Once again, I couldn’t speak. Bodies moved past in a blur of somber colors as Grayson and I could only share our stare.
Because I was relegated to the life of a mistress once more.
Thirty-Two
GRAY
You sound like your grandfather.
She was right.
Fuck.
She was right.
Now, while my mother glared at the triplets who had the audacity to sit alone and not try any of the food she’d had the servants prepare, while Lottie wispily stared out the window, and while Story stared at me with questions in her eyes… I reread Story’s secret letter to me, over and over again. I read the letter that made me seek her out after the funeral in the first place.
Dear Atlas,
Today he said, if I loved you, then why did I sleep with him?
Today he said, I do
n’t love you, not the way I think I do. Because if I loved you, I would never have sought him out.
Today I wondered, why did all of those questions feel so fucking wrong? Like a trap. My love for you is a house for which I constantly need to buy new beds and build new rooms. I love you more than I have space to feel.
Today I wondered…why do I have an urge to sink into that trap, like quicksand in my heart? He’s right, it whispers. You’re bad, it whispers.
If I make a mistake, does that mean I’m not worthy of loving you anymore?
If that’s the case, then I will take my punishment and penance.
Because I love you.
I don’t want to keep you from someone who can love you without mistake.
She still wouldn’t tell me about her secret letters. I was beginning to wonder if she even thought of them as secrets, if she even realized she was keeping them from me.
If she was starting to keep them from herself.
Maybe a funeral wasn’t the best place for love letters, but for us, it felt right. I wanted Story’s imperfect love. I wanted her honesty, because she was the only one who loved me enough to be honest.
You sound like your grandfather.
My eyes lifted to the triplets.
“They’re orphans now.”
I jumped. “Jesus, Gemma.”
Gemma stared forward, across the sitting room where the triplets sat alone. They waved their hand no to yet another frangipane tart. From across the room, my mother watched them, picking at her bottom lip.
“Do you remember when Dad died and they came to the funeral?” Gemma continued. “How old were they then?”
“Young…” I said. “Really young.” Which is saying something because we were barely children ourselves.
“Mom told me not to talk to them. I remember she said something super-fucked up, but I didn’t realize it until…” Gemma trailed off on a laugh. “Well, now, I guess. She told me Grandfather could only love a certain amount of granddaughters, and if I was friends with Jo, he might love her more. I used to think about that when he showed Abigail all that affection…” Her brow wrinkled, and she turned to me. “Do you think she told Abigail the same thing?”