Page 11 of Monsters
“So, one of the reasons we came to see you is because we have a question to ask you.”
I narrow my eyes and take a sip of wine. “Okay…”
Salem clears his throat and sits straight, loosening his tie and cracking his knuckles. Dear god, is henervous?
“We know how much you love Delilah,” he starts, looking at Lily. She nods, giving him an encouraging smile. He continues. “Well, we’ve been talking with our attorney about drawing up a will,” he adds. “Just… you know. To be sure she’s taken care of if something were to happen to us.”
I stare at them.
Lily interjects. “What Salem is trying to ask you is, would you be Delilah’s godmother?”
I almost choke on my wine. “Of course,” I say, without thinking. I love that kid more than I thought possible. “Yes, I’d be honored,” I whisper, my throat constricting.
Lily blows out a breath of air. “Oh, good. We weren’t sure what you’d say. I mean, both of you have your own lives here in England, so…” she trails off, and my face falls. She must realize her slip up, because she shoots Salem another look that saysfuckall over it. If Lily fails at one thing in life, it’s hiding her emotions.
“Both of us?” I ask, though I know who they’re referring to.
Lily licks her lips. “Well, yeah. Benedict would be her godfather.”
I place my palms on the table calmly, face down, and look at each of them. “Seriously? I’ve been your friend since we were kids. Why would you make Benedict godfather? What has he done for Delilah?”
Lily looks at Salem again, and I realize in an instant that they obviously still have a relationship with Benedict. He lives in London, and works in banking, and does very well for himself last time I heard. That’s probably who Salem was visiting today
“He comes to Paris for business,” Lily explains. “We see him every few weeks. And… he saved your life, Evelyn. We’ll always love and cherish him for that.”
I jump up. “Yes, I know he saved my life. I was there. But that doesn’t give him the green light to be a part ofmylife.” I look between them. “Look, I love Delilah. I would be honored to be her godmother. And I realize Benedict is the obvious choice for godfather, so I’ll accept that too. Though you do have two perfectly capable brothers,” I add wryly, looking at Salem. “But please don’t ask me to accepthiminto my life. His father raped me. Over. And over. And over,” I add, my breath hitching.This is the life you deserve, whore. Everyone will forget you. Now be a good girl and spread those legs.
Salem comes over and loops an arm around my shoulders. “We’re sorry if we upset you. Please, think about it for a few days. We can talk about it in more detail once we have the papers drawn up.” He looks at Lily. “Why don’t you bring the cookies over, love, and we’ll indulge in some sugar. That always cheers people up.”
I laugh and give Salem a hug. It’s endearing how much he loves sweets. He’s been salivating over the cookies since he came home. He’s not wrong too because a few minutes later, we’re laughing and dipping warm cookies into fresh milk, chatting about the wonderfully insane things Delilah does.
“And she wiped it—the poo—across my forehead,” Salem exclaims, laughing so hard that his face turns red. We join him, and Lily nearly falls out of her chair.
“It was in his hair,” she shrieks, cackling. “He smelled like poo for days.”
“That’s not true,” he says, pulling her onto his lap. “If it was, you didn’t seem to mind.”
They share a quick kiss, and I look at my glass of wine.Family.These two are my family, and the only time I ever felt just as cared for was with the very man who saved me. The man who stayed by my side. Watched over me.Rescued me.
Benedict.
The son of a monster.
I Want to Walk You Home
Evelyn Snow
London,Three Years Ago
London is similar to Paris in many ways. The smells—exhaust in the tube stations, fresh coffee and polyester permeating the air around the shops on Oxford street, rain-soaked cobblestone—can be likened to any major western European city. And yet, for being only a two-hour train ride away from Paris, it’s an entirely different universe. The grime that snakes up the brick buildings, the fog that pushes down on your shoulders, the squawks of the seagulls coming from the Thames. It’s close, and yet far enough away—from Paris, from my memories, from all of those animals.Those men.
One, in particular.
It’s different enough to make me believe that maybe, perhaps—today—this is the day I can start over.
Shoving my hands further into my sweatshirt pocket, I quicken my pace down St. Marten’s Lane, merging onto Charing Cross and past Trafalgar Square. Tourists swarm the plaza despite the mist that clings to my brows and lashes. Mist—or torrential rain, for that matter—doesn’t deter people in London. Locals utilize umbrellas—brollies—the round canopies of all sizes and colors move almost independently of their owners down the roads and sidewalks. It’s like a synchronized performance. And tourists know to expect rain, so they go about their days in waterproof sneakers and cheap, plastic ponchos.
I enter the crowded tube station, the smell of wet wool permeating the stale, salty air. My heart races, and I follow the snake of people through the turnstiles, passing my Oyster card through the reader. It beeps glaringly, the red error message obvious on the tiny screen. I don’t look around—I don’t care. Pocketing my empty card, I hop the turnstile, and someone shouts behind me. I jog away quickly, darting between people as I make my way to a random platform. People stare at me as I run to the very edge.
