“I know, darling, but I have something for you.” Her bright eyes are trained on me, and I can see the pure joy in them. If there is one thing this woman loves almost as much as she loves her children, it’s spoiling them.
“Let me open it, then.” I grab my leather bookmark and set my book on the table next to me.
Then, I grab the box and settle it on my lap, pulling gently at one of the long, lacy ends of the bow. It unravels easily, and my mother takes it from me and wraps it around my wrist in a smaller bow, the ends hanging long and loose.
She grins, and I tear my eyes away from the pretty thing and how nice it looks on my skin to open the box.
Sitting inside, atop a soft, silk pillow, is a top made of white lace, similar in pattern to the bow I’m now wearing. It looks flowy, yet tight, and appears to have a plunging neckline.
“Do you love it, darling?” my mother asks me, and I release a soft, quiet breath.
“I do,” I tell her. “It’s beautiful.”
“You can wear it on Christmas, yes?”
“Of course.” I turn to face her, placing a kiss on her cheek. “Thank you, Momma.”
“You’re welcome, Atty.” She pats my hand briefly, then leans back on the chaise elegantly. “Now, read to me, won’t you?”
GrabbingWhere the Wild Things Arefrom the table beside me,I begin to read aloud.
As I’m heading to the west tower, with the sun setting in the distance, I see Julian out back through the window on the second-floor landing.
He’s hunched over his phone, a soft smile on his face as he types away. Then, he laughs and shakes his head gently.
Who is he talking to? Why does he look so giddy and… excited? I stand still, watching him for a long moment.
“Atty, darling?” Atticus speaks, catching my attention. He appears beside me, following my line of sight to where Julian still stands.
“Hello,” I respond, not bothering to divert my gaze.
“Why are you watching him?” my brother asks.
“Because I’m curious as to what he’s doing.”
Atticus makes ahumphof acknowledgement, his hand rising to lay itself on the nape of my neck. “But it’s sunset. You should go upstairs.”
Rolling my eyes, I shake his hands away. “It’s not going to get me right here, in front of everyone, Atticus. I’m not asleep.”
“I know,” he sighs. “But what if you fall asleep out here? What if Abigail comes out of her room and finds you here, indecent?”
Indecent.
I sigh, ripping my gaze from Julian’s figure.
“Okay,” I concede. “Good night, then.”
Atticus places a kiss on the top of my head, another reminder of his love, and gifts me a sweet smile. “Good night.”
I’ve made the trek up the steep staircase of the west tower so many times now that as I walk, I don’t bother watching my slipper-covered feet.
Back before my eighteenth birthday, I slept in Atticus’s room. The west tower was the guest room, and Atticus slept in the room where our visitors now sleep. Once my condition presented itself, I was moved up here, partially to give me any semblance of privacy, and partially to see if it would help by confusing…it.
Luckily, my father had already added on a bathroom for our guests, so I have everything I need. But sometimes, I feel isolated. Abandoned. Alone.
I understand why it has to be this way.
When we were in the panicked phase, when this was new and terrifying to everyone around me, a priest recommended that I just never sleep alone. That if I don’t, maybe it won’t invade my dreams.
