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“That’s not true,” he says, playing a dissonant chord that falls flat over the melody I’m playing.
“I never wanted to be his favourite. The only thing I’ve ever truly wanted is Christopher.”
“Like I said, you’re your own person and you can make your own rules. You can live how you want even if you go down the path that’s been paved for you. Just don’t be selfish. Don’t forget the people around you…the ones that care.”
“Are you done preaching?”
“God you’re so stubborn! You were wrong. Admit it!”
Maybe the way I handled the situation wasn’t altogether right, but it wasn’t wrong either. They keep secrets too.
“I’m not going to back down, and you’re not going to bully me into being sorry for any of the things I’ve done,” I tell him without taking my eyes off the keys.
The wind outside howls through the naked trees, vibrating the old leaded glass window the ancient upright I’m playing is in front of.
Ivory keys are weathered like teeth, but the scratched-on notes from years of teaching grandchildren how to play still boldly withstand time.
“I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to realise that Dad played you…like he always does. He used your vulnerability, and you let him. You don’t need to do everything he asks of you. It’s not your duty to pander to his ambitions.”
“You’re starting to sound like Georgina.” I take a deep breath to centre myself. With all the things I want to say batter-ramming me from every angle, I can’t actually form a coherent argument that won’t come out full-on defensive and give him a scab to scratch at in order to wear me down to his point of view. I see it. I understand it. But I don’t agree with it. “I’m going to tell you what I told her. Christopher is the only thing that matters. And I’m done with this conversation.”
The irritation vibrating through him is palpable. Tapping a random key to throw me off the tune, he asks, “Do you actually still like Braveheart?”
He taps another key when I carry on playing the love theme from the film. “You know the only reason Mum let you watch it is because she had no fucking clue what actually happens in it.”
“I’m certain the blood and screaming gave it away.”
“They can take away our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom!” His whisper yell is broken up with a chuckle.
“Actually, my favourite line is when Princess Isabella sends for Wallace to try to warn him of the danger coming his way. He asks her why, and she says, ‘Because of the way you’re looking at me now.’”
“Isn’t that the bit where he fucks her? Again, Madre had no idea her eight-year-old was running around half-naked pretending to be a revolutionist who fucks the enemy.” He taps another key.
“Please don’t annoy me. I’m trying centre myself, okay?” Normally I would have made an overly aggressive threat that I probably couldn’t follow through on, but that would only make him tease me harder. “And, it wasn’t the fucking. I was eight. I wanted to be her because she loved William. And I liked that even in the midst of so much destruction, that something as frivolous as love could bloom. She betrayed her husband and the king for something that held no value to anyone but her and the man she loved.”
“Such a girl.” Instead of pressing a key, Casper nudges my arm. “Her part doesn’t count as betrayal because she was a bartering piece in a doomed power play.”
I ignore the insinuation he’s making. Always so fucking righteous because he refuses to follow any of the rules. They think Christopher and Freddie are the loose cannons, but Casper is something far more threatening. He might be loyal, but he won’t ever go against his grain for anyone. It’s why he and Dad always butt heads.
Mum laughs about it. “Dos gorgojos no se besan.”
Two weevils can’t kiss.
It’s the truth and it’s the reason I didn’t go to him in the first place. All he sees is Dad being the Deputy Prime Minister, and not me getting what I need. Being something more than arm candy.
“My second favourite part is when the king is dying, and she tells him that she’s pregnant with William’s baby.” Heart stuttering in my chest, I take a deep breath to steady myself.
Will it always be like this? Will I always picture the little girl Christopher and I made and imagined?
Swallowing down the longing-filled ache clogging my throat, I press on with the melody and the conversation. “She’s the real hero in the story because regardless of the outcome, she gave William everything he fought for. In fact, she gave him more…she gave him the throne.” I shoulder him as he tries to mess with my rhythm again. “But I think what really got me was the face-painting and the men wearing skirts. It was confusing. These big burly guys running around with mean-looking weapons, chopping heads off and getting all covered in blood, all while wearing kilts and falling in love.” Chuckling, I trip over the keys with a cringe. “It’s an epic film.”
Our chat dims, and even though it’s on repeat, I carry on playing the same tune. The chords reverberate through the air, bouncing off the wood-panelled walls.
“Bella?” Although I make no move to pause, he takes my hands quickly before closing the lid. When I look at him, he has worry crumpling his chiselled face. Th
ick, dark eyebrows are pulled together, and onyx eyes narrow on me. “Is everything okay with you and Christopher?”
“Yes.” I relax at the genuine smile that stretches my lips. “Is everything okay with you?”
