Page 20 of My Lovely Tragedy
The smile that curves my lips is genuine—as is every smile he influences. “No apology necessary. I was finished anyway.”
“Yeah, uh. Okay.” He grasps his nape, head angled downward. “I wanted to ask if you’d wanna go on a walk?”
“A walk?”
“You repeat me a lot, you know,” he counters quickly, and my own lips twist further at his wit.
“Do I?” My fingers curl tighter around the doorknob.
Brooklyn rolls his eyes, the rude little thing. “Yeah. So?”
I leave his question hanging in the air for a moment as I ponder his… strange request. Not that anything about him is what I would deem ordinary. He is far from it, but I also do not wish to push any part of him when his presence here is willful at best.
“I’d love to. Let me get dressed, and I shall gather the proper attire.”
He shuffles back with a slight nod, eyes once again on the ceiling, before turning around and disappearing into the living room.
I close the door with a soft click, then turn and rest my back against it. I let my head fall against it as well, needing the support. The dull thud reverberates around the room, followed by a ringing silence.
My migraine—the one I have been fighting for nine days now—is finally at an all-time low. The aching pulse is still there—always there—lingering at my temples and behind my right eye. But for the first time, it’s more than bearable.
I have never been more thankful for a reprieve of pain.
The drag of the towel over my body is slow and deliberate, and the urge to rush lingers on the tip of my tongue, down to the ends of my fingers, but I withstand the impulse—if only because delayed gratification tastes much sweeter. And by the time I have pushed my glasses up my nose, the condensation has faded from the mirror and my curls no longer drip onto my shirt.
After searching through the hall closet, I find Brooklyn seated in the chair, dressed in his own clothes once more. I almost frown at the sight, feet nearly stumbling, before I manage to right myself—and my expression.
He glances up at the sound of my bare feet padding across the floor. I pin my focus to his shoulder as I say, “I found some winter attire in the hall closet. I’m not sure any of it will fit you comfortably, but I’m sure it shall fit regardless.” He nods his thanks as I hand over the garments in my hand. He readily avoids my touch—and my face.
I feel the separation filling the room. It’s cold—chilling to the bone. Swallowing the discomfort lodged in the back of my throat, I watch Brooklyn put my clothes over his own, deciding to forgo his blue jacket in trade for my thicker, black one. He tugs a black hat and matching gloves onto his hands, then rises to his full height. And I must admit, he still looks just as captivating in my clothes.
“Are you going out in that?” He gestures at my body with a half-limp arm. I follow the movement back to my crisp gray trousers and black button-up. “You look like you’re going to a funeral,” he mutters.
“Hmm.”Perhaps I am.
I turn on my heels, making my way to the front door. As I tug on my coat and gloves, my mind flickers back to when I had them on last—just mere days ago. Brooklyn no one but a stumbling, exotic stranger. Me, lost and unfulfilled.
Everything is different. And it’s all so uncertain.
Once we step out into the crisp afternoon air, everything around feels magnified in its intensity. The sharp cleanliness of the air. The untouched blanket of snow, sparkling in the sun’s rays.
I blink against the glare, ears homed in on the sound of our shoes crunching freshly laid snow. The trees are swathed in white, evergreen limbs hanging limp from the weight. Brooklyn’s warmth next to me comes in the form of vaporized breaths, increased in speed as the cold burns into his chest.
“Wow,” he utters, head cranking in every direction as we step off the stairs and sink into a drift. Ice slithers into my pants and down into my shoes, turning my blood to ice. And I don’t feel a moment of it as I watch him absorb nature in all its terrifying glory, never more untroubled with the aftereffects of a blizzard of this magnitude.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” My eyes are locked in a trance with Brooklyn’s features as the focal point, captivated by the glorifying effects of the sun’s light. Beams of gold crisscross over his face, magnifying the hidden red undertones in his blonde hair—even in his wonderfully long eyelashes. But beneath the surface, I notice the startling sharpness of his cheekbones. The gaunt indentation in the middle of his face, which should be filled with health, but is instead cast away…
I cock my head to the side, absentmindedly following Brooklyn as he traipses around my land, taking everything in. The shed is in the distance, but he veers off to the west, around the back of the cabin.
Pushing my glasses up my nose, fogging them over, I follow in his footsteps—a feeble attempt to avoid more snow falling into my shoes, but it’s in vain.
“The mountains. They look close enough to touch,” he breathes out in awe, fingers dancing in the air.
My eyelids flutter. “They are still a way out, believe it or not. But yes, I love how close they feel. Striking, really.” I scrape my fingers over the lined pocket at my side. “Have you ever been to the mountains before?”
He shakes his head, even before I’ve finished asking. “No. I’ve never really been anywhere.”
My brows furrow. “Surely you’ve been on tour? I mean, I would imagine so if you are in a band?” I phrase it as a question, prompting him to talk about his life more. I want—no, I need—to know everything I can.
