Page 46 of Once Upon a Dream
The worst thing he could be was a Morelli. He could be a murdering son of a bitch, and being a Morelli would still be worse. Elaine, Caroline’s daughter, got caught up with Lucian Morelli at Tinsley’s birthday, and it was as if she’d fucked the devil himself.
This guy wasn’t the devil. He was a waiter having a smoke. And I wasn’t a Constantine. I wasn’t even going to be a Waverly for much longer.
“No, I’m not a Morelli,” he said.
“Then we’re okay.” The night seemed to breathe. The party sounds faded. The scream in my chest was gone.
We’re okay.
“Why are you out here?” he asked.
“There are a lot of answers to that question,” I laughed.
“You always go for a run during a party?”
“I do,” I nodded. “I’m in training.”
“For ball gown racing?”
“Yes, it’s a very obscure event. But I’m ranked.” I was being ridiculous. The nerves were making me ridiculous, and I was only ever ridiculous with my sister.
“National or international?” Oh, he was playing along. It made me want to cry for missing my sister.
“International, of course.”
My feet were cold and naked in the grass, so I put on the shoes.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked.
“I haven’t been invited inside yet.”
“Really?”
“No.”
That did make me laugh. I liked this shadow Irishman with the quick wit, and maybe it was the grass I could still feel between my toes or that my world was coming down around me in ways I couldn’t stop, but the truth just came out of me.
“Adolescent on-set schizophrenia. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m… everything.”
It was wild to say that out loud. We never talked about it. We never gave the words air or sound. Or light. They lived in shadows, dark and unsaid. Alone and festering.
From the shadows he held a flask. “Here. You look like you could use a drink.”
“I shouldn’t,” I said. I needed to be clear. Sharp. Tonight was like throwing myself into a sea of piranhas. For the rest of my life.
“Your hands are shaking.”
Honestly, I couldn’t see him. At all. The glow of that cigarette, the gleam off the flask and the white of his shirt at his wrist. He had nice hands. A jagged scar ran along the side of his thumb down to his wrist.
“What happened?” I asked, and I couldn’t believe it myself, but I touched his hand. My fingertip brushed the raised pink skin of the scar. The insanity of that made me light-headed, and I quickly took the flask. I cupped it in my cold shaking fingers like a flame.
“Jumped out a window,” he said, flexing his fingers out wide and then curling them into a fist. “My hand got caught on an eaves-shoot. Tore it open, like.”
“Why’d you jump out a window?”
“Because someone who wanted to hurt me was coming in the door.” He said it like a joke.
I took a sip from the flask. The booze burned down my throat and exploded in warmth in my belly, and I gasped. Another sip and the same effect until I could feel my feet and my fingers. Another sip, and my face was warm. Yep. This was what a person needed for a few minutes before jumping into the pool of piranhas. To feel alive. Warm. Bloody and real.
