That night, the pearly-white moon was cut in half, leaving a vintage glow on the Cantini Manor. With a white-lipped smile and two stars as dimples, a dazzling grin taunted us from above as I held my sister’s hair back.
We never made it to Cyrus’s porch steps.
Fable’s shoulders lurched forward as she hurled in the rose bushes surrounding the home. Winter had stripped them of their flowers, only snow clinging to the thorned stalks, and each time she dry-heaved, I feared the power of it would rip her from my hands and toss her into the barbed corpse.
When Fable was three, a broken shell sliced open her foot. I carried her home, singing the whole way, blood dripping from her heel and onto my dress. It was a struggle, as I was not much bigger than her, but by the time we reached the steps to the cottage, her crying had sent her to sleep in my arms. I stopped to rest on the steps and fell asleep, too. “Your dress is ruined,” Mama said that night. Surprisingly, at the time, I didn’t care.
When Fable was fifteen, she experimented with drugs. It wasn’t like her, and I never knew why she took them, but that night, I carried her from Monday’s all the way home. To avoid Dad finding out, we never stepped inside the cottage. I slept beside her on the lawn ‘til morning.
But this I didn’t know how to handle. I could barely hold on myself.
Fable had a secret, too. One neither Ivy nor I knew a thing about.
She was in love. With a Heathen, my mind cursed.
She was the lover, the bright side, the beaming heart that squeezed and pulled apart like a plaything. And he was a Heathen, the opposite of Fable Sullivan in every way.
Our hearts were broken for two very different men we could never be with. How did both of us end up here at the same time?
Fable steadied herself, bracing palms on wobbly knees, fawn hair tangled, lips shaking. She cried out, mumbling incoherently, looking up at me with bloodshot, miserable eyes the color of two worthless pennies. It was a look I’d never seen on her before. This look wore its own set of lungs and bellowed pain.
I imagined her years from now with a cold heart shaped like mine ... hopeless ... and shallow, and I would remember the night Phoenix’s death stole the light from her eyes. If this was what happened to a good person, what would losing Stone do to a murderer like me?
“Fable, please. It’s freezing. Let’s go inside,” I insisted.
Fable shoved me in the chest. “WHY DIDN’T YOU DO ANYTHING?!” she screamed, her lips trembling with a wet face. I stood shocked and benumbed. I didn’t know what to do. “I love him, Adora. I’m in love with him,” her voice was hoarse and raw, heartbreak outspoken. The force behind it took her to her hands and knees until she was lying in the snow on her side.
If my misery outweighed my anger, I was certain this would be me: screaming, crying, and throwing up until all suffering drained onto Seaside Street. The sight looked to be entirely freeing. Perhaps this was why people let their tears run wild, no matter who was watching. To expel it. To not hurt anymore.
Shivering, I pulled the hood over my head and knelt down, then tucked my legs inside my coat before lying next to her.
Under and around me, the snow slowly melted, soaking anything not shielded. Even so, I endured it and held her close.
When Fable was twenty-one, I thought, she watched him die ... I carried her up the drive, and as before, we never made it inside. Grief held her in the cold, so she curled up in the snow. And I slept beside her so she would not be alone.
I looked at the night sky, counting stars with my teeth chattering.
The cold was a low murmur in my ears, and Fable’s cries dimmed into a hum.
Snowflakes drifted down from above, flicking from side to side like paper-white wings against a black canvas. Stone’s hair, Stone’s eyes. I watched the night, thinking of him. Always thinking of him.
I hadn’t realized I’d fallen asleep until my eyes opened again.
A mountain of blankets was piled high and wrapped around me.
It was dark, and the wind softly howled each time it blew past.
Cyrus was sitting on the porch steps against the side of the house, huddled in a thick winter jacket and staring at me with penetrating eyes. I couldn’t tell what color his eyes were on this night because everything was dark, but I knew they were intense because I felt them. He had an arm thrown over a knee, a rigid expression, his jaw flexing. The cherry from his cigarette glowed when he inhaled, and a cloud of smoke slipped between his lips.
Fable shifted in my arms when a fifth hand squeezed mine.
I lifted my head, finding Ivy sleeping on the other side of Fable.
I looked back at Cyrus, and his face softened.
We didn’t say anything to each other.
Sometimes words were too much.
And sometimes words would never be enough.