Page 86 of Torn

It’s not that much different from now.

No, that’s not true. He knows she exists now. A few days ago, he’d called out to her, his voice filtering through brick and mortar, crossing the distance and gusting through her head.

The wreckage of his speech clutters her mind.

Your greatest wish isn’t to be loved–it’s to give love.

And all he wants is to deserve you.

Maybe that means her words in Midnight Park had stayed with him, too. Maybe she’d actually had a lasting effect.

Maybe it’s too late.

What’s the point in fighting for this? What’s the point, after what she saw in that bookish corner, ensconced among mythical anthologies?

She’ll rise above this travesty and find another way back to the Peaks. Even if she never loves again, she’ll find a way.

Merry’s treacherous thoughts sneak back to his message, the sad declaration and how she’d almost believed him. He had communicated all the sentiments that she’d ever wanted to hear, a monologue that had scattered her heart all over the floor. There was a time when she’d made it her goal to know more about him than anyone. It seems, he’d pursued the same with her.

Standing before the full-length mirror, Merry inspects her features, angling her profile in the reflection, embossed in blushing neon. So this is what a woman scorned looks like. This is the vision of a thwarted heroine.

A frumpy T-shirt dress hangs off her like a willow tree, the hem swinging to her knees. Knit socks cover her feet, chunky and scrunched at the ankles, her toes wedged into the cloud slippers. Comfort clothes, because no drenched soul is ever comforted by tulle, no matter how pretty. She’ll choose a dignified ensemble in the morning—a power outfit. But for now, she just wants fluffy cotton.

The walls of her sanctuary flash. Scythes of lightning slice through the double doors, turning the garret into a short-circuiting bulb. Sheets of rain lash at the panes, obscuring the deck, the downpour smashing into the world.

It’s been like this for days. Merry resents the claustrophobia, and she’s concerned, because Anger is afraid storms.

Where is that god? Is he taking shelter with Malice?

Or is he chasing the unattainable? Is he shadowing Love?

Merry grinds her teeth and hikes up her chin. She levels a finger at her reflection and lectures, “No, Merry. Not anymore.”

He can take care himself. And so can she.

Perhaps she needs to disinfect herself, now that her kindreds have departed. Envy, Sorrow, and Wonder had enveloped Merry in her time of need and then left the observatory, questing from the Celestial City to parts unknown. So yes, a ritualistic cleansing is in order.

Such a benefit that she cannot feel the cold, yet such a shame. Kicking off her slippers and socks, she opens one of the sanctuary doors and pads across the deck.

The gales batter her hair, and the ferns, and the votives, and the globe mobile. Standing at the center, she lets the shower drench her, her dress reduced to cellophane around her body, her hair matted to her scalp. Miniature tributaries race down her skin as she spreads her arms, craning her head backward. She lets the squall drain away the past and replenish her.

Two things occur to Merry. One, she and that rage god have grown up under different skies, those canopies separated by the stars yet connected by them.

Two, they’re under the same sky now. Literally now.

Merry’s arms fall to her sides. Swallowing rain, she turns.

He’s standing beneath the trellis shrouded in ferns, the entrance to his makeshift room. Because the glass doors are closed, he’s sodden from head to toe, just like her. His shirt suctions to his torso, a toned bulk of muscles that swell with every inhalation. The deluge plasters his long dark hair to his face, his expression twisted with apologetic ferocity.

He doesn’t look afraid of the weather. Not tonight.

From across the deck, they stare at each other. Merry doesn’t know what her face reveals, but it’s nothing that encourages him to stride forward. Even while her pulse pounds, a riotous beat that rivals the tempest, a resilient goddess would require groveling. After which, she’d march off, saunter off, brush him off. Her irrationally poetic ways have only flawed and weakened her.

She will be stoic, because that’s what makes a tough deity.

That’s the best course of action. That’s what she’ll do.

Her eyes may be pooling, because she can feel them pooling, but that has to be the rivulets. The last time they were saturated like this, they’d been groping one another inside her shower. He must be thinking the same thing, because his eyes simmer, then skim the dress stuck to her form, each curve accentuated.

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