All four girls dressed up in costumes. Eurydice a fairy. Callisto a knight. Persephone an angel. Psyche a princess.
My chest hurts. Why the fuck does my chest hurt? They’re just pictures. Obviously Psyche’s always been good at pictures; she’s the most photogenic of all her rather photogenic family. There is no reason for some undefined barbed emotion to lash through me at the photographic evidence of her happy childhood. It certainly shouldn’t be made worse by the fact that Demeter has said photos prominently displayed, if in a part of the penthouse where only family would spend time.
“Eros?”
I give myself a shake. “I’m good.”
“Are you?” Psyche’s brows draw together, worry lingering in her hazel eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” It should be the truth. I dredge up my charming smile, but Psyche only frowns harder in response. Right. She knows I’m lying, and she won’t be fooled by a fake smile. I curse. “Nothing should be wrong. It’s not relevant.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
She looks at me for a moment longer but finally nods. “Okay, let’s hurry.” She turns and continues down the hallway, leaving me to follow.
I give the photos one last long look and then leave them behind. Maybe it shouldn’t be so novel that Psyche and her sisters had a good childhood, but this is Olympus. I was raised on power games, and I learned to lie around the time I learned to walk. It’s the same with Helen and Perseus and their siblings. Those of us both fortunate and unfortunate to be born into Olympus politics were in a sink-or-swim situation from a very young age.
My mother, in particular, tolerated no missteps.
No wonder kindness comes so naturally to Psyche; she had an abundance of it growing up.
She stops in front of the third door, drawing me from my thoughts. Anticipation curls through me. This short visit has already been a treasure trove of information about this woman. Her bedroom will be the ultimate look behind the curtain. Psyche opens the door and steps into the room, leaving me to follow.
It’s…a mess.
I stand in the doorway and take in the stacks of clothing draped over every available surface. There’s an antique vanity with countless jars and tubes of makeup and skin-care and hair-care stuff. “You sleep in a closet.”
“This is a bedroom.”
“Is it? I can’t see a bed anywhere. All I see are clothes.”
“Shut up.” She follows a small path of cleared floor deeper into the room. “I have a system.”
“I highly suggest you find a new system, because I can’t live like this.” The thought of all this clutter, system or no, is nearly enough to make me break out in hives. I expected this room to be more of the attractive, welcoming vibe that permeates the entire penthouse. This is pure mayhem. I edge my way a little into the room and poke the pile of clothes balanced precariously on what I assume is a chair. “I’m marrying a chaos monster.”
“Then I guess we’re both monsters.”
“Cute.” I resist the urge to continue prodding the mound of clothing and focus on her. “But we both know that’s not true.”
“Yes, yes, you’re the biggest, baddest monster in the room. Stay on task.” She disappears through another doorway and returns with a giant suitcase. Another trip through the doorway and she’s got a variety of bags that look like lighting equipment. These she thrusts into my hands. “Hold these, please.”
“I’ve seen photos of your bedroom. It doesn’t look like this.” For all my teasing, the bed is clear—but it’s not the one I’ve seen pictured.
“Oh. Yeah.” She drops the suitcase on the bed and starts picking through the piles of clothing and tossing stuff into it. “I use Persephone’s bedroom. She’s kind of a neat freak and she’s got a nice aesthetic going on in there. Plus, she never posted photos of inside our house even before she moved to the lower city.”
I watch three more dresses land on top of the suitcase, colorful fabric spilling out, before I lose it. “For fuck’s sake.” I’m not a clean freak, as she put it. I like my shit in order because it simplifies my life, but I’m hardly going around with a label maker or having a meltdown when something gets moved. That said, her complete disregard for anything resembling order is making my right eye twitch. I set the lighting equipment by the door and carefully wade to her bed and start folding.
“What are you doing?”
“Ignore me and keep packing.” It’s kind of strange to be handling women’s clothing. It’s a completely different sensory experience from my stuff, and most resist normal folding, so I have to resort to strategic rolling to get them into some semblance of order. I try very hard not to think about Psyche wearing any of the items, especially not the silk dress that slides over my palms as I wrestle it into submission. It would look great on my floor after I tugged it off her shoulders and…