Page 115 of The Pansy Paradox
I right the stand and then go collect my umbrella. I don’t return her to the others. Instead, I climb the stairs and lock myself in the bedroom. There, in my closet, I find my mother’s umbrella. We cling to each other, the three of us.
“See?” I tell the red rose one. “Sometimes it’s best to let children make their own mistakes.”
I am showered, presentable, or mostly so, and wondering how long I can hide in my room when the doorbell chimes. A knock follows, loud and obnoxious, then the creak of the front door opening. A voice booms up the stairs, one that takes me back to summers at the Academy.
“Anyone home?”
I fly from my room and take the stairs two at a time until I’m three steps from the bottom. There, I leap, without thought and with the utmost trust that Mortimer Connolly will catch me.
He does, pulling me tight against his chest, one hand cupping the back of my head, the other, still clutching his umbrella, around my waist. Mort is a Norse god of a man, complete with dirty blond hair and eyes to match the brilliant blue sky.
“Pansy-Girl, Pansy-Girl. I just heard. I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry. You know Jack and I loved Rose as well.”
His umbrella’s canopy flutters against my spine as if it, too, could console me.
“Have you told him?” My question is muffled against Mort’s chest, but he answers anyway.
“Yeah. He could barely—” Mort shakes his head as if he can barely as well.
“Is he okay?” Jack loves my mother, maybe as much as I do. His sense for connections means when one is lost, he feels it deeply. He once told me it was like watching a favorite constellation wink out of the night sky.
“You know how Jack is. He’ll call later, I’m sure.” Mort eases me to my feet. “More importantly, how are you?”
I nod, which is becoming my go-to response. What can I say? Untangling the events of the last few months, untangling the grief—over and over again—has me balancing on a precipice. There’s my version of events, and the one Henry’s invented for the Enclave, and keeping my mouth shut seems the best course of action.
“You sure?” He peers down at me, hair swooping across his forehead, and then cups my cheek with his free hand. “Because you can sit this one out. You can head upstairs, and I’ll keep the tea and snacks coming. You have my full permission as response team lead to check out completely.”
“I don’t want to check out.”
“I didn’t think you would, but the offer stands.”
The soft tap of high-end heels on the hallway’s hardwood floor has Mortimer tensing ever so slightly. He nods at the presence next to us.
“There you are, Gwennie.”
“Mortimer.” His name stretches her voice taut, a fine wire of a thing that, if real, might double as a garrote.
“Thanks for waiting at the airport.”
She gives a cavalier shrug. “The arrivals board said your flight was delayed. I thought it best to drive straight here.”
“Things well in hand, then?”
“As best as can be expected under the circumstances.”
“And Darnelle?”
“Recovering.”
My gaze pings back and forth during this exchange. Something feels off, something I can almost taste, a thick and sour layer of deceit over these polite words. Mort turns to me.
“I could use something to eat, and I imagine we all could. How are you, really? Up to kitchen duty?”
“Absolutely.”
“Lunch, then.” He nods toward the kitchen, then gives me a once over and shakes his head. “Or rather, I’ll handle the edible portion, you can brew the tea.”
I sock him on the arm, but he only laughs.
