Page 149 of The Pansy Paradox
This can’t be true—the clothes part, not the knife. From what I’ve gleaned, Max Monroe can most likely wield a knife. It’s the glint in his eyes. He’s not someone you want to meet in a dark alley or an abandoned silo. But then I remember those discarded plastic bags, the Swiss Army knife left behind.
“What if I’d changed the locks?”
“I would’ve blown the door off its hinges. Trust me, when it comes to your mother, I’m highly motivated.”
“There’s no place to hide anything in the silo.” I think of it, the space stark, more disturbing in some ways than the housing development. “I would’ve noticed something.”
“Would you?”
Would I? Of course I would. How could I help it? Except.
Never go to the silo alone.
And I hadn’t. When I returned after graduation, I patrolled King’s End by myself. The few times my mother was able, we merely repaired fissures in the housing development and anointed the fence with her springtime concoction of herbs and blood. The closest I ever came to the silo was viewing it from the road, well back from the property line, well within my mother’s guidelines.
“There you have it, my rule-abiding progeny.”
I glare at Max Monroe.
He raises his hands, expression softening in apology. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Your mother’s mentioned I’ve gone feral these past couple of decades. I don’t mean to hurt you, but there’s so much at stake.” His gaze drifts toward the kitchen, where Henry is absorbed and happy. “And then there’s that, and that could get sticky.”
Max takes another sip. “Really, this is excellent.” He pulls out a dining chair across from mine and settles in like he’s enjoying an apéritif. “Can’t fault your boy for his taste for the finer things.”
“Should you be drinking that?” My attention is pulled toward Henry as he samples something simmering on the stove and then slips the spoon into the dishwasher. “Should he be eating? I mean, does that?—?”
“Sweetheart, you’re between dimensions, not in the underworld. It’s not like Hades is blocking the way out. However, if you want to leave, you’ll need to time it for sunset in King’s End, and you’ll need Darnelle’s full cooperation. He can’t be in his fantasy land when you make the attempt.”
I spare the windows, shrouded in their curtains, a glance. How we’re supposed to tell when it’s sunset and how we’re supposed to leave are things I do not ask. Instead, my mind keys in on something Max said a moment before.
“My mother mentioned you’ve gone feral…? Does that mean she’s?” I want to say here, but I don’t think here actually exists.
Max’s eyes grow tender, the hard line of his mouth softening. For a moment, a memory flares. I’ve seen this face, those eyes, that smile, all focused on me.
“We have our own version of this.” He waves a hand, indicating the house. “Right now, we’re reliving the weekend Adele offered to babysit so we could have some time to ourselves.” His laugh is low and amused. “We spent half the time trying to sneak next door to visit you and the other half otherwise occupied. So that’s where we are. On the cusp of sneaking out or, of course, in bed.”
I really don’t need the details. Even so, I have to ask. “Can I see her?”
“Oh, sweetheart, no. I wish you could, and there’s nothing she’d love more. But she’s too far into this space, the fantasy. In the reality we’ve created between the two of us, you’re never any older than four. To see you now, it would break her.” Max shakes his head, both sorrow and anger in the gesture. “And she’s been broken enough.”
My eyes sting, my heart squeezes, and while I don’t know what to think of the man across from me, we do agree on this.
“But that leads us to our current problem. If we’re going to figure out the next steps, we need to extricate your boy from this dream he’s curated without breaking him in the process.”
“Henry might break?” Panic flares, fluttering low in my belly.
Max does another survey of the surroundings. “He’s been working overtime on this. He is fully invested in this fantasy, and mind you, it’s a deeply personal one.” Max gives me a significant look. “His father is coming for Thanksgiving dinner.”
I glance toward the kitchen, and the wave of happiness that rolls off Henry is palpable. To remind him of his father’s death? I don’t want to see that shattered expression from the cemetery return.
“Yes,” Max says, and I’m not sure whether he’s reading my thoughts or my expression, but he seems to understand. “Harry Darnelle is your boy’s Achilles’ heel. For good reason, I suppose.”
He pauses, gaze drawn to the kitchen and Henry’s dinner preparations. “Any idea how many holidays Harry was able to spend with his son?” Max doesn’t wait for my answer. He simply makes a zero with his fingers and thumb. “He always deferred to Miranda on those things, although god knows they never agreed on anything else. So now it’s Thanksgiving, and Henry plans on presenting his father with the perfect dinner. His perfect new bride.” Max nods at me. “His perfect new home. Want to bet there’s a suite just for Harry?”
No, I don’t, because the house shifts yet again, assembling a guest suite on the upper floor. It’s a stately room full of mahogany furniture and an elegant fireplace. The images fill my head as if I’ve seen this room, polished the furniture earlier that morning, laid wood for a fire in the hearth, anxious that Harry Darnelle will be comfortable while knowing he’d be content to sleep on the couch.
“He’s even found a role for me.” Max raises his palms toward the ceiling. “The curmudgeon father-in-law who doesn’t quite approve of the union because our boy always needs a challenge, doesn’t he? Mr. Monroe.” Max rolls his eyes. “Indeed.”
Henry chooses that moment to bring me a fresh cup of tea, perfectly brewed, of course. That light jasmine scent that woke me earlier bathes my face and loosens the knots in my shoulders.
