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Authors: Scarlett Edwards
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ask. It’s the question that’s been building.
“To give you a chance to come to me,” he says.
I shake my head, “What?”
“To see if I am yet the confidante I need to be for you.”
“That’s a twisted way of looking at things,” I say. “And your verdict?”
“I am not.” The words carry a touch of remorse. But he smiles. “I can’t help but feel my behavior today set us back a few steps.”
“You can say that again,” I mutter, picking at my food.
“Lilly,” Jeremy’s voice makes me look up. “You still look beautiful. I’m sorry for hitting you. I do not think there will be a bruise.”
I bring my hand up to probe my cheek. The swelling’s all but gone. It doesn’t feel warm to the touch anymore.
“What can I do to make you forgive me?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I sigh. “You can do nothing, Jeremy. It is who you are.”
“I dislike seeing you so melancholy.”
“Well, you foster that feeling. Do you not?” I ask.
Now it’s his turn to sigh. “I cannot help it. If you knew how I was raised…”
“Please,” I cut him off. “Don’t blame your upbringing for what you do. It’s unbecoming. And it’s unlike you to so easily accept destiny.”
He shakes his head a little. “You mistake me. It is not about blame. It’s about understanding. You are the only person I can admit this to. I told you the story of how I found my mother when I was a boy. Domestic violence disturbs me more than you know. Much, much more than I let show. It probably sounds so perversely hypocritical, considering all that I’ve done to you. But it’s very true.”
“A nice sentiment to have,” I say, “particularly if it helps you keep a clear conscience.”
He scowls. “My conscience is far, far from clean, Lilly. You should know. I am not blind to who I am or what I do. What I’ve done. I’m not talking about just to you, either, but about the things I’ve accumulated all my life. The road to the top is not easy, Lilly, and it is not paved in gold. It is littered with the bones of all those who’ve tried to get there and failed. Sometimes, you find decaying bodies along the way, still half-alive, begging for water or food or merely an end. They call at you, they pull at you, they try to bring you deep underground so they can triumph in at least one thing: in your destruction.”
“What stark and pleasant imagery,” I mutter.
“And then you find those who are fully alive, who cannot climb any further, but stand in the way of you and your goals. There is no going around them. The only way to the top is through their still-beating hearts. Those,” he says, “you have no choice but to crush.”
“Jeremy?” I ask. “What’s gotten into you?” I don’t much like him speaking on such metaphysical terms, especially as a man so unyieldingly practical.
“Oh?” he looks up from his momentary reverie. “It’s nothing. I’ve been reading too much. Ann Rice.”
“Huh?” I say, confused. “Since when do you read fiction?”
“Rarely,” he tells me. “My mother used to love those books, however. Visiting our old home in the mountains made me want to do something that reminds me of her.”
“How do you do that?” I wonder. “How is it you can be so cold and distanced in one breath, and in the next, make yourself so very human?”
“An unwavering part of my condition.” He smiles again. “I love how you find it so reassuring.”
“I’m just trying to understand you. That’s all.”
Jeremy barks a laugh. “Hah! Psychologists would have a field day with me. Good luck. I don’t believe it too pompous to say that you need more than is available in this world.”
“I thought you don’t believe in luck,” I remind him.
Now his grin absolutely flashes. “I don’t. That was my way of saying that your undertaking has the makings of an impossibility.”
“No, I don’t think so,” I say. “I already know more about you than you think.”
“Oh?” he sounds
“To give you a chance to come to me,” he says.
I shake my head, “What?”
“To see if I am yet the confidante I need to be for you.”
“That’s a twisted way of looking at things,” I say. “And your verdict?”
“I am not.” The words carry a touch of remorse. But he smiles. “I can’t help but feel my behavior today set us back a few steps.”
“You can say that again,” I mutter, picking at my food.
“Lilly,” Jeremy’s voice makes me look up. “You still look beautiful. I’m sorry for hitting you. I do not think there will be a bruise.”
I bring my hand up to probe my cheek. The swelling’s all but gone. It doesn’t feel warm to the touch anymore.
“What can I do to make you forgive me?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I sigh. “You can do nothing, Jeremy. It is who you are.”
“I dislike seeing you so melancholy.”
“Well, you foster that feeling. Do you not?” I ask.
Now it’s his turn to sigh. “I cannot help it. If you knew how I was raised…”
“Please,” I cut him off. “Don’t blame your upbringing for what you do. It’s unbecoming. And it’s unlike you to so easily accept destiny.”
He shakes his head a little. “You mistake me. It is not about blame. It’s about understanding. You are the only person I can admit this to. I told you the story of how I found my mother when I was a boy. Domestic violence disturbs me more than you know. Much, much more than I let show. It probably sounds so perversely hypocritical, considering all that I’ve done to you. But it’s very true.”
“A nice sentiment to have,” I say, “particularly if it helps you keep a clear conscience.”
He scowls. “My conscience is far, far from clean, Lilly. You should know. I am not blind to who I am or what I do. What I’ve done. I’m not talking about just to you, either, but about the things I’ve accumulated all my life. The road to the top is not easy, Lilly, and it is not paved in gold. It is littered with the bones of all those who’ve tried to get there and failed. Sometimes, you find decaying bodies along the way, still half-alive, begging for water or food or merely an end. They call at you, they pull at you, they try to bring you deep underground so they can triumph in at least one thing: in your destruction.”
“What stark and pleasant imagery,” I mutter.
“And then you find those who are fully alive, who cannot climb any further, but stand in the way of you and your goals. There is no going around them. The only way to the top is through their still-beating hearts. Those,” he says, “you have no choice but to crush.”
“Jeremy?” I ask. “What’s gotten into you?” I don’t much like him speaking on such metaphysical terms, especially as a man so unyieldingly practical.
“Oh?” he looks up from his momentary reverie. “It’s nothing. I’ve been reading too much. Ann Rice.”
“Huh?” I say, confused. “Since when do you read fiction?”
“Rarely,” he tells me. “My mother used to love those books, however. Visiting our old home in the mountains made me want to do something that reminds me of her.”
“How do you do that?” I wonder. “How is it you can be so cold and distanced in one breath, and in the next, make yourself so very human?”
“An unwavering part of my condition.” He smiles again. “I love how you find it so reassuring.”
“I’m just trying to understand you. That’s all.”
Jeremy barks a laugh. “Hah! Psychologists would have a field day with me. Good luck. I don’t believe it too pompous to say that you need more than is available in this world.”
“I thought you don’t believe in luck,” I remind him.
Now his grin absolutely flashes. “I don’t. That was my way of saying that your undertaking has the makings of an impossibility.”
“No, I don’t think so,” I say. “I already know more about you than you think.”
“Oh?” he sounds
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