Page 24 of A Lesson in Thorns (Thornchapel 1)
I almost get a real smile for all that. “Anything to drink?”
“Um, just a beer that’s not an IPA. Thanks!”
Saint goes to order for us, and I slide his book over to my side of the table. It’s a popular fantasy novel, and I page through until he gets back.
“We have a copy at the library,” he says, nodding to the book as he sets down our beers and sits. “You know, if you’re interested. It’s pretty good so far.”
I push the book back to him, take a sip of beer, and then blurt out, “Were you here when she got sick? I’m sorry to ask, just with my own mom . . . I don’t kno
w, I’m morbidly curious, I guess.”
Saint’s clearly surprised that I’m taking us back to this, but it doesn’t seem to upset him. When he speaks, his tone is weary but level. “I was. When I was a teenager, I did—well, something happened—and I couldn’t bear to stay here any longer. So I went to live with my grandparents in Texas for the rest of school. I’d even started college there. But I think she was lonely, and she was struggling with money . . .”
“So you came back to her,” I realize.
“Middle of my sophomore year,” he says. “To help with bills. I’d been here two years by the time she got sick.”
“You put your life on hold to help her. That’s amazing, Saint. I think a lot of people wouldn’t have done that.”
“Yeah.” He takes a drink. A big one.
“So why are you still here?” I ask. “Why not go back to Texas and finish college?”
This question strikes a nerve, I can tell. He takes another drink, looks down at his glass. “I don’t know,” he says. “When I got here, I found the job at the library, and my dad’s brother is a contractor, so there was enough work to compensate for the library not paying much. And then I just kind of . . . fell into a life. And I guess that moving away, you know, after . . . after she’s died . . .”
He trails off, takes another drink.
“It makes it real,” I finish for him, thinking of my own mother. “If you leave, it makes it real.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you feel like your life is still on hold?” I ask.
Saint laughs—he actually laughs! And when he laughs, I can see that one of his front teeth is ever so slightly longer than the other. And the cleft in his chin smooths out, and his dark brown eyes sparkle. Life and spark hidden under all that winter cold.
“Fuck, you’re nosy,” he says, still laughing. “Christ.”
I give a sheepish shrug. “I’m sorry. I like to know things. Don’t answer if you don’t want to.”
He takes a drink, but this time it doesn’t seem like he’s doing it because he doesn’t want to say more, but because he wants a minute to think.
“On every objective level, yes. My life is still on hold. I’m in a job that pays pennies, and without a degree, I’ll never get to the next job up on the ladder. I’m taking some online classes, but at this rate, I’ll be thirty before I get my B.A., and I’m not even sure what I want to major in, anyway. I took over my mom’s lease because it seemed easier than trying to find a new place and figure out what to do with her stuff . . .”
He catches his lip ring in his teeth for a moment, then continues. “But it’s so strange. Every time I think of leaving, I ache with wanting to stay. I can’t make myself go. It’s like I’ve put down roots without even wanting to, and I don’t mean family roots, because my aunt and uncle have always been here and I only barely remember my dad and his parents. I don’t mean friend roots, because I don’t really have any of those. I mean the kind of roots that happen privately between you and a certain place. Like you come to a place, and instead of planting a flag and saying mine, the place plants something in you. The place claims you, it knows your name and the crooked corners of your heart, and you’ve pledged yourself to it before you’ve even realized what’s happening. That’s why I’ve stayed, that’s why I can’t leave. Thornchapel knows my name and the crooked corners of my heart, and it wants me to make promises that I’m going to keep.”
Chapter 7
Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy
That night, St. Sebastian walks Poe back to Thornchapel. It’s cold as fuck and windy as shit, and her teeth chatter the entire way. He wants to fold her into his arms, he wants to unzip his coat and tuck her against his chest. He may not be good for much, but he could do that.
He could warm her up.
But all told, it’s a short walk, and there’s no need. They get to the front door and she’s fine, and it’s only him who’s not fine, only him who’s jumbled up inside with all the things he could do. He could shake her hand. He could hug her. He could kiss her cheek.
He could kiss her mouth.
He could tell her that he can’t stop thinking about the way her eyes look like summer. He could tell her that he wants to bite the point of her chin and the arch of her throat. That he’s shaking and sick with wanting to touch her. Wanting to watch her gasp and laugh and smile. Wanting to reach that ever-unfolding bloom of her spirit and cradle it in his palms.
