Page 52 of Queen of Ruin

I clasp my hands behind my back while I walk behind the desk. I’d been thinking about that for a while now. “I don’t know yet. I just have to pass the Bar first, and then I’ll figure it out.”

“If I can pass the exam to get my series seven, then I’m sure you can pass the Bar because let’s face it, I was never a good student, and you never lived up to your potential,” he reminds me.

I laugh and sit on the edge of the desk with my arms crossed over my chest. I’ve taken the last two days off studying because of the holiday and having guests, but I find myself itching to get back at it again.

“February will be here before I know it,” I sigh, picking up one of the law books and turning it over in my hand. “I will not be one of those fucks who has to take the Bar three times to pass like Rori Colton.” I drop the book back on the desk making a loud slap noise.

“Who’s Rori Colton?” Alistair takes a seat in one of the chairs.

“He’s the candidate Rausch is backing to take my father’s empty seat in Congress.”

“You knew this would happen,” he reminds me.

I sit behind the desk, picking up a pen and turning it over between my fingers. “Do you ever feel like life is happening around you, but you’re not part of it?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

I set the pen down and rest my forearms on the desk. “Our whole lives have been planned out for us - what preschool we went to, Cotillions, charity events, and Georgetown,” I scoff. “We were legacies. It was shoved down our throats of what a privilege it was, and maybe it was, but legacy only means that you don’t have a choice.”

“I don’t disagree, Dare,” Alistair laughs.

“You were always better at accepting your fate than I was.”

20

BECAUSE HE LOVED YOU

EVANGELINE

The cold air makes my lungs burn, and I can actually see my breath, tiny puffs of air suspended in front of me for only a second until they disappear. It’s not something I’m used to. Twigs and pine needles litter the trail, snapping and bending under my feet. Through the thick layer of pines up ahead, I can see pieces of the lake reflecting the clouds.

Today is the first day since we arrived at the lake house that it’s been cloudy, and I’m enjoying it.

Yesterday, I said goodbye to Cleo and hugged her in the driveway before she got in the car that took her to the airport, all while Alistair complained about the long drive back to Georgetown.

You won’t be back, she’d said.

I run harder, pushing my legs faster. The clouds darken, covering up the sun, and in the thick woods, it makes the forest gloomy.

That boy is in love with you.

I shake my head at the word boy. Maybe he was a boy when I met him – a boy who had lost his parents, drunk-quoting Emerson, and looking like a sad, tragic, beautiful boy that was nothing but trouble.

The problem was… I liked trouble.

Love.

I didn’t believe in it.

With the house now coming into view, I push myself harder, wanting to finish the three-mile loop faster than I had the day before, because the more my lungs burn and the more my calves ache, the less I feel on the inside. As soon as I get to the clearing, I come to a stop and drop to my knees in the grass.

My heart pounds against my chest as if it were trying to burst through. The sky is full of tiny falling snowflakes that hit my cheeks and settle on my eyelashes until I blink them away. It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

I stand, pressing my palms against my thighs to catch my breath before standing upright. The snow melts the minute it hits the ground, but it makes the clearing look like a shaken snow globe. I can’t explain the pure delight that I feel in this moment, and when I look toward the house, I find Darren standing on the deck watching me.

The damn butterflies in my stomach refuse to listen to my head.

As Darren approaches, he shoves his hands into his pockets to save them from the chilly air, and the snow settles in his messy dark hair. He looks up at the sky and the falling snow. “Announced by all the trumpets in the sky/arrives the snow…” he leaves the rest of the Emerson poem unsaid, and it never ceases to amaze me how he can pull a quote or a full poem from his memory for just the right occasion.

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