scoots, making room for me to lie down beside her. I curl onto my side, facing her, so we are inches apart.
“Sometimes when people have insomnia, they count sheep,” she tells me.
I frown. “Who keeps a herd in the house?”
“No, it’s a metaphor. The point is to just countsomething.When I was little, my mom had me count my blessings.”
I think about that for a moment. Then I roll over, pinning Delilah to the mattress. I can feel her heartbeat speed. I wind my fingers through hers and whisper in her ear. “Number one,” I say, “your hands.” Then I drop a kiss on each eyelid. “Number two,” I say, “your beautiful eyes.” I slide my hands down her arms and slip them beneath the hem of her oversized shirt, spreading my palms across the small of her back. “Number three . . . your soft skin.”
I nibble my way from her collarbone to her jaw, and she sighs. “Number four,” I say, “the sound of your voice.”
I trace her lower lip with my thumb. “Number five . . . your mouth.”
