Page 365 of Phobia
Maybe I was both.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
My question seemed to disarm him. “Why?”
“So, you won’t be a stranger anymore.”
He angled his body toward me, and I could see his lips hitch. His sly smile had an addictively playful quality that made my stomach vibrate.
“Bastien Baron.”
Bastien.The name suited him. Formal yet eccentric. It meant “revered.” He certainly seemed like a man who commanded respect easily.
“Hello, Bastien. I’m Rosalie.”
He took a moment to let my name simmer on his tongue. “Rosalie, the songbird. Got a nice ring to it.”
I tucked my hair behind my ear, my own nervous habits surfacing.
The silence of the night filled the space between us. Minutes passed by without another word uttered.
“Iamrunning,” I finally said, shattering the quiet.
Bastien sucked on his cigar, waiting for an explanation.
“My father’s an alcoholic,” I admitted aloud.
Maman and I knew perfectly well what he was, but we hadn’t dared to speak about it publicly. Papa was our only source of income, and his job as a metalsmith paid well enough for us to always have food. If the village ever found out that Hugo Légaré was a raging alcoholic, they’d take their business elsewhere. Our Catholic community was deeply God-fearing; they would have nothing to do with a sinner like Papa.
“He likes to drink, or he drinks too much?” Bastien asked. “Because there’s a difference.”
“He drinks too much,” I clarified, shifting on the ground. “Then he gets scary.”
“Ain’t nothing can scare yeh. Y’er the one sitting in a cemetery at night.”
He had a point. “People scare me. These guys”—I waved to the sea of tombstones— “they’re calm. The living are not.”
His head shook side-to-side as he looked at the cigar in his fingers. “Wouldn’t be so sure of that.”
“Huh?” I wasn’t sure what he meant.
“Nothin’.”
I let it go. “Where do you live?”
“Here and there.” His answer was so curt, it was as if he didn’t want to tell me.
“That’s vague.”
“Maybe I don’t wanna share with strangers.” He pushed the cigar back between his lips and looked up at the stars.
My eyes bounced between him and the glittering orbs as I tried to figure out what he was searching for. “We’re not strangers anymore, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember. So, yeh going back home tonight?” His voice carried a testy edge to it, unlike before. I was irritating him.
“I don’t know.” My original plan had been to spend the night here, but I didn’t want to admit to him that I slept in cemeteries.
“That’s fine. Knowin’ is overrated,” he offered.
