Page 11 of Remain (one-of-a-kind)
What time was it, she wondered, looking up from her book as if surfacing from a dream.
She always lost track of time when she read.
When she and Grandma Joyce had lived in the cottage, she’d crawl into bed with a book, and the next thing she knew, Grandma would be peeking into her room and demanding to know what she thought she was doing, staying up past midnight on a school night.
Grandma would turn out the light and threaten to take away the books for good if she couldn’t control herself, which even as a child she knew was an empty threat.
She glanced down at the illustrated copy of A Christmas Carol open on her lap. She blanked on why she had chosen this classic tale, given that it was almost summer, but when she saw the quote etched beneath the illustration of Scrooge and the phantom, she smiled:
Now,
you’re just a stranger,
who knows,
all my secrets.
Ah yes…she’d chosen this title because of Tate.
Adorable Tate, with his short hair and dimple in his chin and tailored clothes made to look as though they’d been bought off the rack like everyone else’s.
She’d heard him stagger down the stairs and into the parlor before staring at her gobsmacked through red, swollen eyes.
You didn’t have to be a psychic to see the poor man was upset.
And when he’d sat down and opened up to her, she could understand why.
The facts of his lonely childhood were sad enough, but what really made her heart contract was the emptiness with which he had spoken of his parents.
She and Grandma Joyce had had their conflicts—their personalities were like oil and water in many respects—but she’d never doubted her grandmother’s love.
Tate had loved and lost his sister, just like she’d loved and lost her grandma, but still, she knew it wasn’t the same.
Sylvia had meant everything to him, and by the time he’d described his visits with his sister as she lay dying, she’d had to fight the impulse to take his hands, he seemed so utterly bereft.
Of course, she hadn’t done it, but when he’d shown her the video, she almost felt as though she had.
Or rather, it felt like Sylvia was clasping both their hands, the three of them joined together in a circle of her making.
Perhaps she’d been imagining it, but she also could have sworn there’d been a connection between her and Tate, like a spark between circuits.
A smile crossed her lips, and glancing down at the book, she read the words she’d scribbled in the margin years ago:
Sharing a secret
whispers
in the dark dark
honesty and trust,
twin terrors, slowly evolving
(now glue)
without them
the world comes
apart.
She blushed, remembering her e. e. cummings phase, back when she was fifteen or sixteen.
Although cummings would have been mortified by her teenage attempt at mimicry, these girlish sentiments nonetheless felt apt this morning.
Tate’s radical honesty and trust had affected her so deeply.
He hadn’t pretended to be someone he wasn’t; he hadn’t been afraid to reveal that he’d been in a psychiatric hospital or that he was still reconciling things about his past. He’d wept openly when speaking about Sylvia—how many men would do that in front of someone they’d just met?
—and his hands were shaking as he played the video.
He’d simply presented himself as he was.
There was something courageous and beautiful in that, and she’d found herself returning to the memory of his open, vulnerable expression as his eyes searched her face.
She reminded herself not to get too carried away, even if this morning had been unexpectedly memorable. The last thing she needed was to develop feelings for a stranger. She was hardly in a state to get close to anyone.
She expelled an aggravated sigh. Her life was too much of a mess right now for her to even be thinking about interesting men, much less a guest who would soon be returning to New York City. She needed to focus on figuring out her own next steps, she reminded herself.
Closing her book with a resolute snap, she stood and crossed the parlor. Reaching on her tiptoes, she returned the book to the shelf where it belonged.