Packing to leave Atlanta is a lot easier than packing to come here. We bundle most everything up in our bedsheets and cram clothing into duffel bags, leaving the rugs and thrift store findings to whoever the next tenant may be. We leave the next morning, Scarlett waving a sarcastic farewell to the junkie downstairs before we take of in the hatchback, pop music blaring and me leaning toward Silas, both to avoid the door of death and to rest my head against his biceps.
Ellison hasn’t changed, unsurprisingly. Buildings here are yellow and pale gold instead of harsh steel and silver. Trees dapple the sunlight across the car. The air is warmer, like loving arms that swirl around me for comfort. It’s so good to be home.
Oh god. Screwtape, I hate you.” I cry and laugh in the same breath as I trudge toward them. My clothes are covered in dirt as I trudge toward them. My clothes are covered in dirt and my hair is matted, but I don’t care. I peer through the basket bars at Screwtape, who looks at me as though I’ve betrayed his trust. I rise and meet Silas’s gaze. “Thank you, Silas,” I say, though the words are quieter than I mean. Something buzzes within me, stirs around in my chest enticingly.
“Of course,” he murmurs. His eyes are heavy on mine, his gaze pulling me in. He licks his lips nervously and runs a hand through his hair. Screwtape howls out as the rain increases, droplets clinging to Silas’s lashes and running over his lips. Why am I noticing his lips? I brush my hair behind my ears as the heavy rain drowns out the sounds of the city on the other side of the fence.
“Rosie,” he says, or maybe he just mouths the word. He takes hold of my fingertips, and this time I move my hand and interlace my fingers with his. Silas inhales, as if he’s going to say something else, like he wants to say something else, but instead he pulls me to him, closing the distance between us until his chest brushes mine with every breath. His body is warm, and the feeling of being against him and feeling heat from his skin makes me light-headed.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, but doesn’t break away from me.
“Why?”
“Because there’s something I have to do,” he says, voice velvety soft. Silas unwinds his fingers from mine and reaches up, wiping the raindrops off my face with the palm of his hand as the stirring in my chest spreads through my whole body, pounds in my veins, begs to be released. I put my hands against his chest as if I know what I’m doing, and he finally leans forward and tilts my chin upward gently.
His lips meet mine, tentatively at first, then hungrily, and I clutch at his shirt as if holding on to him will keep me from floating away into the thunderhead above. His hands run down my back, and one rests on my hip while the other tugs me closer, until I think I could melt into him because nothing has ever, ever felt so right.
I love her!” he shouts, slamming his hands against the kitchen table. “You know I love her, Lett. You know I can’t just stay here.”
I don’t know that. I don’t know what it’s like to be in love. But I can’t possibly deny the fire in Silas’s eyes, the firm set of his jaw, the knowledge that I’ll never be able to keep him from going to her.
Rosie laughs. She reaches around Silas’s neck—he looks taller, older than normal—and twirls the hair at the nape of his neck around her fingers. His arms circle her waist protectively, one hand half hidden beneath her silk shirt as it rests on the tiny, smooth small of her back. Everything about them is silky and gleaming, all smooth skin and shiny hair and languid voices.
Jackson PearceI can’t pinpoint what exactly it is until Silas steps behind my sister and delicately runs his fingers through her hair, his handle gentle as if he’s touching a priceless jewel. Rosie blushes as he leans into her and whispers something in her ear that makes her lips curve up in an elegant smile. I recognize the look in Silas’s eyes—adoration.
Jackson PearceNo importa si no te entienden, lo que importa es que tengas el valor de decirlo.
Jackson PearceTags: inspirational bravery understanding talk
The air feels sugary and thick, between the coffee steam and the music, and I forget to notice time passing, hours passing.
Jackson PearceThe song sounds like the ocean- it rises and falls, notes splash forward and harmonize with the sea behind me.
Jackson PearceYou don't need to explain. This is your house too-you can go where you want," I reply. I smile as best as I can. "Except my room, of course."
"Why, you'll stab me with a kitchen knife if I do?" she jokes as I set the knife down onto Oma March's bedside table.
"Maybe," I answer.
Tags: humor answer table knife oma
Please, Jonas. Men got brute strength and size. Women got hot bodies and steel-trap minds. It's our leg up in your little male-dominated society.
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