Page 7 of A Lesson in Thorns (Thornchapel 1)
“Oh, there you are!” comes a voice, and all three of us turn to see a beautiful, plus-sized blond woman and a tall sandy-haired man, both white, coming toward us.
Delphine and Father Becket—Delphine in a blouse, knee-length skirt and tights, and Father Becket in his priest collar—reach us in an explosion of chatter and greetings, and suddenly I’m pulled into hugs and given kisses, and then another voice comes from the far end of the hallway, and a slender black woman with braids coiled in a crown and an iPad tucked under her arm joins us too.
Rebecca.
And just like that, we’re all together again, all six of us, and there’s more hugging and exclaiming, except I still don’t hug Auden and he still doesn’t try, and St. Sebastian stands apart from it all, hovering in the doorway like a vampire cursed not to come inside.
I look at them all for a minute as they talk at me and then talk at each other and then argue about who’s talking too much. How strange to think that we’d all been children together—for a summer at least—that we’d seen each other cry and fall out of trees and shout and laugh. Looking at them now is dizzying—like I’m seeing the past and the present at the same time.
“I can’t believe you were just sneaking in without telling us,” Rebecca says, giving me another warm squeeze, while Becket asks when I arrived.
“Oh, just now,” I answer. “The cab just left.”
“Auden, why didn’t you send the car for her?” Delphine chides. “A cab for a friend, now really!”
“Well, Cremer offered the car, but she declined.”
“We could have gotten her too, you know—”
“She probably wanted to nap,” Rebecca tells Delphine. “Or work, and she wouldn’t have been able to do either with you talking at her face for an hour.”
“She’s a librarian, she can’t work in the car. What is she going to do, shelve books in the back seat?”
“All right, all right,” Auden hushes them. “Poe is probably dying to rest for a minute—”
“Poe?” Delphine demands. “What kind of name is that?”
“What kind of name is Delphine?” Rebecca counters, and Delphine scowls.
“I like it,” Becket tells me in a warm voice. “It suits you. Very literary.”
“And easier to spell,” I explain, which earns me a little laugh. I relax the tiniest bit, which makes me realize how nervous I was to be around them, how nervous I still am. They seem so glamorous right now, even chattering and squabbling in a muddy hallway. They seem so seductive and so chosen, like a little club, a little society of the five of them.
No, not five, I think, taking in the scene with fresh eyes. Four.
St. Sebastian is not part of the group.
It’s not only his T-shirt and jeans compared with the careless sophistication of everyone else, but it’s also the way he’s standing with boots planted and arms crossed, almost as if he’s waiting for someone to tell him to leave. My chest pinches at that, both in sympathy and empathy.
I feel apart too. Young and poor and cheaply dressed. And indecently fascinated with the interesting people in front of me.
I turn to say something to St. Sebastian—I’m not sure what, but I don’t like this weird fault line running through the hallway, this fault line I don’t understand—and that’s when I catch Auden looking at me and St. Sebastian.
No, not looking . . . devouring.
A high flush dusts his cheeks, and his wide, boyish mouth is set in the same hungry, tortured line it was twelve years ago, right before he pulled us into a searing wedding kiss. His hands flex at his sides, as if they’re itching at the memory of pulling us close. As if they ache to make us ache.
My blood is flooded with something hot, something urgent, and I hear St. Sebastian inhale.
Auden’s eyes close ever so briefly as he lets out a breath, like he’s searching for control, and when he opens them again, he’s back to how he was. Indifferent and the tiniest bit scornful.
You are not going to be stupid. Spoiled rich boy, remember?
No one seems to notice what’s happening between the three of us. Becket, Rebecca, and Delphine are still talking over one another, and anyway, the moment is so short that I think it’s only lasted a handful of breaths. Then St. Sebastian is back to scowling and Auden is back to that crooked smile, and I’m grabbing for my suitcases and making excuses about needing to change.
“Yes, yes, really,” Auden says in exasperation to the others, “there’s going to be plenty of time to catch up later; you’re making me out to be a terrible host.” He does a very good job of not looking at St. Sebastian as he takes a suitcase handle and shoulders a bag for me.
I turn again to St. Sebastian, knowing I should say goodbye . . . and what? That I want to see him again? That I’d like to grab coffee? As soon as I think it, I feel flushed and girlish. It would be easier if St. Sebastian weren’t so himself, maybe, if he weren’t exactly the kind of person I’ve always been attracted to. Broody and pierced and a little angry. The diametric opposite to my dreamy tweediness.
