scared most of the living things in here.” He looked around, eyes narrowed. “I doubt they’ll come back while we’re here.”
I wrapped my arms around my chest. It was chillier inside than it had felt outside. The air was laced with dust and mold, the latter taking a hiatus due to the cool weather. It felt damp from humidity, soaking straight through the velvet layers of my dress.
Brando collected a few pieces of old wood that had been left around and set it in the bricked fireplace. He dug in his pocket, removed a lighter, and then set the wood on fire.
He dusted off two old wooden chairs and placed them close enough to the fireplace that the heat could be felt. I think it was more for my benefit than his. He didn’t seem bothered by the cold.
“Pnina Poésy is going to send the sheriff after me. It’s Wednesday—actually Thursday now—and you’ve been out longer than you should.”
“No,” I said, too fast. I took a breather to stop myself from rambling, from sounding too eager. “I’m staying the night at Violet’s. Her parents are older and less involved in her life. Unless someone else catches her doing something wrong—then they get pretty fired up. But since Mitch promised to bring her straight home, I’ll be fine.” I put my hands toward the fire, the warmth spreading over me in languorous, stretching waves.
I felt comfortable in the house, in the area, but most of all, with Brando. I glanced around the place—I couldn’t seem to get enough of it, dilapidated or not. It felt like home. For the first time in years, perhaps all of my life, a “welcome” seemed to be extended to me from a soft, warm hand that I couldn’t see but certainly felt. Once settled, all fears were put to rest.
“Now will you tell me?” I whispered. “Tell me everything you remember. Please.”
He settled into the chair, his arms resting on his stomach, his long legs stretched out before him, his eyes on mine. He began his recollection with, “You reminded me of a girl dancing in a music box.”
Chapter Five
Scarlett
A spark had gone off inside of me. The undercurrent flowed through me like the echo of an electric shock. It’s dangerously frightening and deliriously surreal for someone else to have this much control.
A week later, I was as tired as the dead but as alive as an energetic toddler. I seemed to float through days, alternately yawning and then smiling and then feeling angry, most of the time in that order.
I had no control over my feelings. There were times I would drift off, finding my mouth curving upward without recognizing the thought that had caused the smile, and then I would look around, finding myself in a place that in my memories I had not been.
School.
Entire days seemed like a blur of clouds and then solid ground. I was with him again, caught in a web of suspended time, and then I was back in school where life seemed to be moving along.
I liked it, for the most part. I liked the feeling of being with him, even in my thoughts, and then releasing myself from the overwhelming need I seemed to have for him already. In that aspect, I seemed to have some control over the situation, over myself, and most importantly, over what he was doing to me.
The flip side of that coin was that I had lost a certain element of control. Recklessly falling for him came to mind. I had wildly given him a part of myself, and I was enjoying the fearlessness of the loss of that part of myself. I had tasted the same fate after our night in the snow, but I had never fully taken a drink from the cup.
I liked how insane the love I felt made me feel. The back and forth. The uncertainty. The conviction.
I liked how the secret—the connection—I kept was no longer just mine alone to bear. He completed the other half to the whole.
Leaning my face against my palm, I silently tapped my pencil against the desk. I kept my eyes forward, not wanting Mr. Peoples, my English teacher, to call on me for any reason. He babbled, and I couldn’t help but translate his words into French as he lectured the class; it was a common habit of mine.
Sometimes the words sounded better in another language, and I allowed his words to flow in French, a lull in my