Page 11 of Tangled at the Root
Or maybe this right now is the dream. Foolishly, selfishly, I wish I don’t ever wake up, even though I know wishes like that are dangerous. At the same time, I’m afraid to go downstairs and face her. Since I’d left her, she’s remained a hook in my heart, trying futilely to yank me back to her.
A sick part of me loves that she’s trapped with nowhere to run. She could hide, pretend I don’t exist until whatever juju binding us is lifted, but if there’s one thing I’ve always believed about Rosemary and I, it’s that, slowly, inevitably, like the opposite ends of a magnet, we’ve been bound to collide.
For years, I’d resisted the pull of that painful hook in my chest. Now, at the worst possible time,she’sthe one who’s been yanked tome.
Briefly, I picture myself giving in. I see myself going downstairs on silent, padded feet, sneaking up on her like a shadow, and her sinking helplessly into that darkness, lost to its depths for the rest of time.
I grab a pillow and bury my face in it, swallowing down blood from where I’d bitten my tongue. I only drop it when I no longer feel like I’ll lose it.
I want to go back to the day before yesterday, when my world had been crumbling, but slowly, and I’d still grasped desperately onto a flimsy string of hope.
Now, all I feel is a steadily mounting despair. I need to continue my search for the details of this supposed ritual, to uphold the deal my grandmother had apparently studiously maintained before her demise, but the study feels tainted now after all I’ve learned.
The smell of warm food mixed with the sweet scent of Rosemary—the sound of her soft voice alternately singing or humming along to the music lifts my despair like she’s literally cast a spell. As usual, all she has to do is exist and my world, no matter how downtrodden, glows a little brighter.
I leave my bed, not bothering with the lights or curtains.
She’s in the dining area.
“Oh,” she says when she spots me, even though she’s setting the table for two. My heart clenches. Throbs. I ignore the ever present hunger twisting my stomach and flooding my mouth,my gums aching. “Sorry,” she says nervously. “I got hungry and kind of helped myself.”
It takes a few tries before I can say, “It’s fine,” my voice still coming out a little too gruff.
Rosemary’s scent heats up.
God.
“Um. As you can see, I made enough for two.” She smiles tentatively.
I clench my hands into fists. She’s switched on the lights in the living area and kitchen, the semi-dim glow, thanks to the low current, giving the rooms an almost intimate, romantic feel.
The stairs and hallway behind me are still in darkness. I must look like the monster I secretly am, lingering in the shadows, staring at her.
I don’t move, waiting until I’m sure a single step won’t lead me right to her, to grabbing her throat and snapping it quickly to the left. It’d besoquick, she won’t evenfeelit—and then I can—
She glances at me from underneath her lashes, her throat bobbing with a nervous swallow as she takes a seat on one side of the dining table, momentarily halting my repellent thoughts. Her back is to the wide windows looking out onto the front of the house, hidden now behind dark green curtains patterned in thin golden thread the shape of roses.
Had the curtains always been that lovely shade of emerald green? Had they always held that faint, golden pattern? I could’ve sworn they’d been plain and red the last time I’d looked, no pretty designs in sight.
Fuck, I’d forgotten how lovely she is. Or, perhaps, more likely, she’s gotten even lovelier—evidence of the time and distance we’d spent apart. In her light green spaghetti top, with her rich brown skin and the different warm yellows and browns of the beads at the tips of her braids, framing her shoulders, she looks like an enchantress. Those thin gold frames don’t help; thelenses are perfectly round, making those magnetic brown eyes look so luminous, her dark lashes lusciously thick.
And all that bare skin. Her long, elegant throat. I can’t stop staring. Her skin looks so soft; her plump flesh would rend so beautifully underneath the sharp ends of my—
Rosemary’s growing anxiety gives me the strength to pummel the monster back into submission. I don’t want her wary of me. I want—
I end that thought. What I want doesn’t matter; it hasn’t mattered my entire life. It’s too bad it’s taken me this long to finally, truly accept it.
When I’m sure I have my wits about me, I walk stiffly to the table, taking the seat opposite hers. I glance at the old device resting between us.
My heart throbs again.
It’s the same radio and cassette player. Of course it is; Rosemary’s always been good at keeping old things. The device is an analogue, silver in colour, four inches by eight, two inches thick, and only works with four triple-A batteries. The antenna has that slight curve at the top from the time I’d bent it a little too hard, and now it won’t completely retract anymore.
The radio had been her mother’s. Despite our phones and the novels we’d borrowed from the library serving as entertainment, Rosemary hadlovedthat thing. We’d spent many nights flicking through the channels, listening to music. There’s an opening in its front for small cassettes; I’d gotten her a whole bunch for her eighteenth birthday—the first of hers we’d shared—and we’d spent hours—days—going through them all.
Rosemary looks like she’s remembering, too, her eyes dark, her teeth digging into the corner of her lower lip.
Don’t stare at me like that, I want to snap, even though I know I’m staring with the same intensity.
