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I close my eyes as I inhale a few deep breaths, thinking of Marilla and Orpha and the Christmas I’ll be spending at their place in a remote village near a Loch on the West Coast, and whether by then, Grey will be nothing more than a winter breeze who haunts me.
As I release the breeze I imbibed in a sigh, I pivot a little, the sigh transmuting into a gasp as the shadow filling the doorway suddenly moves.
The book of poems falls from my hand onto the hardwood floor.
“Shit!” I clutch my hand to my chest as Grey walks towards me, the light from earlier siphoned from his face. “You really need to stop walking into rooms in stealth mode before you give me a heart attack.”
By the time I go to pick up the book, I see his hand wrapping around the sides of it, picking it up.
He studies the cover. “You like Frost?”
The pain newly written into his face stops me from speaking until he looks at me, his usually vibrant eyes dull, his body stiff as if closing in on himself.
“He’s Marilla’s favorite poet. Harry likes to read him to us when he’s drunk,” I say in an attempt to lift the blanket of smog that has rolled into the room.
“I’d like to see that,” he responds, attempting a tepid smile. “Almost as much as I’d like to watch you reading his poetry.”
“Well, I’m sure that could be arranged… if you askverynicely.”
I utter the words, conscious that I’m actively trying to leaven the ambiance, unsure if it’s possible given his somber countenance.
I try to breathe deeply. “Who… Who was here?” I ask, anxiety beginning to pervade my cells as I observe the life deadening behind his eyes.
Grey’s jaw tightens and he takes so long to speak that I feel the silence pressing into my skin. “My father.”
The vision of that darkly imposing man who would glare at me most uncivilly, his aura black, his mood a storm, blasts through me. The way he stared at me felt… uncivilized. He didn’t attempt a smile. He just watched me like some predator or something.
“Okay… What did he want?”
“He wants…” Grey’s eyes drop to the floor. “So many things, Indie.”
“Like what?”
“He knows about us.”
“How?”
“I’m not sure. Someone will have seen us at the bar. Told him. He likes to ask people to keep tabs on me.”
“Not Tom?” I suggest and his brows furrow.
“I hope not.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t,” I say, wondering what I can do to bring life back into this man.
“I told him what we’re doing is none of his fucking business. He… He wants us to go to dinner with him and my mother.”
“Well, did you tell him we’re just… whatever it is we’re doing here?”
“Yes. He doesn’t seem to believe me. For good reason.”
What does that even mean?
“He wants to see us. He’s insisting on it.”
“Okay. I mean, I can handle him,” I decide. “I already know he’s kind of an asshole.”
“I’m an asshole, Indigo,” sneers Grey. “He’s… something else entirely.”
