All These Things I've Done (Birthright #1)(74)

‘Try not to speak. I miss her, too,’ Imogen said. ‘Would you like me to read to you a bit? It always helped your grandmother to sleep. I have one of my favourites with me.’ She held up her book so that I could see the title.

‘Isn’t that about an orphan?’ I asked. I hated those kinds of books.

‘You can’t avoid orphan stories, child. Every story is an orphan story. Life is an orphan story. We are all orphaned sooner or later.’

‘In my case, sooner.’

‘Yes, in your case, sooner. But you are strong, and God never gives us more than we can bear.’

I didn’t feel strong. I felt like burying my head under the covers and never coming out. I was so awfully tired. ‘Read your story if you must,’ I told Imogen.

‘“Chapter one,”’ she read. ‘“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day . . .”’

Aside from trying not to scratch, I didn’t do much of anything for the next five days. Because of my condition, I wasn’t even able to attend Nana’s wake. Scarlet and Imogen went with Natty in my place. I had told Scarlet to keep an eye out for Leo, too. (Scarlet had gotten lucky and managed not to catch my pox. Oddly, the only other person at school who had gotten them was Mr Beery.)

I didn’t feel particularly bad about not being able to go to Nana’s wake. In theory, I understood wakes – they were about respect for the living as much as they were about respect for the dead. It was the emotional-displays-in-public-venues part that I had trouble with. At Daddy’s funeral, for instance, I had felt observed, and by observed I suppose I mean judged. It wasn’t enough to be sad inside. You had to look sad for other people. While I was sorry to subject my brother and sister to such scrutiny, I was grateful that my pox had given me an excuse not to go. I had been to plenty of funerals in my sixteen years already.

I helped my siblings pick out wake clothes: an old black tie of Daddy’s for Leo, an old black dress of mine for Natty. Just before noon, Imogen and Scarlet showed up to meet my siblings. Finally, I was alone with my red spots, which I did my best not to worry. Aside from being itchy and unattractive, I did not feel especially unwell. A touch after noon, the doorbell rang. It was Win, whom I had not seen since the afternoon he’d discovered me on the bathroom floor. I still looked terrible. What was particularly annoying about that was how wonderful he looked. He was wearing a long olive-green coat that might have belonged to a soldier who had served in an arctic clime. His hair was a bit damp – he must have showered before coming over – and parts of it were even frozen into little spikes on account of how cold it was outside. And yes, the spikes were adorable. ‘I’ve brought something for you,’ he said after I’d let him in. He reached into his deep pockets and produced four oranges. ‘Your favourite.’

I took one and pressed it up to my nose.

‘My mother’s rooftop experiments are starting to bear fruit,’ he joked. ‘This is called a Cara Cara orange. It’s pink on the inside and incredibly sweet.’

He moved to kiss me, and I moved away. ‘Aren’t you afraid I’m contagious?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘I’ve had them.’

‘Still, people do get chickenpox a second time. And—’

‘I won’t get them a second time,’ he insisted.

I moved even further away from him. ‘How can you want to kiss me? I’m completely disgusting right now.’

‘Not completely,’ he said.

‘I am. I’ve seen myself in the mirror and I know.’

He laughed at me. ‘All right,’ he said finally. ‘I’m not here to force myself on you. I figured you’d want company while everyone else was at the visitation. Look, I’ll even peel your orange for you.’

I told him that I could peel my own orange.

‘Not with those,’ he said, indicating the cotton gloves that Imogen had insisted I keep wearing. He put his hand over my gloved one and squeezed it. I became aware of my heart in my chest. I needed to end things with him.

We went into the living room. He sat down on the larger sofa, which was upholstered in brown velvet. I curled up next to him, resting my head against his ribs. He started to run his fingers through my hair, which annoyed me, but I didn’t say anything. My hair is curly and prone to frizz, so I’d usually rather people didn’t touch it. I was glad for the annoyance, which I found fortifying in a way. See, I thought, he isn’t perfect. If I could focus on this one annoying thing he did, maybe I could end it.

I sat up on the sofa. Then I got up and moved to the red chair.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

I knew that it would be better to tell him that it wasn’t working out, that we weren’t compatible, that there wasn’t always a reason for these things. Unfortunately, I didn’t do this. ‘Win,’ I said. ‘You can’t be my boyfriend right now.’ I laid out my case to him just as I already have to you: I really, really liked him (NB: I did not use the word love.) but my family was more important than my feelings, and now that my grandmother was dead, I couldn’t risk having his father in my life, etc.

And then he talked me out of it. Or maybe I let myself be talked out of it. Maybe I wanted to be talked out of it. He told me that he loved me and I loved him and that was the most important thing. He told me that I didn’t get to make this decision by myself. He told me that his father wouldn’t bother with me and that he could control his father if his father ever tried to interfere with my family. (Even then, I knew this to be a ridiculous lie – I mean, I had met Charles Delacroix.) He told me that love was the only thing that really mattered in this world. (Another lie.)