Page 50 of The Fix

Posey’s father remained well through the summer—not as physically vigorous as he’d once been, but just as mentally dynamic.

The two of them took to discussing cases on the veranda, where the afternoon sun filtered in and warmed their skin.

They drank sweetened tea with lemon and watched the groundskeepers as they worked, the scents of cut grass and her mother’s nearby rose garden—in full, vibrant bloom—tickling their noses.

It was a beautiful summer for Posey, as it turned out, the last beautiful summer she’d ever know.

A few months from then, Anton would graduate from Georgetown University, where he’d been commuting for four years and was already busy planning an elaborate party at their estate.

Posey reveled in her brother’s distraction, for it meant that he had less time to bully and bother her.

She found herself, for once, able to walk the halls of their home without fear that Anton would step from a dark corner with intent to harass and humiliate.

The first time she spoke to Tatum was in the vast library in the south wing just outside her father’s office. She entered the room, surprised to see a man standing atop the library ladder and leaning precariously toward the farthest corner in order to reach the uppermost book.

She watched him curiously, wondering why he wouldn’t simply push the ladder under the book he desired instead of performing a death-defying act, or at least a bone-breaking one.

She waited to ask him until he’d climbed down the ladder and was safely on the ground. At her question, he whirled around, the book falling from his hands. She glanced down at it, splayed open on the floor. How to Dance with Confidence and Ease.

She looked up at him to find him watching her.

Their eyes met, and neither spoke for a moment.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “I just wondered, of all these topics and titles, which one was on the highest shelf in the farthest corner.” He leaned casually on the ladder.

“I thought it was probably the first one your father collected, and I was curious to know what it was.”

She found herself unusually at a loss for comment.

And even more confused by such a title in her father’s library.

Why did he own it? Had it been one of his first books?

Maybe dating back to before he’d met her mother?

She couldn’t picture her father caring for such a thing as how to dance with confidence.

Her father did everything with confidence, and she couldn’t imagine a time when that hadn’t been the case.

The question itself brought up more curiosities than answers.

“I meant, why not simply roll the ladder under the book you desired?”

He turned his head to look down at the wheels at the base of the ladder, his gaze hanging on them for a moment. “Well I’ll be damned.” He looked up and smiled at her. “I didn’t realize it moved.”

She had this peculiar urge to laugh, and she wasn’t sure why.

He seemed to be rather ridiculous, and yet for some odd reason, her feet didn’t want to move.

Instead, she walked farther into the room, picked up the book, and set it on a nearby table.

When she turned, she found that he was watching her again.

He held out his hand. “I’m Tatum. You must be Posey.

Your father’s spoken of you. He didn’t mention how beautiful you are. ”

“Why would he mention his daughter’s looks to a stranger?”

Tatum looked confused and then grinned. “Good point. He wouldn’t. That would be weird.”

She pushed her glasses up her nose. “Indeed.” They both stood there awkwardly, Posey searching for something to say.

“Would you like a slice of pie? Our cook just baked an apple crumble.” She wasn’t sure why she’d said it.

It’d just sprung to her lips before she’d considered it.

Perhaps she was ill. One of the first signs of a brain tumor is behavioral changes.

Thirteen percent of all new brain cancers are diagnosed in those under twenty.

But all Tatum said was, “I’d love some pie. Lead the way, Posey Kiss.”

Over the next few months, Posey and Tatum spent time together whenever his father was there conducting business.

Posey had told her father that she didn’t like people her age and they didn’t like her, but whenever she spotted Tatum’s father’s vehicle, she found herself heading in the direction of the library to seek him out.

Tatum looked at Posey as though she both amused and delighted him.

And he waited for her answer the same way her father did—with interest in his eyes.

But there was more than interest, and though Posey tried to categorize it, she was lacking in the ability to do so.

And he seemed intent on asking questions that she had no answers to.

“What takes your breath away, Posey?” he asked one icy winter day as they sipped hot chocolate in front of a cozy fire in the parlor.

Posey paused before lowering the mug she’d just sipped from.

The question confused her. But come to think of it, she did feel short of breath each time she was in Tatum’s presence.

In fact, she felt mildly lightheaded right that very moment.

Why was that? She set the mug on the coffee table in front of them.

“Health problems may cause shortness of breath,” she said, a deeper worry about her health taking up.

Perhaps it wasn’t a brain tumor. Maybe she was ill like her father.

The chances of that were low, but not impossible. “Ailments such as asthma—”

“No,” he said, leaning in, his blue eyes twinkling, “what sings to your soul?”

She wanted to answer him. She did. Intelligent people had come to her for answers to difficult questions all her life. “Urr ... a soul ... I don’t believe can interpret sound. The quantification is such ...”

Tatum leaned in and kissed her. His lips nibbled at hers, his tongue moving slowly over her parted mouth before he slowly drew away.

It was terrible and disgusting, and she wanted him to do it again. What was happening to her? If not a brain tumor, then what?

“Have you been in love, Posey?” he whispered.

“No. Why would I do that?” she whispered back.

Again, he laughed, but his laughter didn’t feel mean, not like Anton’s. “You’re beautiful, you really are.”

“My father says so, as you know. But my features aren’t proportional. One eye is a millimeter higher than the other.”

He reached up and gently removed her glasses and looked in her eyes. He blurred before her, a watercolor of blues and browns and golds. “Are you trying to talk me out of thinking you’re beautiful?”

“Err . . .”

Later, when she was alone, Posey brought her fingers to her lips and recalled the way his mouth had felt on hers. Why had she enjoyed it? Why did she like the way he confounded her? It made no sense. She did a few calculations, but without clear variables, no answers were forthcoming.