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“Good! This month’s dress code is glamorous red. Tommie will come over tomorrow to help you out. He loves to dress people up. I’m sure he’s already maxed out Kristoff’s credit card. Just go with it.”
That explained the mysterious ‘T’ on the card. “Can’t wait,” I admitted. We chatted a little more and then hung up.
It was both the strangest and most endearing conversation of my life. Making plans to go out with a complete stranger was one thing but knowing that Kristoff—in his own weird way—had set this up warmed my heart.
I didn’t want to wait till morning to thank him. When I couldn’t find him in his usual places, like the library or the gym, I ventured into the garden. On rare occasions, I found him at Cerberus’ grave. He wasn’t there either.
I was about to go back inside when I caught movement in the shadows from the corner of my eye.
Kristoff was coming out of the garage—the place which housed his prized cars and was off limits to me.
He halted when he saw me. I noticed specks of blood on his shirt and the tape across his knuckles had shards of glass stuck to them.
Had he been fighting? I didn’t dare ask. That hint of darkness bordering on madness was back in his eyes.
I linked my arm through his and guided him back into the house, through the kitchen, and upstairs to his bathroom.
I grabbed the first aid kit and untangled the gauze around his hands.
“Careful,” he said, when I almost nicked my finger on a piece of glass.
“Are you going to tell me how this happened?”
“I fell and hit a door.”
Despite everything, I couldn’t stifle a laugh. Sometimes he was utterly ridiculous.
The silence between us became heavy. So I talked to fill in the silence. “I finished readingThe Count of Monte Cristo.” Even though he’d never mentioned it, I knew it was his favorite book. The pages of the leather-bound edition in his study were well worn, and I’d found it more than once on his desk.
“That’s a dark read,” he said, eyes fixed on me.
I squirmed underneath his gaze, unused to being so close to him. Usually, Kristoff had a knack for avoiding being alone with me.
“Perhaps,” I conceded. “But I also found it poetic.”
He looked doubtful. “Which parts? The ones where he hates his supposed friend more than himself?”
“I think you’re looking at it the wrong way. Despite everything, Edmond has kept his gusto for life and I admire that about him.”
A snort. “Gusto for life? You mean for vengeance.”
“’It’s necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live’,” I quoted, feeling pleased with myself for remembering that bit.
“The story isn’t about life or death. It’s about vengeance.”
“It’s about love,” I disagreed. “More than anything, Edmond feels love.”
He cut me a peculiar look. “‘Woman is sacred; the woman one loves is holy.’”
I swallowed. I wished he was thinking about me when he said those words. Words were like the petals of a rose—voiced in the right way, they held so much beauty.
The silence between us stretched. I finished administering to his wound. Then I remembered why I went looking for him in the first place.
“I just got a call from Jocelyn Detta.”
His expression didn’t change. And why would it? When Kristoff asked someone for a favor, he expected it to happen.
“I’m going out for a girls night this Saturday.”
