A Lesson in Thorns (Thornchapel #1)(23)

“You’re so—” he stops saying whatever it is he’s about to say and shakes his head at himself.

“What?” I ask with a laugh, still trying to pile all my winter shit onto the seat next to me.

“You’re so colorful,” he says. Quickly. “I mean with your cheeks being so flushed and your eyes being so green right now—”

He breaks off and looks away, his expression stony. Like Auden, he has a mask he wears too, except instead of Pouty Rich Boy, it’s Broody Poor Boy. I think about this while I finish wedging my coat through the back of the chair so it will stop sliding off. And when I look up again, there’s a faint ruddiness under the bronze of his cheeks, like he’s embarrassed.

Maybe that’s what draws me to Saint—the blush under the composure, the small signs that under his bitter aloofness is a river of dammed-up emotion threatening to break free.

“So there’s a meeting here tonight, huh?” I say in a small-talky kind of way while I glance at the menu.

“Yeah, the St. Brigid’s Day festival.”

“Sounds Irish to me.”

“St. Brigid is an Anglican saint too,” Saint says with the tired patience of someone who’s explained this before. “The village gets very into it, since the church is—” Saint waves a hand in the direction of the church, which is also named for St. Brigid.

“Well. A festival sounds fun,” I say, flipping the menu over. “I love festivals. And fairs. And carnivals. And parties.”

When I look back up, Saint is staring at me like I’ve started speaking in tongues. “Why?” he asks.

“Because they are fun and I like fun things. Easy question.”

He studies me, all sullen, sexy scrutiny, and I’m suddenly not sure what to do with myself, with my hands or my face or my eyes.

“I don’t think any questions are easy when it comes to you,” he says after a minute, and my heart climbs right out of my chest.

Everything is possible.

The moment hovers between us, him studying me and me dying to be more than studied, to be handled—and I know I should yank it all back down to earth, bring us back into real life.

“I heard about your mother,” I say out of nowhere and then wince inwardly. If I’m trying to coax Saint into being my friend—maybe even coax him into taking an unimportant, not-a-gateway step with me—bringing up a recent tragedy is probably not the way to do it.

But weirdly, my little outburst seems to anchor him. He slips into his pain like a familiar suit. “Yes,” he says. “It was last year. An infection.”

“God. I’m sorry.”

He lifts up a shoulder. “I’m heading up to the bar to order—do you want anything?”

“Yes, duh.” My food appetite is equal to my sexual appetite, and both are currently in full swing. “The pie please. And the mushroom starters. Oh, and bread!”

I almost get a real smile for all that. “Anything to drink?”

“Um, just a beer that’s not an IPA. Thanks!”

Saint goes to order for us, and I slide his book over to my side of the table. It’s a popular fantasy novel, and I page through until he gets back.

“We have a copy at the library,” he says, nodding to the book as he sets down our beers and sits. “You know, if you’re interested. It’s pretty good so far.”

I push the book back to him, take a sip of beer, and then blurt out, “Were you here when she got sick? I’m sorry to ask, just with my own mom . . . I don’t know, I’m morbidly curious, I guess.”

Saint’s clearly surprised that I’m taking us back to this, but it doesn’t seem to upset him. When he speaks, his tone is weary but level. “I was. When I was a teenager, I did—well, something happened—and I couldn’t bear to stay here any longer. So I went to live with my grandparents in Texas for the rest of school. I’d even started college there. But I think she was lonely, and she was struggling with money . . .”

“So you came back to her,” I realize.

“Middle of my sophomore year,” he says. “To help with bills. I’d been here two years by the time she got sick.”

“You put your life on hold to help her. That’s amazing, Saint. I think a lot of people wouldn’t have done that.”

“Yeah.” He takes a drink. A big one.

“So why are you still here?” I ask. “Why not go back to Texas and finish college?”

This question strikes a nerve, I can tell. He takes another drink, looks down at his glass. “I don’t know,” he says. “When I got here, I found the job at the library, and my dad’s brother is a contractor, so there was enough work to compensate for the library not paying much. And then I just kind of . . . fell into a life. And I guess that moving away, you know, after . . . after she’s died . . .”

He trails off, takes another drink.

“It makes it real,” I finish for him, thinking of my own mother. “If you leave, it makes it real.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you feel like your life is still on hold?” I ask.

Saint laughs—he actually laughs! And when he laughs, I can see that one of his front teeth is ever so slightly longer than the other. And the cleft in his chin smooths out, and his dark brown eyes sparkle. Life and spark hidden under all that winter cold.