Page 70 of Touch

Her mouth tingles, but she nods. On three, she whirls away and hears his footsteps storm across the porch, the door slamming behind him while she charges through the woods.

Love has never cried before. Yet upon returning to the glass cottage, she studies her tear-streaked reflection in the glass, her maroon irises dark like a pair of bleeding hearts.

24

The next morning when Andrew’s house is unoccupied, Love inspects the first-floor windows. They’re locked, so she scales the wall, finding it laborious to balance her weight. By the time she reaches the upper story, she’s panting.

Love checks the primary suite windows, which are also bolted shut. Left with no other choice, she wrestles with the sash, prying the hinges from their sockets.

In his office, Andrew’s books stand with the front covers facing outward. From duologies to long series, he’s a prolific writer, having penned tales of magical beings such as faeries, vampires, dragons, and deities.

Two slices of paper occupy his desk—the note she’d torn in half. She remembers Andrew collecting them, clutching each scrap to his chest while wishing she didn’t exist.

Love sits cross-legged on his floor. This should take seconds, but she forgoes speed, working slowly like a mortal. As it is, she’s uncertain whether she’d be quicker otherwise. She is wilting because of him.

She tapes the pieces together, giving life back to his words. The page is repaired but scarred, a crease shearing across the leaflet like an artery. She rereads the narrative, overwhelmed by how he sees her.

Who is this Selfish Little Myth?

Love borrows one of his pens and writes her answer.

She’s someone who made a grave mistake.

Please forgive her.

She sets the note on his desk and leaves. In her cottage, she brews tea, and the fire refreshes itself. The flames’ height is a good sign that Andrew will be comfortable when he returns and they reach a truce. Soon, he’ll read her words and miss her as much as she misses him. He’ll trek across the snow, and in this secret place, he’ll have more things to say.

Love watches the sky expectantly as it shifts from light to dark. She listens for his footfalls, the rug where he once sat across from looking worn. Dipping her finger in the tea, she discovers its texture has changed, meaning it must not be warm anymore.

Andrew’s not coming back to her. Perhaps he’s called on Holly as he’d threatened to do. Perhaps the woman has invited him into her home. Perhaps he’s there now, making her laugh and wrapping his arms around her, spreading the woman’s thighs and overwhelming her with moans, each flick of his tongue wetting her slit. So perhaps Love’s work is almost done.

She gives up waiting, gives up hoping. She climbs into bed and curls into a shell.

And now she knows what regret feels like.

25

The sound of knocking intrudes upon her dream, followed by a door twisting on its hinges. She opens her eyes, rolls over—and tumbles off the bed. Swatting unkempt layers of hair from her face, Love bounds to her feet.

Andrew stands a few feet from her, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, his features a mask of anguish and his eyes bloodshot as if he hasn’t slept since their last encounter. Despite that, his mouth twitches sadly, affectionately, at Love’s lack of grace. His skin is pale from the cold, and that luxurious new coat spans the ramps of his shoulders.

Beyond the glass walls, netted branches quiver in the breeze, the sky a gentle shade of afternoon blue. It appears she has been snoozing all night and most of the day.

Backdropped by the solemn forest light, the mortal drinks in the sight of her. “I lied to you.”

Hello. Good afternoon.

No mannerly greeting. Though, she gives him due credit for the impertinence, for she has crept into more human windows without consent than the wind itself, which is a greater violation.

“Lied?” Love echoes, idling on bare feet.

“Lied,” Andrew confirms, his tone haggard. “I don’t wish I’d never met you. I hate that you’re in my head every waking second, but I also don’t want it to stop. Matter of fact, I’dsacrifice anything to meet you all over again, every day, just to relive that first glimpse of you.”

His inflamed eyes cling to hers. “Love… I’m sorry.”

Andrew’s plea breaks apart like a wrecking ball splitting rock. Instantly, that same cleaved rock wedges itself in her throat. Love has wounded him as much as he has her, yet she crosses her arms to form a shield, protecting her from additional impending wounds.

Nonetheless, she reflects, “Hate is a strong word.”

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