Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(46)
SEVENTEEN
For the next two days, I’m on my best behavior. When all my instincts urge me to go see Andrew, or return to the mines, or hunt down Dr. Stern, or sit outside Nate Foster’s house, I stay where people think I belong. I do it for them. Missy, Saul, Briana, Georgie. Maybe it was seeing my friend’s parents so happy, or telling Revenge that he’s the only choice for me. Ultimately, Nate Foster is the one who’s supposed to suffer the most. So the least I can do is give my loved ones a respite, a few days of peace. Nothing is over, though. It feels like the stillness before a storm, when the sky is yellow and roiling and you know something is coming.
On Monday night I’m lying on the couch, putting on a show of reading a book for school. My aunt went to bed an hour ago, and Saul is on his way home from a tuning, but I still don’t move. Part of me wishes this was real, the tentative surrender. The false contentment. They’re starting to trust me again, I can see it. I want to have these days to remember when everything ends.
“You haven’t turned a page in five minutes.”
He stands across the room, watching me with his dark eyes. As usual, he’s wearing that white T-shirt, and his hair looks casually mussed like he’s just rolled out of bed. But that’s impossible, since they don’t sleep. For the first time I’m envious of something from the other plane: they don’t receive unwanted visits from Dream.
I close the book, marking the spot with my thumb. “I know for an absolute fact that I didn’t summon you, intentionally or otherwise,” I comment. I haven’t been tempted to think of Forgiveness since I saw my father.
“You didn’t.”
I frown. “Then why are you here?”
Oddly, Forgiveness ignores this. I catch him studying our surroundings with interest. The ancient carpet, the worn furniture, the framed photos of our family on the wall next to the kitchen doorway. It occurs to me that he’s never been in the apartment before. I start to repeat the question when he asks, “What are you reading?”
If I didn’t know any better, I would think that he’s trying to change the subject. I appraise him as I answer, “I’m trying to read To Kill a Mockingbird. It’s for a class, and I’m so behind I don’t know why I even bother.” My voice is low, to ensure Missy won’t hear us over the running fan in her room.
He walks along the edge of the room, hands shoved in his pockets. I try not to compare them, but it’s impossible. Where Revenge has always seemed out of place in the mundaneness of my world, Forgiveness … fits. He may be the beautiful one, with his sculpted lips and high cheekbones, but he doesn’t have that restless energy that makes Revenge so otherworldly.
“ … a good story,” Forgiveness says. I blink, realizing that I missed the first part of the sentence.
“You’ve read it?”
Forgiveness smiles faintly and stops beside me. I have to crane my neck to look at him. “As a matter of fact, I have. I’ve read many of your world’s books.”
“Why?” It’s awkward, him standing so close and me taking up the whole couch. But he’s too polite to sit and I’m too stubborn to let him.
Seemingly unaffected, Forgiveness tilts his head and examines the cover of the book on my lap. “I find them interesting.”
Silence. Telling him to leave has never worked before, and secretly I don’t want him to. Tonight I find his presence more soothing than conflicting. I don’t have to put up a fa?ade or try to say the right things. So I clear my throat and tuck my legs under me, putting the book face-down by my feet. “Will you … do you want to … ”
As an answer, Forgiveness picks the book up. He settles onto the cushion, which only indents slightly at his weight. That minty smell teases my senses. He adjusts his position until he’s nearly slouching, then opens the spine wider. Though I try to put some distance between us, I find myself admiring the elegance of his jaw. Then I realize he’s about to read.
“Wait, what are you doing?” I cut in.
Forgiveness raises his brows, as if to say, Isn’t it obvious? He shifts, effectively moving closer to me. And in that gentle voice, he begins.
Arguments and protests rise up within me. This is too strange, he shouldn’t be here, I don’t want him here. But he keeps going, undeterred by my discomfort, and I gradually realize that none of it is true. For a few minutes I remain stiff, uncertain. It’s an unstoppable force, though—his deep, calming timbre lulls me into a place between reality and dreams. Any lingering sense of uneasiness around Forgiveness fades away. He smells so good, like mint and kindness and sleep. I let my eyes flutter shut. Eventually the story, the room, and the Choice fades into nothing.
The sound of voices ripples through the apartment. I sit up. Dad must be home. He sounds angry again. Mom sent me to bed a while ago, and I know I should be asleep, but I slip out of bed and tiptoe to the door, putting my ear to the wood. “If you don’t stop this, you’re going to lose us. Do you understand? I’m not going to be like the other women in this town,” Mom shouts-whispers.
The floor creaks as they both walk by. Shadows move over the crack of light by my feet. Something clatters and I jump. They go into their room, and Dad rumbles something I can’t hear. Mom answers. Brief snatches and phrases drift to me.