by K. A. Hobbs
Her body lies stiffly in my arms for an infinite moment, and I fear she won’t relax at all. Either the wine is wearing off or her grief is so raw that it’s broken through the haze regardless. Finally, though, her muscles begin to let go, one at a time, until I can feel the last drop of resistance shudder out of her. Her final whisper is so soft I almost don’t hear it, and I’m certain she believes I won’t. “I don’t deserve another.”
I don’t say anything, for once. I let her just be. I let her take comfort in my body heat, and I let her breathe through her pain with someone else there to help her.
After a few minutes, she goes soft and completely relaxed, her breaths coming out soft and even.
“Molly?” I whisper.
No reply comes. She’s fallen asleep, the wine, the grief and the many sleepless nights finally taking their toll.
I do my best to make her comfortable. I place a pillow under her head and a couple of blankets over her body. When I’m satisfied she’ll at least be comfortable, I go in search of some paper and a pen, and leave her a note.
I let her know I had to leave for work but to call me tomorrow and we can have coffee. I add my number at the bottom and sign it with a kiss, then I get my coat and make my way home, happy that she shared a little bit of raw, unguarded honesty with me, and more confident I can make her whole again.
The next morning, I swear I’ve woken up in a war zone. I sit up in bed, startled at the loud, incessant banging coming from somewhere in my room.
Are we being attacked?
Can we even be attacked?
I jump out of bed and wrap my robe around me before making my way into the lounge of my quarters.
Okay, not being attacked. Someone just wants to come in. I fling the door open and find George standing there, except he doesn’t look like George.
He looks mean, he looks moody and he looks angry.
“Good morning,” I say brightly.
“Is it?” He glares at me. “What time did you get back here last night?”
I roll my eyes and turn on my heel back into my room. “What does it matter to you? Are you my father now?”
“Evidently I am not. Would you like to tell me what happened last night?”
“No.” I glare back at him.
“It wasn’t a question. I need an explanation, Imogen.”
“Well you’re not getting one. You’re my mentor, George. I don’t have to share every little detail with you.”
In the most childish way, I close my eyes and refuse to talk to him, hoping he will leave. I wait a few minutes, and when I don’t hear him anymore, I take a deep breath and open my eyes.
Unfortunately for me, when I do, he’s still standing there scowling at me.
“I hoped you would have left,” I tell him angrily.
“You wasted that hope then. I’m not leaving until you explain to me why you thought it was a good idea to get Molly so intoxicated she doesn’t remember any of it this morning.”
“I wanted her to forget for a while.” I shrug, like it’s acceptable behaviour. “And you know, your inability to leave me alone is bordering on stalking.” I glare at him.
“You wanted her to forget… or you wanted to forget?”
“Her.” I roll my eyes. “Obviously.”
“Don’t,” he almost growls at me, his jaw ticking in anger.
“What?”
I know perfectly well what he’s telling me not to do, but I’m in no mood to explain myself to him.
I’m an adult, and adults can do whatever the hell they want to.
“Firstly, I’ll address the pathetic dig about me following you. I’m your mentor. I have to follow you. You know that. And I’m glad I do because I know full well you wouldn’t have told me about last night. Secondly, don’t act like your behaviour is acceptable, or that you didn’t disregard what I told you before you left. I asked you to behave, to be mature about it, to not push her. Do you even care about how she feels?”
That does it.
“Don’t you dare say that to me. I’m the one trying to help her. I’m the one who has listened to her break down time and time again. She deserves some comfort, some time to forget her life is a fucking train-wreck right now. She needs to not have some stuck up shit-head trying to control her every move,” I yell, the anger I feel coming out full force.
“I’m assuming I’m the stuck up shit-head you’re referring to?”
“Correct.”
“You know, I think I was wrong when I told you you’re ready for this. You’re not ready. You’re too immature, too selfish, to put another person’s feelings before your own.”
“You bastard! Take that back.”
He backs away, his hands tugging at clumps of his hair. “I have no idea why they sent you to me. I’m not the right person to help you, I can’t help someone who doesn’t want help.”
I glare at him.
“I don’t need help,” I seethe.
“You’ve just proved my point.” He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. They sparkle with rage, upset and something else I’m not sure of. “I can’t stand here and talk to you any more right now. You’re forbidden from seeing Molly until I say otherwise. Do you understand?”
“What? No. She needs me.”
“Not while you’re like this she doesn’t. You’re supposed to make her life better, Imogen, not worse. Do not go to see her. I will know.”
With that, he walks away, out of my room, without so much as a glance back in my direction.
Shit.
I know I’ve messed up, and I’ve messed up big, but I was only trying to help her.
Does George really think I don’t care?
He’s wrong. I care so much. I understand her pain all too well, and that’s why I did what I did.
Day after day, Molly sits alone, trying to pretend to herself that the world she’s living in is only temporary. And day after day she fails. Each day gets worse, each one a bigger fight than the last, and it’s exhausting.
That kind of deseperate hope destroys your soul. It takes everything from you until you have nothing left.
And yet, you have to keep going.
Keep smiling.
Keep fighting.
Well, Molly is close to giving up every bit of fight she has left in her, and I don’t care what George thinks he sees. I don’t care what he thinks he knows. He doesn’t understand the workings of the female brain. He doesn’t understand how we torture ourselves all the time about things we have no control over.
He can’t possibly understand how we go over and over things that have happened, praying we can make them different, desperately wishing we could change what we did to stop that awful thing happening.
He might be older.
He might have more experience.
But he’ll never understand what it’s like to be a woman.
Needing to not sit here and think about how monumentally I’ve messed this up, I head for a shower, hoping the steam will help clear my head.
I spend the day watching over Molly alone.
George is right: she doesn’t remember anything of the previous night, but she has a tiny glimmer of hope. I can feel it.
She calls and leaves a voicemail a little after lunch. I listen to it three times before I jump to my feet and go in search of George. He forbade me to see her, but can I call her? I want to know what I am allowed to do so I don’t piss him off anymore, because it seems I can do that a little too well.
I walk towards his wing of the house and stop.
He’s playing, which I’ve recently discovered means he’s either unhappy or ecstatic.
And unfortunately, I know it’s the first one.
I walk slowly towards the door, resting my hand on the handle, and wait.
There’s something so unearthly, so celestial, about how he plays the piano which is fitting seeing as, you know, we’re angels. But it makes me wonder if his playing has always been this beguiling.
I’m so lost to my thoughts I don’t realise he’s stopped playing until the door swings open and he’s standing there looking at me.
“Imogen, I’m glad you’re here. Can we talk?”
I nod and walk through the door he holds open for me.
George’s wing is beautiful, decorated in pale blues and creams, with art on the walls and books, so many books. Sitting off to one side right by the big window is his grand piano. I walk over to one of the big comfy sofas and sit down.
As always, George sits in the armchair across from me. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and turns his striking blue eyes on me. They’re framed perfectly in his black rimmed glasses, and I swear, not for the first time, that he’s looking past what everyone else sees and is looking directly at my soul.
I shift under his intense gaze and he smiles. “I want to apologise for what I said earlier. You are more than ready for this. I should never have made you doubt yourself, and I’m sincerely sorry if I made you think anything else.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I shouldn’t let my emotions get the better of me. I… I find our relationship taxing at times.” He rubs the back of his neck and sighs.
“Why?”
“Imogen, you’re different to anyone I’ve ever met here.”
I sit up a little. “Is that a good thing?”
He smirks at me. “I think it is. But it’s also a challenging thing. I’ve been doing this a long time, as you know, and every person I’ve met has been calm and placid and, dare I say it, submissive. But you… You’re the complete opposite. You’re headstrong and determined. You have this fire in you that burns fiercely and it draws people to you.”
“You mean I’ve got a temper and I don’t give a shit about the rules?” I grin.
“It’s much more than that. The problem is you seem to know how to press all my buttons, and I mean all of them.
My cheeks heat, as do his eyes.
“When I’m around you, I can forget the longing I have to be back with everyone I loved, everyone I’ve missed for centuries, because for the first time in a long time, I’m truly happy here.”
A shudder runs up my spine at his words and my palms grow sweaty. “You help me feel happy, too,” I whisper.
“Where it gets difficult is that I’m your mentor. I can’t always be your friend. I have to guide you. I have to show you how to do this, and do it well, because I know you can be incredible at it.”
“I’m sorry I pushed so much. I just… There are some things you don’t understand. Women are different to men, and there’s no way you can understand completely how we work. I didn’t get Molly to drink to make her sad, or to help me forget. She needed a few hours when her old life wasn’t tormenting her.”
“I know that.”
“And she needed to be free. Because her grief is killing her, George, like mine tried to kill me, only I was lucky my life wasn’t over when I died, because I came here. And although I want desperately to go back, I know I can’t.” I wipe at my eyes and suck in a breath. “You’re the only thing that’s keeping me together here. I’m loud and annoying and I pretend everything’s okay when it’s not, but you… you keep me grounded.” I laugh at myself.
Grounded.
It couldn’t be further from the truth.
“I know I have a long way to go. I know I have so much to learn, but everything I have learned, I’ve learned from you. I need you to believe in me. I need you not to give up on me. I believe you. I believe one day it won’t be so painful, and I believe I’m going to excel in my new life if I just have a little more time and a hell of a lot more patience.”
“I do, too.” He smiles gently at me.
“And I need you. I have no one else but you here, and if you leave me, I have no idea if this is even it for me. I don’t know if angels can die or if this will always be my life, but if you’re not here, I don’t want any life, not this one, not any one.”
He stands and comes to kneel in front of me. Raising my chin, he wipes away the tears staining my cheeks and smiles. “This is it for both of us. I thought I’d spend an eternity alone. I never imagined I would find someone who made me feel alive after all this time. Then you came, and my very organised, very calm world has been thrown into chaos and fun. I’ll always be here. I’ll always guide you and help you. I want to show you that life can be beautiful. We just have to learn how to live this one.”
I nod, smiling through my tears. “Can I go see her? Please? I need her. You’re right. She’s helping me. And I know she needs me. I can’t leave her alone. I need to make sure she’s okay. I’ll be responsible, I promise.”
“Of course you can. It was wrong of me to forbid you. Will you have dinner with me tonight, though? Just the two of us? In here?”
“I’d really like that,” I tell him honestly.
“Then please…” He stands and holds his arms out. “Go and help Molly. I will look forward to our… ah… dinner tonight.”
“I will, too.”
I leave George much happier than I found him. I feel lighter, and more hopeful. I just have to remember not to mess it up again.
How do I know if the outfit I’ve decided on is right for the kind of evening George has planned?”
Dinner, he said.
Just the two of us.
But is it a date, or just two friends having dinner together?
He told me I’ve turned his very calm, very organised world into chaos and fun. He said I make him feel alive, but at no point did he tell me he has feelings for me. At no point did he tell me he burns for me like I burn for him, and so I’m left unsure and doubting what this evening means to him.
Because I know what it means to me.
To me, it means a night alone with the man I’m fast falling in love with. To me, it means the chance to spend a night pretending to be on a date like every other female in the history of the world has the opportunity to—one where we share dinner, wine and conversation.
A night where I can try to forget what I am, and remember who I was.
I stare at myself in the mirror once more. The girl reflected back at me is one I feel strangely disconnected from. It’s me, and yet it’s not.
I’ve gone for casual—a grey jumper dress with a black chunky belt and boots. It clings to every curve I have and I feel great in it. I just hope he agrees.
As I walk down the corridors separating us, I bump into Leo coming out of the library.
“Imogen, I am sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” His deep baritone soothes the nerves clinging to every part of me, and I sigh a little in relief.
“No need to apologise. I’ve been there… a lot.” I grin.
“Books have a habit of doing that to me, I must confess. I go into the library at lunchtime and all of a sudden, it’s after eight.”
“Been there, too.”
His grey eyes asses me, looking way too deep, and far too wisely at the internal battle I’m struggling with. It feels like he can feel exactly what I do, like he knows I’m a ball of nerves.
“You’re joining George for dinner.” He smiles. “He’s very much looking forward to your company,” he tells me softly.
“He is?”
He nods and smiles at me. “Very much. I hope you know that he cares for you.”
“He’s a wonderful man.”
“I do not think he always realises his many positive attributes and how he draws people in. How they trust him and want to be around him. For all his confidence, Imogen, George is just as prone to insecurities as the rest of us.”
“Then he hides them well.”
“We who have been here a while have perfected the art of disguising many things.” He smiles softly. “I’ll leave you to your evening. I hope you’ll enjoy each other’s company and allow yourselves to switch off for the evening. Goodnight, Imogen.”
In the most Leo-like fashion, he gives me a small bow before heading down the corridor and to his quarters
.
I take a deep breath and continue on to the man I can’t help but find myself thinking about.
When I arrive, I knock once and wait only a few seconds before the door is opened and George is standing there. He’s changed into a fresh shirt of pale blue, which seems to set his eyes off perfectly. His lips curl upwards and I feel his smile to my very core as he allows his gaze to travel the length of me.
“Good evening, Imogen.”
He holds open the door and I step over the threshold. “Good evening to you.” I grin with more confidence than I feel.
“How was Molly?” he asks from just behind me.
“She was happier once I had been there for a few hours. She’s a little delicate, and you’re absolutely right: she doesn’t remember a thing about last night.” I frown. “I hoped she would at least remember something, but she’s blissfully unaware that she spilled her guts to me. She doesn’t even remember telling me about Ben, so we’re back to square one.”
“It might come back to her,” he offers gently.
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then you’ll have to find a way to make her talk about him without the help of alcohol.”
“That will be fun.” I grimace. Trying to get Molly to talk about anything that holds any amount of significance in her life is like trying to get me to stop cracking inappropriate jokes—practically impossible.
“Would you like to have a drink here first? Or would you like to go straight through for dinner?” he asks, coming to a stop a few feet in front of me.
“A drink here might be nice,” I say quietly, shuffling my feet.
“Are you okay?” he asks, eyeing me suspiciously.
“I’m fine.”
“Imogen, please, tell me if there is something the matter. I want to help you.”
I stay where I am, but he steps closer, peering down at me while I strain my neck to meet his impossibly blue eyes. “I really am okay.”
“You’re on edge. You’re not relaxed. I thought… Does being alone with me make you uncomfortable?”
His eyes are unsure now, and I inwardly curse myself for making him think I don’t want to be here, that I don’t want to have dinner with him.
