Page 65 of Where the Snakes Sleep

There’s something profoundly irritating about being placated by someone who doesn’t even sound like he’s trying to placate me.

I head upstairs before I say something stupid.

My bedroom feels wrong the moment I enter.

Not because anything obvious has happened in here. The bed remains unmade, one corner of the sheet twisted from where I kicked it loose during the night. A pair of shorts is still hanging from the back of the chair. My charger is still plugged into the wall. The glass on my nightstand contains the same inch of stale water I left behind.

Still, I stand in the doorway longer than necessary.

Someone might have been in here.

The thought slides over my skin like cold oil.

Maybe they opened my drawers, or stood beside my bed. Maybe they looked at my clothes, or at my medication bag, or even my vibrator.

Maybe none of that happened; I’ll never know, and that might be worse than knowing.

“Ryan?” Camille’s voice travels up the stairs.

“I’m packing.”

“I did not ask what you were doing.”

“Then why are you yelling my name?”

A pause.

“To make certain you are still here.”

My chest does something unpleasantly soft. “I haven’t been kidnapped in the last thirty seconds.”

“Maybe I should come up.”

“Please do not.”

I grab my overnight bag from the wardrobe and begin throwing things into it. As I’m working, I think of Alberte.

I am standing in his bedroom—or what became mine—while strangers apparently search through the remains of whatever life he left behind.

What the fuck happened here?

What did he do that was so wrong that over twenty years later, people grimace at his name?

Was it somehow Henri? Was he here searching for something important to him? If they really were lovers, did he hope to find old photographs of them together, or maybe a ring? If that’s the case, he could’ve just asked me.

Although, if whatever happened was because they were gay, maybe he was worried I’d be homophobic too? Or maybe seeing me would’ve hurt? It’s not like my father was Henri and Alberte’s, after all.

When I come downstairs, Camille is standing beside the desk with his arms folded. He isn’t touching anything.

His gaze drops to the bag in my hand, then lifts to my face. The late afternoon sun catches his face, making his eyes look like what I’d imagine angels’ eyes would. Their beauty takes my breath away.

“Ready?” he asks, a brow raised in question.

“No,” I answer bluntly.

One corner of his mouth lifts, a faint, dry crease in his otherwise impassive expression. “I meant physically.”

“Oh. Yeah.”