Page 79 of Torn

“Don’t say that,” he entreats.

“Don’t say it?” She throws out her arms. “Very well, I’ll shout it. I love you!”

“I don’t want that!” he bellows, shaking the trees, their mottled lights jostling.

When the echo fades, Merry’s arms sink. She sighs, her mouth quirking into a wobbly, livid grin. Then she cups his sharp face. “I know you don’t. Would you like to hear what else I know? You were born in a flashing star. A star too fierce to be shackled. A star that once wanted to break loose from the sky.

“You’re not just afraid of snowstorms, but of all storms, so you take solace in mineral caves. You’re a god of rage and restraint, of still waters and heartbreak. You have trouble admitting things, but when you do, it’s all or nothing. You let it out like thunder.

“You’re not afraid to be wrong, but you hardly ever believe you’re wrong. You find strength in iron more than in yourself. You trust tradition and distrust change. You scoff at theme parks, yet you take carnival ride selection as seriously as you take astral law. You hate sleeping in hammocks because you hate instability, yet you’re the most ungrounded person I’ve ever met. Your favorite color is blue. Your greatest wish isn’t to have your power back—it’s to make memories.” Merry’s voice cracks. “Does she know all that?”

He stares at her, astonishment giving way to anxiety. “Merry, please…please, wait.”

“Good-bye, Anger,” she says.

Hopping onto the board, she skates past him and glides through the park, away from his helpless frame. She senses him vaulting around, watching her leave.

But he doesn’t pursue her. And she’s glad.

The farther she gets, the steadier she feels, the more she cries.

***

Merry stomps into her sanctuary and hurls herself onto the bed, where she proceeds to weep for something close to eternity. She’s kept it inside, the turmoil clogging her throat, but she can let it out now. And she does.

Midday casts a mournful gloom, a pallor that melds with the neon words scattered across the walls. She should play a record, the perfect album to match this rejection, fraught with an abundance of strings and midtones. Yet she can’t even bring herself to stand.

Her pillows are her friends, fluffy companions that catch her tears. She’s being dramatic, but if there’s a time for theatrics, it’s today. And if there’s a time to compose herself, it’s also today.

He has stolen enough from her and doesn’t have the right to additional incentives. He doesn’t have the right to wring self-pity from her.

Merry wipes her nose with her arm, drags herself off the mattress, and slogs to the record player. Once a soothing ballad floats through the room, she returns to her bed, flopping onto her back.

Somebody taps against the double-doors leading to the deck. With it, the compassionate sachet of wildflowers flows into the space. Familiar with the fragrance, Merry’s damp voice calls out,“The stars burn brightly for lovers.”

“We need to come up with a new code, dearest,” a wry voice answers from the other side of the glass.

“The stars burn brightly for lovers!”

“Oh, fine.” With a weary sigh, the voice recites,“‘But not for the enemy.’”

When Merry bids entry, the partition creeks open, and Wonder pokes her head inside. A bouquet of locks cascades over her shoulder. A woodland-green dress wreaths around her body, the chiffon spilling off her curves and brushing the tops of her unshod feet.

Merry has only seen Wonder in harem pants, which suits her. But this drapery is correspondingly pretty, the aerial folds consoling to the eye.

Wonder closes the door and leans against the glass, listening to the second track curl through the garret. Her look of sympathy pulls more droplets from Merry’s ducts.

What was the goddess doing in the library? Had she known Anger would be there? Had she known Love would be there?

Wonder shakes her head. “I’m your friend, Merry. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Merry mashes her face into the down, her words muffled. “I believe you, kindred.”

Anger is the one whom she can’t trust anymore.

Footfalls venture across the floor, and the bed sags beneath Wonder’s rump. For a while, they’re content to absorb the instruments whirling from the player, the needle scratching a gloss of vinyl. Merry hears the disc spinning, revolving in a journey to nowhere, running itself out until it just stops.

Wonder’s hand floats to Merry shoulder. “Dearest—”

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