Page 87 of Crown of Thorns
“A record player. How cool! Do you still have records?” He turns over his shoulder, another photo in hand. “Do you?”
“I don’t know, I’d have to check with Melo. Perhaps in the attic. Why?”
He shrugs. “It’s romantic.”
“Romantic?”
“Are you just rolling your eyes at me? Yes, romantic, Professor. We should buy one for your room.”
My stomach swoops at that. He makes it sound so simple. He makes everything sound so simple. And somehow, I keep finding myself drawn deeper into the magnetic pull of his inked skin and wicked charm. My gaze drops to the shorts he’s wearing today. He’s got long, tanned, muscular legs, the kind that could crush aman’s will if he let them. It’s maddening how quickly he makes me forget myself. I jerk my head back to the pile of photos I was flicking through.
“I don’t need a record player.”
“Ouch.” He laughs. “I wasn’t far off when I gave you that cactus. Though thorns are definitely more your thing. We should build you a castle of thorns. And a record player.”
“Shut up,” I snort.
“Why? It sounds good, right?” He laughs again, straight teeth in soft lips. My insides shudder.
“Aww, look at that.”
Picture after picture, detail after detail. Louis thinks he isn’t good at anything, but he couldn’t be further from the truth. He’s incredibly meticulous, remembers everything, and is genuinely interested in learning and connecting with people. He’s a people person with remarkable charisma. Louis is exceptional in his authenticity, curious and fun, sweet and surprisingly loyal.
He has a way of sweeping me through these family revelations that is comforting. I don’t think I could have done this without him. Perhaps my guard is slipping. He’s changing me. My usual bitterness feels less pungent when I’m with him, as if he’s removed the usual veil that covers my heart. It’s frightening.
He brings me closer to something I’ve forgotten how to name. Peace, maybe. Or hope.
We spend most of the day in the shed. When the sun sets, we head back to the castle, both our arms filled with piles of photos, and we dump them on the desk in my office.
Our shower is long, a hot moment filled with soft kisses. When I let out another yawn, Louis chuckles and bites my ear. “Come on, old man, get that sexy ass of yours on the bed and choose a movie while I cook us dinner.”
I watch him rummage around, gloriously naked, while I decide on a creepy detective.
By the time we’ve watched half of it, my eyes slide closed, and I drift off.
I’m in my office. I’ve been here for hours.
It’s been a few days since we moved most of the stuff from the shed into my office. The window’s open, warm air curling in while final term papers pile on my desk, reminders that the semester’s almost over. That’s when I found it, tucked beneath a stack of albums, a plain shoe box with my name written on top in Mom’s unmistakable handwriting. I’ve been ignoring it ever since.
I sit with the box unopened for nearly an hour. Just staring. It's not fear that keeps me from it. It’s the knowing. The instinct that once I lift that lid, something about my life will change. Not dramatically. Not even loudly. Just... irrevocably.
Eventually, I reach out and pull it toward me.
I tear off the lid, frowning when I look down at the contents.
Letters.
I take out the pile, flicking through them. They are dated.
February 2010.
My battered heart yields. One month after I left.
March 2010.
April 2010. May 2010.
They're from Mom.
