19. Darkness Present （Talia）

19

DARKNESS PRESENT (TALIA)

W hen I was thirteen years old, I had my first and only crush.

I never really spent much time around kids my own age.

I just saw them from a distance when I was allowed out for walks around the playground, dragging my oxygen tank behind me like that girl in Bates Motel—I know, I know, there are a few too many parallels in my life, from the creepy murder town to the na?ve girl with the oxygen tank who falls for men who turn out to be trouble.

My first brush with trouble was Red Harrow.

His name wasn't actually Red. I think it was Ryker, but everyone called him Red because his hair was an even louder crimson than mine. That's what grabbed my attention and made me feel an instant kinship with him. I'd watch him from the bench where I sat with my little tank propped against my thigh, a book open in my lap, pretending to read a fantasy novel.

Actually, I was watching Red.

He was two years older. Fifteen.

Tall and lean and strong, and he'd come to the playground after school to play basketball with other boys his age. He had sun-tanned skin and freckled shoulders that showed in his loose jersey, his muscles flexing every time he jumped.

Even now, I don't know if I really liked him.

I hardly knew him.

Was I just jealous with how gracefully he moved? With how he could break a sweat and get winded and run like mad for hours without dying?

How he could play and run. How effortless it was.

How he took it all for granted.

In my head, I dreamed he'd notice me and fall in love, and somehow his love would make me strong like him.

Vampirism again—go figure—only more like the Snow White kind where I'd borrow his strength from a kiss.

Even then, I wanted a hero to rescue me.

I wanted to be saved and transformed, never broken and weak again.

But Red Harrow didn't rescue me.

He never even noticed me until one fine day when the ball got away from his friends on the paved lot they used as a court.

It came bouncing over to me.

I put my book down and picked it up, wobbling to my feet.

I couldn't help staring.

I'd never held a basketball before, and the orange texture was interesting.

It was new and wonderful , and I was so absorbed in this simple experience that I didn't notice Red jogging over until his voice hit me like a hammer.

"Hey, kid. Give the ball back."

I froze. I couldn't even lift my head, but I raised my eyes, staring at him.

My crush, so close I could smell him and see the cocky twist to his smirk. His bright-red hair was sweaty.

My heart beat so hard.

I opened my mouth, trying to speak.

But all that fell out was a long wheeze, like someone trying to blow into a flute and failing. Just this godawful flapping sound around the prongs of the oxygen tank's hose, fitted in my nostrils.

First Red blinked.

Then he burst into the harshest laughter.

"The fuck? Are you deaf too? You sound like a donkey!"

My eyes burned.

I tried to protest— no, no, I'm a girl! I'm just a girl who loves you —but all that came out was another shrill wheeze.

Then a lot more of them, all loud, honking gasps.

An attack coming on so fast I barely felt it. I dropped the ball and I fumbled for my inhaler in my dress, my vision spinning.

Red didn't rescue me that day.

He just watched and laughed .

Before it was over, he was mimicking my honking, flapping his arms like a demented goose and calling his friends over to join in.

I could only half hear them over my wheezing breaking into sobs.

All while the boy I naively loved mocked me and called me a flipping donkey .

They were still doing it by the time I shoved the inhaler in my mouth and eased that killing tightness.

While I tried to breathe, I glared at them through the tears, tried to make my quivering lips work to speak, to shout, to tell them to go straight to hell.

But I couldn't.

I couldn't curse those rotten kids.

I couldn't do anything but cry while the boys cackled on.

That day taught me how cruel people can be.

It also taught me that no one was ever coming to save me.

But it turned out I didn't need Red Harrow or anyone else, not after I dragged myself home with my oxygen tank banging behind me.

I saved myself.

I learned to live with myself.

But I guess some small, wounded part of me still never stopped being that dumb little girl who falls for the worst men.

And it's that little girl inside me wailing now as I curl up in my room and unleash all the awful feelings building up inside me ever since I bolted away from Micah's house yesterday.

I haven't slept all night.

I've just been crying myself dry, slipping into a daze, then finding more tears from the darkest places.

I know it's past time to get up.

It's morning and Grandpa's already moving around, the smell of rich coffee permeating the loft, mingled with the sawdust scent from downstairs.

I can already hear the lathe going.

I need to get my butt moving and stop grieving.

Finalize some sketches. Help Grandpa with his latest furniture piece, then go right to the bank to cash Xavier's check.

Just like chronic asthma, life goes on with a broken heart when there's work to do.

At least this time, I didn't lose my words.

I told Micah how I felt before I ran.

I spoke up.

I stood up and I didn't back down.

And I didn't let him pull this crap without knowing exactly how much he hurt me.

There's some pride in that, and that's what gets me moving.

There's also enough coffee left in the pot when I drag myself into the kitchen. I pour myself a cup and snag one of the muffins left in a basket on the table.

I nibble at it while I go through the motions of getting cleaned up and changed into clean clothes.

Caffeine makes me functional enough by the time I head in to the workshop.

Through the door to the front of the shop, I think I see a flash of black and white go by, on the way to the station. Probably Micah's patrol car.

My stomach twists before I look at Grandpa.

He's at his lathe again, still working on those bedposts he's been shaping for the last week or more.

Nothing Gerald Grey makes is ever fast or easy. But everything is crafted with love and exquisite detail.

By the time he's finished, he's memorized every wood grain and tiny groove.

The expression on his face makes me smile.

Pure love, so utterly absorbed in his work as his fingers glide over the rotating wooden post and plies his tools with delicate care.

I adore my work.

I love working with him .

I just wish I could find that kind of love in everything I do.

Then maybe I'd never feel a need for another person's love again.

I don't know how he does it. Just sinks away from everything until there's nothing but the wood, his tools, and a creative spark flaring.

It's like existing in this sort of beautiful trance, and I settle on a stool with a fresh cup of coffee.

Instead of focusing on my own work or opening up the shop, I watch Grandpa work his magic.

It's soothing.

There's not a single sound except the spinning lathe as I focus on his hands.

They're wrinkled, wizened, but so very steady. Some days they shake, and other days they're so inflamed I can see the redness and swollen skin.

But today, they're as steady as a man who's twenty years younger.

I don't know how long I watch him.

Long enough to soothe my soul, maybe, washing away the hurt and losing myself in the familiar warmth of this space.

I learned everything I know and love right here at his knee.

That love… it's still enough for me, isn't it?

I realize he's breaking his trance when the lathe's rhythmic whirring slowly stops. He sets his tools aside on his workbench and touches the bedpost gently.

His eyes are twinkling. He glances up over the fresh, pale wood at me, his thin lips creasing in a smile.

"Lily," he whispers. My split second of morning peace dies in a single heartbeat. "How long have you been there?"

Normally, when he's lost in time, he calls me Serena .

My mother's name.

But Lily?

That's my grandmother's name.

Holy hell.

He's farther gone than usual.

My throat closes up.

Everything hurts so much when I desperately want to stop hurting.

"Honey?" He's up in an instant, crossing the room to pull me into his arms. "What's wrong? Why are you upset? Did Serena call?"

Oh, no.

I can't upset him.

But I'm struggling, my throat raw, and the tears are coming. I bury my face in his chest and sob wretchedly.

"No, no," I say. "Serena didn't call."

I can't tell him what's actually wrong.

I can't tell him my heart's turned inside out, and I don't know how I can ever trust anyone again. Not even him.

Not when the person I love most doesn't even see me.

Has anyone ever seen me beyond the basket case of illnesses?

Did Micah?

The sobs won't stop no matter how hard I try.

They just won't , and even if I can't tell Grandpa what's wrong when he won't understand his ‘wife' talking about another man breaking her heart, there's still comfort in his embrace and in the way he holds me.

I need to believe that somewhere, under the dense clouds in his mind, he knows he's comforting the granddaughter he loves.

So I cling to him, and while I cry, he murmurs soft words.

The sound of his voice and his warmth are enough.

The knowledge that, even if he's not quite here, there's still someone in this world who loves me without conditions, without regrets.

Slowly, my tears fade.

Sniffling, I rub at one eye.

Grandpa lets out a gentle, crooning sound.

"There you are," he rumbles. "You just needed to let it out. Do you remember what you always told me when things were hard, dearest?"

I smile faintly, still hiding my face against his chest. Even his scent is comforting. He always smells like fresh-cut timber and the rougher, piney smell of bark.

"Why don't you remind me?"

"That Francis Bacon quote you love so much." I can hear the smile in his voice. " In order for the light to shine so brightly, the darkness must be present ." He gently pats my hair. "Whatever it is, dearest… if there's such darkness today, it only means your light will shine like the sun."

I wish I could believe that.

But it's enough to remind me that I can get past this.

I barely knew my grandmother, but by all accounts, she was a resilient woman.

I want to be her worthy granddaughter today.

So I pull back from him, finding a smile as I stand, brushing my hair back and leaning in to kiss his wrinkled cheek.

"You're right," I say. "And it's time to get started on the day, so I'd better go."

His smile glows fondly. "You never could sit still, Lily darling. Where are you off to now?"

"Errands," I say, smoothing down my shirt before picking up my bag from where I dropped it by my worktable yesterday. "Need to run by the bank, and I think we're out of paper towels."

He pats my cheek, then turns away.

"What did you want for dinner tonight?" he calls over his shoulder as he makes his way back to his lathe. "I thought I could make pierogis."

I watch him with that hollow ache I get every time I remember I'm having a conversation with a lovely man who thinks I'm someone else.

"Pierogis would be great," I tell him. "I'll pick up everything you need. Be back soon!"

He waves quickly, already sinking back into his work. I linger on him for a few seconds before I step into the morning sun that feels far too bright for the darkness of my mood.

I'm lucky Mrs. Brodsky will be by in the next hour or two to check up on him.

As I walk down the street, I can't shake the feeling of being watched.

For a second, I glance around, searching for the freaky scarecrow figure of Ephraim Jacobin or the black silhouette of his Iron Maiden wife.

But there's nothing, just familiar faces moving down the street, soccer moms chatting with each other or babysitters herding toddlers while they do the household shopping. Old folks out for their morning power walks. A couple kids skipping school and pointedly avoiding the small police precinct station so they won't get hauled back in for truancy.

I avoid it, too, turning one street sooner than I need to so I won't have to walk past and see a flash of ivory skin and quicksilver eyes through the window.

My heart couldn't take it today.

I'm trying to be steel.

But steel takes time to forge, and it's been less than a day since the man I love threw me into exile.

I distract myself by Googling what I'll need for pierogis as I make my way to the bank and step inside. The line's short, and I've already got a grocery list by the time the teller beckons me forward.

I've already signed the check—nine hundred thousand dollars just for the first installment.

Who said a deal with the devil doesn't pay well?

When I pass it over, though, the bank teller—a girl my age named Sarah—stares at the check with wide eyes.

I smile sheepishly.

"Um, it's a deposit for a big contract," I explain. "Mostly going to materials. I didn't win the lotto or anything."

I don't know why I feel the need to explain.

I guess it just feels like that kind of money isn't meant for me, especially with their name attached.

Once I'm done with this job—or Micah hauls Xavier Arrendell into custody, whatever comes first—I think I'll stay away from that house for the rest of my life.

I fiddle with my bag strap and look around idly while I wait for her to finish, but when she clears her throat nervously, I glance back at her.

The look on her face makes my heart sink before she says a single word.

"Miss Grey?" She clears her throat. "I'm sorry to tell you this, but the check just bounced."