All This Time

CHRISTMAS BONUS #2 (Part 2)

DAY TWO of a very van der Waals Christmas

After our walk, we retire to the van der Waals library. Wolf reclines against a worn leather sofa, his feet resting on top of a velvet pillow. His feet, clothed in beige socks, shake every once in a while as he flips the pages of his novel. The rapid, fan-shaped arc of his foot reminds me of a dog wagging his tail.

The library, two floors tall and lined with books from wall to wall, was a present from Wolf's great-great grandfather to his first wife. Her portrait still hangs in one of the hallways, or so Wolf tells me. She was a voracious reader, devouring books with an appetite that rendered her an outcast amongst the other women in the village. Her eyes grew strained before her time and when she died in childbirth at the age of thirty-five, she was almost blind.

The bookcases in the library are ornate, carved by someone who clearly had a profound love of the written word. Woodland nymphs peek around corners, birds take flight, and leaves and toadstools dot the shelves. The original books are still here, yellowed with age, and more fragile than butterfly wings.

For some reason, I find this story both romantic and morbid. Wolf draws me from my macabre thoughts by snapping his book shut and giving me an unreadable look.

I admit, I've been ogling my phone instead of looking at a book, but catching up on the latest Buzzfeed article is basically reading, right?

"What's up?" I ask, pressing a button to turn the screen black.

"I thought of something." Wolf furrows his brow.

I nibble my lower lip. "And you want me to...guess?"

He snorts in amusement. "No, I'm just not sure I should say it."

Now it's my turn to snort. Mine is considerably louder and with a ton more attitude. "It's never stopped you before," I point out, voice dry.

"All this time we've spent apart," he says, beginning hesitantly, not quite meeting my eyes. "All this time, have you..."

I run the pad of my thumb over the screen, waiting for him to continue. When he doesn't, I suck my cheeks in and say, "Just ask."

"Have you gotten over me?"

I quirk my eyebrow at him. "That would imply I was under you at some point," I say, keeping a deadpan expression on my face, even though my lips are coaxed into a grin when he winks at me. It wasn't so long ago, after all, that I was under him. In the literal sense.

I exhale. "No. I know what you mean." I do. I really, really do. A phone conversation comes to mind, of careless (honest) words that were spoken when I was feeling particularly crushed. The exact words escape me, but I remember that Wolf had come in the room, had seemed to look at me like he'd overheard. I remember feeling a flash of guilt and then the satisfying lurch of victory, happy to have dealt him the same deathblow he dealt me in the Netherlands. Guess both of us overheard things we weren't supposed to.

Struck by this thought, I squint my eyes at him. His foot shakes harder. I want to ask him, but the words feel stuck in my throat like taffy. "Did you"—I clear my throat—"hear me on the phone that one day? That day we were supposed to cook Xander and Graeme's celebratory dinner? Erm, well, the day you volunteered to host it and roped me into helping?"

Wolf doesn't say anything at first. His smile is small. Then, "Yeah," he says on a loud, breathy exhale. "I didn't want to say anything. You looked like you'd been caught with your hand in the cookie jar. I didn't want to make things awkward between us."

"More awkward than they already were, you mean." I tuck my legs under me, letting the leather armchair cocoon me. The leather squeaks and creaks as my weight shifts. I curl my fingers into the thick, woolen blanket across my legs.