Page 33 of Grim

I close my eyes and visualize the shelves I’ve spent countless hours perusing, combing, and simply gazing at.

I hum to Seek, “On the right side of the third shelf from the bottom, about a third of the way from the right, there should be a blue book with swirly gold letters on it. It’s a bit thinner than the books on either side of it. Do you see it?”

“Yes!” Seek exclaims, then returns to the couch with the book in question.

I smile as he hands me the thin volume, then inches closer to me on the couch. I open to the prologue and begin reading aloud.

“ Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do .”

Seek slides even closer to me, resting his small head on the outside of my arm. With the young boy nestled in the crook of my arm and my oversize cat sound asleep, I continue blissfully down the rabbit hole.

The back door creaks open, followed by the soft, familiar sound of Kane’s shoes on the hardwood.

I glance up from where I sit cross-legged on the floor with Seek, who’s currently draping a crocheted blanket over Esther. Kane doesn’t speak; he watches .

He looks at me as though his gaze alone could break me. It’s both comforting and patronizing at the same time. His hands twitch at his sides before he clenches them into fists and swallows whatever words threaten to escape.

“How was Big D?” I ask too casually.

His jaw shifts as he glares at Seek, knowing the child told me where he went. “Much the same.”

He doesn’t offer anything else, and I don’t push. Whatever Big D said has his hackles raised and the shadows under his eyes deeper than usual.

Clearing my throat, I gesture toward the window. “What do you want to do tonight?”

There’s a pause. He knits his brows, considering me like I’m a question he hasn’t yet figured out how to answer.

Seeing as he’s choosing not to answer, I do it for him. “I was hoping,” I murmur, “we could take a boat ride through the harbor.”

His eyes flicker in surprise.

“My dad …” I continue, looking past him to the rain-spattered glass. “He loved getting lost on the water. Said the ocean was the only place big enough to hold all the things he couldn’t say out loud.”

Kane opens his mouth, but before he can reply, thunder cracks across the sky like a whip. The windows flash with white light, then dim into a sudden, torrential downpour.

“On second thought …” I exhale, rubbing at my arms. “Maybe not.”

We fill the next hour with a board game. Well, Seek and I do. Kane sits broodily, staring out the window, soaking in the grey. The object of the game is to spell words for points, but I decided we could use the pieces and playing board as tools to help Seek understand reading. He does great .

Can I teach him how to read in the time I have left? No.

Should that prevent me from filling our time with meaningful activities, like learning and laughing together? Also no!

The rigor of the activity seems to have a draining effect on the little spirit’s energy though, and eventually, Seek excuses himself. That leaves me alone with Kane, who continues to gaze menacingly out the window.

“Okay. Enough is enough. We’re not letting a little rain stop us from having fun.” I break the silence in the room.

He humors me with a laconic reply. “What did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know. We can talk. We can cook something. We can read.”

“You and I might have very different definitions of fun .”

His dismissal frustrates me to no end. I cannot believe some rain is ruining one of my last nights on Earth.

“Fine. I’m going back to my writing then.”

I pull my notebook out from beside me on the couch and flip to a new page. That nausea that comes from staring into the abyss of a blank page returns, and instead of words, I begin to doodle furiously. I need this page to have something on it immediately.

“What are you doing?” Kane asks after watching me work.

“Doodling. I usually work on my poetry in here, but someone is staring at me, and I can’t concentrate.”

“Read me something.” His eyebrows lift.

“No way.” I do not hesitate.

“Read me something.”

“A compelling counterargument.”

“Read me something,” he repeats like a stubborn child being denied dessert, and like a tired parent, I relent.

“Ugh, fine. I wrote this one the other day. After some pompous know-it-all informed me of the exact moment my living days would cease to be.”

“Sounds like a real charmer.”

“He’s not,” I deadpan.

I glance down at the page I have held open. A sonnet I wrote, inspired by this moment in my life, stares back at me. I take a deep breath and throw caution to the wind. Then, I begin to read aloud.

B efore I G o

When you know that your days are quite numbered

And you can count them on just one frail hand.

A lifetime full of dreams now encumbered

By days much too short for hope still to stand.

When will I ever swim under the moon?

The celestial power purifying.

To know love’s fall, then it must happen soon

As, like Addie Bundren, I lay dying.

How can I expect to feel something more

When my deadline’s a whispered reminder?

Haunting, infecting, seeped into my pores.

Lost in a library, come and find her.

So much I had hoped to do with my life.

Now I have knowledge that cuts like a knife.

I finish reading the words, but keep my face buried between the pages.

There is nothing left to read there. The only thing left to read is the expression on Kane’s face, but this moment of vulnerability, coupled with the potential of his disappointment, keeps my neck down for several additional beats.

Kane clears his throat, coaxing my gaze upward like a snake charmer’s flute. When my eyes lock with his, I know before he speaks. And I exhale.

His words confirm what his eyes have already told me. “That was beautiful, Rue. Simply divine.”

“It’s nothing,” I deflect, my default reaction to a compliment.

“Don’t do that,” Kane states with an edge. “Don’t minimize what you’ve done.”

“It’s just a poem.”

“It’s your soul on a page. It’s enduring, and it shines, Rue.”

His insistence is convincing, and I take a breath to receive his words.

“Thank you,” I state simply .

“Good girl.” He smirks in reply, and the sensation that awakens in me is undeniable.

Lightning crashes, sending brightness pouring momentarily through the windows, and I can see Kane’s mind spark with something undecipherable.

Thunder follows, then Kane’s voice chases after the boom. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” I ask, not one to trust this man with spontaneous decisions.

He begins to move but turns to see I’m still rooted to my spot.

“Fine,” he sighs. “We’re going to the roof.”

“To the roof? Are you mad? It’s raining and storming and—”

I close my mouth when I run out of excuses.

“And?” he repeats.

When I stay silent and still, his expression softens, and he extends his hand. I take it as he guides me up a ladder.

We climb through the attic and onto the roof like we’re kids sneaking into forbidden places. Kane helps me balance as we step onto the old slate tiles, slick with rain and gleaming like black agate under the moonlight.

The storm hasn’t stopped, but it’s slowed. The thunder rolls lazily, lightning streaking purple and gold across the sky like celestial graffiti.

“This,” he says, turning to me, “might be as close to swimming under the moon as you’re going to get.”

The rain plasters my dress to my skin. I laugh, breathless from the climb, from the view, from him.

“That’s very sweet,” I acknowledge.

“A bit out of character, I know, but gotta keep you on your toes,” he answers sardonically.

“Why are you really doing all this?” I ask, suddenly quiet.

He eyes me and sighs heavily through the drizzle. “Because time is cruel. And you’ve had less of it than most.”

We stand side by side. He doesn’t touch me, but his presence hums warm and steady beside me, like a promise he hasn’t made yet .

“You talk about your father,” he says, “but not your mother.”

I sigh, rain trailing down my cheek, like it’s doing the crying for me. “I’ve always been closer to my dad than Mom. You wouldn’t think that would be the case with her being an artist, but—”

I shift and nearly slip. Kane instinctively reaches out and grabs me, pulling me flush to his soaked form. I’ve forgotten what I was saying. All I can think about is my dream and how this feels so much better than my brain envisioned.

“But what?” His voice is too husky, and I feel my thighs clenching together.

“B-ut … her art isn’t mine. I love her. She’s always been as caring as she could.

But she’s a rolling stone. She wasn’t the stay home and bake cookies type of mom.

She’s an artist. My dad was the one who got me into books.

They divorced when I was young, and I spent most of my time with her in Chicago, unless Dad was here.

So, we planned books to read while he was working.

That way, it never truly felt like we were apart for long. ”

“Wow,” he murmurs.

I notice the distant look in his eyes and see if I can bring him back to this moment. “What were your parents like?”

“Surprisingly similar. My mother was sharp and whip-smart. She hosted artists at our estate for monthly celebrations. The rooms would be abuzz with music and poetry and conversation. She was instrumental in helping many young authors find funding and support for publishing their work. She, perhaps, did a better job of instilling a love of the arts in me than she did of simply loving me, but I was always provided for.” Kane runs his fingers through his hair before continuing.

“My father, Ambroise, was a busy man. He was a doctor before me, especially accomplished in tending to the fallen in battle. I played with his surgical instruments more than I played with him.”

I give him a dry smile. “And yet you turned out so emotionally available.”

He snorts. “I made a damn good doctor and a fine lover … of the arts. ”