Page 15 of My Lovely Tragedy
The sunlight, now long past its highest point in the sky from the hours that have passed us by, illuminates the room in a golden radiance fit for Brooklyn’s ethereal beauty.
Picturesque and damning.
My eyes fall to the gleam of light scattered across the wooden floors. I trace the pattern within the wood grain.
“No.”
“No?” I parrot, startled.
“I’m tired.”
I blink a couple of times, raising my head to peer in Brooklyn’s direction. I nod, lips curling in. “Of course.” I glance at the clock on the far wall, noticing it’s nearing proper evening hours.
The day has passed gently, in long notes of inexperience and confusion, washed in strange comfort and familiarity. A fitting end to the year, with a gentle ease into the next.
“I don’t have a guest room, only my loft.” I lift my head, referencing the large space at my back. Brooklyn follows with his eyes, chin lifting as he raises his head. He follows the path of the ladder, eyes skimming over what must be the small railing across the perimeter. “But you are welcome to sleep up there. I can take the sofa.”
He scoffs, making my lips twitch in amusement. “Don’t be daft. I can sleep on the couch, Tobias.”
My eyelids flutter at the facile use of my name. “But you’re my guest, so I must insist. Only need to grab a few things.” I turn away and climb up, each step sure and without thought.
Once both feet are firmly planted at the top, I glance over my shoulder, noticing Brooklyn’s still seated where he was, knees to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. His golden hair hangs over his shoulders in smooth, messy tendrils, the ends split and dry, but the small imperfections only make himmore so.
“Are you coming?” I ask. Brooklyn’s top lip curls as he pushes himself to his feet.
“No,” comes a muffled grunt before his footsteps echo across the floor and he’s ascending the ladder.
The moment the crown of his head comes into view, I spin around in search of my laptop and leather-bound journal. His feet thud, heavier than the usual amount of pressure he uses, and I huff in amusement.
It’s all so unusual, surreal in every aspect. He shouldn’twantto be here or even be as perceptive as he is, but aside from his occasional, slightly impertinent comments, he has been receptive.
I wonder why. And how long I will have.
I feel his eyes on my back, heavy and intense as I tuck my laptop and journal in my arm, pen locked between my pointer finger and thumb. “Feel free to use anything you need.” I pause, drag my finger over my bottom lip. “Hmm.” I tuck a stray curl behind my ear as I rove my gaze around the room. “I don’t have a television, but there is a radio. And notebooks. Pens.”
“What do I need a notebook or pen for?” he asks flippantly. My lips purse.
“Just offering in case you cannot sleep.” Brooklyn harrumphs but leaves it at that.
“There are clothes in the wardrobe if you’d like to change.”
“Your clothes don’t exactly fit me,” he says, dragging his hand down his body in reference. I follow the movement greedily, taking in the way my clothesdolook on him. I’m taller and more lean, whereas he has bouts of more defined muscle and is a few inches shorter, but they don’t look bad on him.Of course,they don’t.
“I think you look lovely.” Brooklyn rears back slightly. I clear my throat. “But I do see what you mean.” I pull open one of the bottom drawers. “In here are sweatpants and things of the like. I will make sure your other clothes are clean by tomorrow, so you can be comfortable. I don’t usually run the washer and dryer when the generator is on, but it’s no problem,” I say as a way of explaining why he doesn’t have his clothes back. Like it has nothing to do with the fact I love seeing him wear my things.
Brooklyn steps up beside me. Our shoulders bump, and I stiffen on instinct. He leans away and shoves his hands in his pockets after tucking his hair behind his ear. I watch him in my peripheral. It’s darker up here with only the lamp light from downstairs illuminating the space, but I can still see the rough texture of his facial hair and the strong outline of his jaw as he grinds his teeth.
“This is fine. Thanks.”
I nod. “There is medicine in the bathroom cabinet if your headache persists.”
He huffs but nods, the corner of his mouth giving a small twitch. I swallow one last greedy glance before turning away. With one hand, I descend, ignoring the way my skin crawls at being watched. Because Brooklyn is watching me—Ifeelit.
And sure enough, when I allow myself a final look just as my eyes disappear with a step downward, Brooklyn’s gaze is pinned securely on my face.
He looks angry, if not a little tired. But I’m not sure if that is a pure reflection of what he is feeling or if that’s just his face.
As my feet hit the floor, I call up, “If you get hungry, there will be a plate in the fridge.” I don’t wait for a response because I do not expect one.
