Only a Monster(Monsters #1)(9)

Joan’s chest hurt. I like him, she’d said to Ruth. But that wasn’t what she felt. When she’d met him, it was like she’d recognised him. Like she’d known him her whole life. And when he’d asked her out, she’d felt like a new part of her had opened up. She hadn’t even known she could feel like that.

The thought of leaving now—of never seeing him again—made her heart break. But she knew that she had to. She knew herself. She wouldn’t be able to lie to him. She’d already had a reckless urge to confess. She felt it still.

‘Joan,’ Nick said. They were standing so close. ‘Don’t,’ he said. There was something raw in his dark eyes. ‘Don’t just go.’ So he had guessed.

I have to, Joan thought. I don’t trust myself around you. I’m scared of what I’ll tell you. I’m scared of what I am.

But when he said, ‘Please,’ Joan found herself nodding.

Staff weren’t supposed to stay after hours. Joan felt strange about breaking that rule—she was usually a letter-of-the-law kind of person, and Nick was too. They retreated to the far end of the library to sit side by side on the bare wooden floor under the window—where they couldn’t damage anything.

Nick found a hazelnut Dairy Milk bar in his bag and laid down his jacket as an improvised picnic blanket. ‘Wouldn’t want to drop any crumbs,’ he said solemnly. His collar slid down as he smoothed out the jacket, and Joan tried not to look at his pale neck.

Nick’s fingers brushed against hers as he passed her the chocolate. Joan suppressed a flinch. She’d taken time from Mr Solt just by touching his neck. She would never forgive herself if she hurt Nick like that too.

By tacit agreement, they avoided the topic of yesterday. Instead they made halting small talk. ‘Were you gardening today?’ Joan said. It came out sounding as awkward as she felt.

There were a hundred unspoken questions in Nick’s eyes, but he answered her. ‘Still doing that audit for the insurance company.’ He’d been born in Yorkshire and still had a faint northern accent. It sounded stronger when he was tired. Joan could hear it now. ‘I catalogued that room you like—with all the little paintings.’

‘The Miniature Room,’ Joan said. It must have taken him ages to catalogue all the curios. That was a two-person job, and he’d had to do it alone today. No wonder he was tired. She looked down at the floor. Her guilt felt like a live thing inside her. She’d hurt Mr Solt yesterday. She’d hurt Nick. She might not have intended to, but she had. Was this what monsters did?

As they exchanged more awkward small talk, the air felt heavy with unspoken things. The conversation they weren’t having seemed louder than the one they were.

Joan drew her knees up. Around them, the house got quieter and quieter, until even the settling creaks of the floor seemed to still. They were the only ones left in the house.

Across the room, the late-afternoon sun splashed against the half-dusted painting. ‘I didn’t finish dusting the frame,’ Joan realised. There was half an hour of work left on it. ‘I’ll do it before we go.’

Nick’s voice was gentle. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’

Tomorrow. Joan didn’t know how to think about tomorrow. She could barely imagine tonight. She let her head fall back against the wall. The painting was nearly life-size, but from here it looked like one of the miniatures. It was a portrait of a man in Regency-era hunting clothes. He was standing under an oak tree, chin at a haughty tilt.

Nick followed Joan’s gaze. ‘Astrid calls him Hottie McTottie,’ he said, and Joan was surprised into a laugh. To be honest, though, she’d always thought the man in the portrait looked more cruel than anything. There was a corpse of a fox at his feet, and the tip of his shoe was on the fox’s neck. The artist had painted his eyes as cold and predatory. ‘They say he once owned the house,’ Nick said.

Joan pictured all the empty rooms around them. ‘Can you imagine what it must have been like when just one family lived here?’ she wondered. ‘So much space.’

Nick looked up at the ceiling: a series of skylights, interspersed with silver stars against evening blue. ‘I can’t imagine growing up here,’ he said. ‘My family had a tiny place when I was small. Eight of us in a two-bedroom flat.’ He sounded more relaxed as he said that—more like they were having a normal conversation.

‘Eight?’ Joan said, surprised. He’d spoken a little about his brothers and sisters before, but Joan hadn’t realised there were so many of them.

‘Three brothers and two sisters,’ he said. ‘My brothers and I all slept in the TV room until I was seven. But we didn’t mind. It was nice, you know? Cosy.’

‘Yeah,’ Joan said, thinking of when she stayed with Gran. She liked Dad’s serene house, but she liked living with the Hunts in summer too. She always had, anyway. She wasn’t sure how she felt now. She closed her eyes for a moment. The back of her throat felt tight with tears.

Nick hesitated. Joan could tell what he wanted to ask. She braced herself, dreading the question. But Nick just shifted slightly so that they were sitting closer, their arms touching.

They sat like that while Joan collected herself. ‘What’s your family like?’ she managed.

Nick hesitated again. She could feel his eyes on her. ‘We didn’t have much, growing up,’ he said. ‘My parents taught us to look after each other. To be good to each other. To help people in need. I believe it—I believe we should help people if we can.’ Someone else might have had a self-mocking tone—to show they knew it was hokey. But Nick just said it. Like he meant it.