I find an armchair. I take a seat and rub my hands over my face, trying to shake this feeling. I’ve experienced loss before, but nothing like this.
I don’t know how to come back this time.
When I pull my hands from my face, everyone has left. Well. Almost everyone. On the settee across from me sits three people—Princess, Jekyll, and Dorian.
“None of you listen to commands very well,” I chastise them.
“Trust me, we’d all rather be somewhere else,” Dorian says. “I ditched my Valentine’s Day plans so my girlfriend could go comfort your girlfriend.” The edge of my mouth turns in. Even the thought of Ophelia is like pressing on a bruise.
“But,” Dorian continues. “There was once a time when I showed up a drunken, weepy mess on your doorstep and you let me in. So. I owe you.”
“You gave sanctuary,” Princess says, “when I was just a stranger who had nothing and no one.”
“We see you’re hurting,” Jekyll adds, “and we care about you.”
Oh. Hold on.
Do I…have friends?
This is a strange, foreign warmth. Somewhere inside of me, a too-young orphan boy wakes up, cautiously curious.
I rub my hand over my arm before releasing the posture. I lace my fingers together instead, and finally confess, “I’m terrified I’ve lost her. For good, this time.”
“That’s only true if you give up,” Jekyll offers.
“What’s the alternative?” I ask. “Continue to pursue someone who doesn’t want to be pursued? She gave her safe word.”
“Because she needsspace,” Princess says. “Tonight was…a lot.”
She’s right. It was.
Even I feel unmoored by the events of tonight.
I bow my head. I rub my hands over my jaw, feeling the scratch of too-much scruff against my palms. I slide my hands to the back of my head and lace them there. “I don’t know what to do,” I admit.
Dorian leans in. “I’m going to recommend something outrageous. Are you ready? You could try talking to her. I get it…you’re a man of action. You want her toseeyour devotion. But she needs to hear it, too. Love is as much intellectual as it is physical. She needs to believe it.” He gives me a hard pat on the shoulder. “Go make her believe, champ.”
I frown at him. “Don’t ever call me champ.”
I understand his humor for what it is—the two of us are bad at feelings, doing our best. And the truth of it is, what he saysmakes sense.
I’m good at communicating with Ophelia in scene, as Phantom. But when it comes to conversations about the heart? My throat locks up completely.
I do owe Ophelia a conversation. I do need to make her believe.
So?
What’re you waiting for, champ?
35
Ophelia.Now.
At some point in the night, I became the middle spoon.
Dove curls around behind me, her arm around my middle. I’ve curled around Spud, and his big, bat ears twitch in his sleep, tickling my cheek. I press a kiss to the soft top of his head, and he lets out a whistling snore.
It’s far too early to be awake, but something pulls me to my feet. I slip out of my bed, careful not to wake Dove or Spud. I pull a robe over my PJs and fit my feet into my slippers. Absently, I touch my altar for Artemis on the way out, feeling the smooth melted candlewax against my fingertips.
