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Probably these. But that was pure sentimentality. Being dragged out by my parents to forage mushrooms in Bernwood Forest. Distracted by a thousand slants of light. “Any. Can’t go wrong with potato and cheese.” Pushing the plate aside—one pierogi uneaten just to prove to myself I could—I folded my elbows on the table. “And this is how you spend your holidays?” I asked. Not a fair or kind question. But between this and my parents, I’d done more than enough sharing for one day.
Leo shrugged. “Well, it’s a family time. And you know how things stand there.”
Of course, the problem with not wanting to dwell on myself meant dwelling on him. And being curious about someone was aslippery slope to being interested in them. “Your father must have meant something to you once upon a time. You did go to prison for him.”
“I partially went to prison for him,” Leo said. “Mostly, though, I went to prison because I broke the law.”
“Do you think they’d have given you a two-year sentence if you hadn’t been his scapegoat, though?”
Again, he shrugged. “Probably not. But it doesn’t matter.”
“You still shouldn’t have to spend Christmas alone.”
“I’d rather be alone than with my parents.”
I idly forked at the edge of my abandoned pierogi. “Were they…not good to you when you got out?”
“They were fine. My dad was even grateful.” Leo, too, had finished eating and had his chin propped on a hand. “But I realised I’d always be less to him than the money. And I suppose I finally understood what that meant.”
“How so?”
“I think this is probably only the kind of thing you say if you grow up a millionaire, but”—Leo shot me a quick, nervous smile—“I want a life that’s more than money.”
It was oddly tempting to smile back. Like a physical force between us, tugging me towards him. “Well,” I said. “It seems you’ve earned the last pierogi.”
I wasn’t sure if he got the reference or not, but he ate the pierogi anyway. And that, too, made me want to smile.
He brushed his fingers against my wrist. “What were you working on this afternoon?”
“Not working. Doodling.”
“What were you doodling, then?”
I moved my hand, partially to indicate he was free to look. They were, after all, nothing special. Just lines on paper. Leo bent over them, scrutinising.
“Is this Mr. Froderick?”
“Mm.”
“And my Demoiselle.”
I nodded.
“I know you said you were an artist, but these are really good.”
“Those are drawings, not art.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The first I do to amuse myself. The second is who I am. Or used to be.”
Leo’s eyes had gone soft as morning mist. I thought, with a swell of repulsion, he might be feeling sorry for me. “I’ve told you what I think about that.”
“Of course,” I said, affecting sincerity. “You’re right. Let me immediately change my worldview.”
“Your worldview seems to be making you fairly miserable.”
“I don’t recall asking for your input.”
