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Molly felt everything inside of her...blow up.
She thought of that girl, lost and lonely, torn away from everything she’d ever known and shunted off to that blinding island, with the Greek sun that blazed on her only one of the things that shined too brightly to look at directly. She thought of the horror she felt when she’d realized what Constantine was truly about, when she’d read those stories he’d placed. And all the contortions she had gone through to convince herself that it had all been her fault, not his.
Then there were all the years in between, where she had made herself into the very thing that girl could never have imagined she’d become. Anti-beige. Anti-porridge. And all along knowing, somewhere deep inside of her, that she was doing it because of him.
Athim.
He had made her feel small, so she became giant.
Epic.
She remembered when it had begun to occur to her how strange it was that her mother kept having so many runs of notably bad luck when, whatever else Isabel was, she had never been stupid. And how Molly had felt when she’d traced it all back to Constantine himself.
When he’d made certain she could trace it back to him.
And she could remember with perfect clarity leaving this very house that morning, so long ago now, to fly down to Skiathos and face him at last.
Molly had known the truth then, hadn’t she? She called it nerves. Anxiety. A history she wanted nothing to do with, she’d assured herself, but she’d known better.
She’d been excited.
Thrilled that she would see him again, at last, no matter the circumstances.
That was the long and the short of it. She had gone to Skiathos to confront him about the things he’d done to her mother and her, the campaign he’d deliberately waged against her familyfor years, and she’d beenexcited.
There had been those ten days spent naked in the sunlight, then dressed for his pleasure when the stars came out.
There had been their press tour, all those hours spent together flying from place to place, and the performance they both put on so well for the cameras. Thedancing.Thegazing.
All to be left on the very night she’d given him her innocence, called her a whore, and had abandoned her. Not in that order.
“The fact of the matter,” she hurled at him, slamming the wine bottle down on the nearest table and slightly surprised it didn’t shatter with the force she expended, “is that you should thank your mother. Because you’ve been using her as an excuse for your entire life.”
“Molly—”
But she was just getting started.
“You focus with all your might on blame and retribution, because that’s much better than asking yourself why it is you’ve been hiding behind that poor woman since you were a kid. Isn’t it, Constantine? You built a whole alternate persona based on sex and promiscuity, perceived indolence and carelessness. All the while hiding the truth of you, deep inside.”
“That feels a bit pot and kettle, wouldn’t you say?” he bit out.“Magda?”
“Magda is a stage name,” she snapped out. “It’s the difference between putting on a costume and taking one off, that’s all. I’m not hiding anything, Constantine. I’m not two people. I’m not hiding in Magda—she’s a part of me.” And she knew as she said it that it was true. Maybe it hadn’t always been true, but it was now. She leaned in. “She’s always been a part of me. It’s what I call the part of myself that can handle the bright lights, the applause, the strange and glorious things that come when your face is your currency. But that’s not what you’re doing.”
“Oh no? Then what is it I’m doing, if you are suddenly the expert on healthy and unhealthy divisions of personalities.”
“You’ll do anything to avoid feeling an emotion,” she said. Like she was handing down judgment. “Anything and everything. Everybody knows men who sleep around like that don’tfeel, so no one expects you might, do they? Boys will be boys and so on.” She shook her head. “And left to your own devices, you think... You really, truly believe that a lifetime spent in a sick pursuit of vengeance against a stepmother who never did anything to you except try to take care of you islove.”
He looked like he might explode. Or as if he had. As if this was the explosion. Maybe it had claimed them both already.
Molly realized she might not be able to tell.
“I just told you I loved you,” Constantine thundered at her. “Do you think that’s easy to say? Do you imagine that I’ve ever said it to another living human being? Because I haven’t. It’s only you, Molly. Don’t you understand that yet? Whatever you call it, however twisted it’s been, it’s only ever been you. I love you, whether you believe that or not.”
She didn’t know where her wineglass had gone. Molly surged toward him, stopping herself just before she made a critical error and threw herself at him.
Because she knew, somehow, that would not end the way she wanted it to. She would not pummel him the way she wanted. She would end up kissing him and if she did, she would lose this moment forever.
Molly knew she couldn’t allow that to happen.
