His lips trail down my neck, sending shivers all over.
"I love looking at you," he breathes, brushing the hair off my shoulders. "Will you let me look at you?"
My heart hammers, a wild thing seeking his. "Yes."
So he does. And I feel it. For a long...
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NOAH
I have to wonder, if all she was to be is some evil character on a melted memory card that I might access on repeat, then the good times would be outnumbered by the bad in trillions. but none of that is true.
She is still here, and for that, I am only glad. She is here, and he is not, and that's as complicated as it needs to be.
Though I must admit it's been on my mind.
John's kitchen is still small, cramped with mismatched cabinets and an old iron stove. The wallpaper peels at the edges, curling like forgotten pages, and the man, similarly forgotten, moves quietly, setting down chipped plates and worn silver knives. The food and drink is next—meat, potatoes and red wine.
I sit across from Cam at the weathered wooden table, her hand locked in mine like an anchor. Her grip is tight, the skin on her knuckles is pale, her fingers stiff and cold even after warming them by the fire after coming in. Charlie sits in her lap, his small body trembling with vigour after every bite of greasy meat basted in rosemary. His eyes, dark and round, flicker between her and the plate, each piece a blessing he never expects. Perhaps he expects a hit instead.
Yes, it's all been on my mind.
John couldn't keep Charlie, all those years ago. He explains this as he looks only at his fork like it might answer him. Too much barking. Loud. All the time, loud, and he couldn't handle it.
It was only in the last hour that I accepted John wasn't like most people, and I'd never quite understand him. It was only in the last hour that I shook his hand and thanked him for what he did for the love of my life when she had no one else.
John pauses his story about the trees around his property, and I watch him, trying to read the dark lines on his face. Every wrinkle, every shadow, tells a story. History etched into skin. I just can't read the language.
Cam's hand is still locked in mine, her eyes fixed on Charlie as he eats most of her food.
The room is warm despite the cold outside, the walls thick with something unspoken within them. Family, perhaps, though that word that has lost its meaning for both of them.
I look at Cam sparingly. She hasn't said much since we got inside, and I don't press her. Not anymore. Some things are too fragile to poke. I felt her pain, and I didn't know how to fix it, so I offered my hand, and she took it.
John breaks a piece of bread to sop up the oils and herbs on his plate and chews thoughtfully.
This place is alive with ghosts. Not the haunting kind, but the kind that sit at your shoulder, waiting to remind you that you're alive, and of what you've survived. I've studied stories of battles fought and won, of empires rising and falling, and I know that victory doesn't feel like triumph. Sometimes it's just...relief.
