Unthinkable

by Nancy Werlin

  There was no room on the sidewalk for three to walk abreast, and Fenella took care to be the one who walked alone, behind the others, holding her bags. She let them get yards ahead, though from time to time when they asked, she called out that she was fine, she was right there. She longed to be alone, to sit down. To hold her leaf. To— something.

  She didn’t want to see Ryland. He would want to know what had happened with Lucy and Soledad. He would pester her about the second task.

  Meanwhile, she could feel more memories of Padraig flooding her mind, pushing at her throat, wanting to be told.

  They reached the church. There in the street was Walker Dobrez’s truck. And there, inside it, was Walker. He had his head down; he was reading something.

  Perhaps it was because she had so recently been remembering Robert. Perhaps it was that she had felt, in memory, the way it had been when she’d been planning to sneak out to be with Robert for the first time. Perhaps it was simply that she felt so alone. For whatever reason, Fenella’s heart squeezed inside her chest.

  Walker looked up. His gaze skimmed over Lucy, then Soledad, and then landed on Fenella. He got out of the truck.

  In the next moment, he was taking the grocery bags from Fenella’s arms.

  Fenella heard him saying all the right things. She went with everyone indoors, where she managed a smile for Miranda, who was feeding Dawn at the table. She did not see Ryland anywhere and was glad. She helped with the grocery unpacking. She found her hand again in her pocket, touching the leaf.

  Then Walker turned again toward her, and Fenella caught his eye and held it.

  Not letting herself think, she walked back outside. Walker followed her. She had known he would. She moved to the far side of his truck, where they would be somewhat sheltered from being seen by the others. She turned to face him.

  Then she flung herself against his chest and burrowed there, clinging.

  Walker’s surprise—and hesitation—manifested as tension in his entire body.

  But then he gave in. His big arms cradled her, one strongly around her waist. A hand cupped the back of her head. Under Fenella’s cheek, his chest moved as he exhaled. She could feel his lips, brushing softly against the top of her head. She could feel his breath warm in her hair as his fingers entangled themselves in its strands. “It’s okay,” he murmured.

  She knew she should not do this. But oh, she wanted to. She rubbed her cheek against Walker’s shirt. She whispered, “It’s not okay.”

  Walker’s arms tightened around her. “Yeah, I know. But I’m here.”

  Fenella pressed closer. She sobbed against Walker’s shirt, and her tears were real. He backed up, leaning against the door of his truck, and she went with him. She slid her hands up his back, under his shirt. His skin was so warm. His back was so smooth, so muscled, human and alive. “Just look,” she choked out, too low to be heard. “Look at what I’ve become. I hate it. I hate myself.”

  “What?”

  She turned her head and spoke distinctly through her tears. “It’s terrible.”

  “The house. Yeah.” Walker’s touch was so gentle on her hair. He pulled her head back and wiped at her tears with a careful finger. Fenella had never seen anything so tender as his expression. “Terrible. I was so relieved when I heard that you were okay. I would have come earlier, but I didn’t want to intrude.”

  “You heard I was okay?”

  “Miranda called me.”

  “Oh,” Fenella said.

  “Nobody was hurt in the fire, Fenella. It’s all right.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yeah.” Walker’s lips came down on Fenella’s brow. Soft. Strong. Tentative. “It’s all right. It is.”

  It was not. Fenella exhaled anyway, wishing to believe it for a moment. She closed her eyes. Instinctively, she tipped back her head.

  His lips came to hers, still tentative until she kissed him back, moving her body closer. She felt his breath come more quickly. His heart pounded fast against her.

  Her heart had sped up too. She nestled closer, wrapping her arms around his waist. His body was warm, but not as warm as his lips and his breath.

  Too soon, too soon, he lifted his mouth. Hers felt cold and abandoned, but at least his arms were still around her, and his body was close. He murmured against her temple, “Also, I’ve got an offer for you guys, a possible apartment you can move into. Also also, Lucy’s friend Sarah can take Pierre.”

  Fenella went quite still in Walker’s arms. “Pierre.”

  “Yes. There’s a nice yard at Sarah’s house. He’ll like it. Everyone can visit him there.”

  The dog, Fenella thought slowly, as an image of Pierre formed in her head. Of course, the dog. The beloved dog.

  Abruptly, she pushed herself away from Walker.

  To destroy love, she should murder the dog.

  Chapter 23

  The dog was old, the dog was sick. The dog would surely die anyway in a year or so. It would be awful, but not too awful. She could do it. Couldn’t she?

  It would be far better than trying to make Lucy and the others love her. Anyway, she had no idea how to make them love her. All she knew how to do was to fish for their pity— and awkwardly, at the cost of exhuming her own memories. Pity was not love.

  What was love? She didn’t know. She had loved Robert, and Minnie, and—and Bronagh. But none of them had asked for her love. She had given it, freely, instinctively.

  Who had loved Fenella? Her mother, perhaps, though that woman had died before Fenella could remember her. Her father. Robert. Minnie. Miranda, once? It was hard to understand why they had loved her, though.

  Bronagh had not loved her. Bronagh had screamed at Fenella. Fenella had brought nothing but evil and terror into Bronagh’s life. It was all Fenella’s fault, from beginning to end.

  “Fenella?” said Walker. She had thrown herself against him again, burrowing. His body was warm. His arms around her were strong, even if he was trying—oh so gently—to push her away.

  Fenella pulled away from him. The dog, she thought. The dog. It was an easy answer. She peered up at Walker from under her lashes. His short, neat ponytail had a severity that emphasized his features. She couldn’t help herself; she grabbed both his hands in hers and squeezed them desperately.

  Walker’s expression was happy, but now some caution entered. “Uh, I’m wondering . . . does this mean you’ve changed your mind about me?”

  “I guess so.” Fenella wanted to hold Walker’s warm hands and look at him and feel the reprieve of having thought of a not-too-bad answer to the second task. Even if it was, again, a physical answer.

  He was talking. “The thing is, maybe it’s just the fire. A shock like that can change how you feel. But you might change your mind again. I’m thinking this is too quick. For now, let’s go back to the idea of being friends.”

  Oh, he was nice. Robert had been nice too. Nothing mean in him, nothing underhanded, nothing conniving or manipulative. You could relax with a man like that. You did not have to be wary or afraid.

  Fenella reached up and pulled Walker’s ponytail. She moved in close again, brushing her body against his, satisfied to hear how his breath quickened, to feel how his hands went instinctively to hold her waist, to see how his face flushed. With part of her mind, she was amazed. She wanted to be close to Walker. Who would have thought that? It felt good, having his hands on her, feeling his breath on her face. She could practically hear her blood humming.

  Where had this come from, all at once? She didn’t care. She didn’t care!

  “You’re too good to let get away,” Fenella murmured, and heard Walker laugh. He pulled her closer.

  “I’m not trying to get away. Not since I first met you. You were the one who was running. You might still. And that’s okay.”

  “I forget what I was thinking.”

  “You wanted my truck, not me.”

  “I still want your truck.”

  “Show me where to sign it over to you
. No, stop, listen. We should go back in. I want to tell everybody about this apartment. It’s in the same building as mine. The people who live there are moving out tomorrow. And you and I already have a date for the auto show. There’s no need to go fast. We have as much time as we want.”

  Fenella knew that wasn’t true. She pulled away, however. “All right.”

  She held Walker’s hand as they went back inside, and he held hers. It took only a few seconds for the others to notice. Ryland noticed too, when he slunk down the staircase and twined himself underfoot. But nobody said anything.

  Not then.

  That night in their bedroom, however, Miranda kept the light on. The bedroom was small, with bunk beds. Miranda had slept in the upper bunk the night before, but now she sat at the foot of the lower bunk, with Fenella facing her. With her voice pitched low so that Lucy, Zach, and Dawn were not disturbed downstairs, Miranda said, “What’s up with you and Walker?”

  Ryland narrowed his eyes accusingly. Yes, please do tell us. He climbed into Miranda’s lap and settled there.

  “You called Walker,” said Fenella. “To tell him I was okay.”

  “Yes. I had to. Fenella—you should have seen his face, when he thought you had died in the fire.”

  “Oh,” said Fenella. “I see.”

  Miranda petted the cat with her eyes on Fenella’s face.

  Fenella said honestly, “I don’t really know what I’m doing with Walker, except that it’s exactly what I feel like doing.”

  Miranda said nothing. Her eyes held something. Blame? Fenella found herself remembering the conversation she’d had with Miranda after she arrived, about love and the impossibility of imagining that kind of healing.

  Fenella did not look at her leaf, but she knew where it was on the bedside table. “Something happened today, Miranda.” With her eyes on Miranda, and not Ryland, she spoke stumblingly about how she had had an impulse to tell Lucy and Soledad about the first time she’d seen Padraig. That she had talked and they had listened.

  “It was after that, then, that you felt like holding hands with Walker?” interrupted Miranda. “Presto, abracadabra, you’re healed?” Her voice dripped sarcasm.

  Ryland snorted agreement.

  “Well, no. I’m not healed. It’s only that I . . .” Fenella stopped.

  “You what?”

  You wanted to bury your troubles in some good sexual tension? Ryland put in with interest. Is that it? I can understand.

  “I wanted to tell the story of what happened with Padraig. I only told the beginning of it. But I want to tell it all.” Her hands were trembling. Only once before had she tried to tell the whole story, and that had been to Bronagh, who had not cared, who had said it was no excuse.

  —You ruined my life!

  —Bronagh, I know, but it wasn’t on purpose. I couldn’t help it—I was no older then than you are—

  —I don’t care if it was on purpose or not!

  Fenella had not tried again to tell the story. Not even with Minnie.

  “It’s not that I expect telling to do any good,” she said. “It’s not about, you know, healing. When I told you before that it was too late for me, I meant that. I held Walker’s hand, and guess what?” Fenella thrust out her chin defiantly. “I kissed him too. And he kissed me. And I liked it. But ultimately, I don’t expect any of that to do me any good.”

  She had burned down the house. She was going to kill the dog. Then she would do some third terrible thing. But after that, Padraig would be destroyed, finally and completely. Then Fenella would die, like Bronagh had. Like she deserved to.

  Like Bronagh had wished her to.

  But before she died, Fenella would tell her story. Suddenly, for no reason at all—not to gain love, not to gain pity—she wanted to tell. For the sake of telling, she wanted to tell.

  “Telling solves nothing. It changes nothing,” Fenella said slowly. “But I want to do it. I want to tell everything that I can . . . I want to explain . . .”

  Maybe it was that Lucy and Soledad had been willing to listen. Maybe it was as simple as that.

  Miranda was staring at her. So was Ryland.

  “So tell,” said Miranda softly, at last.

  Then, from up the bathroom pipe, came Lucy’s voice. “Yes, Fenella,” Lucy said. “Come down here and tell us more. I’m texting my parents to come and listen too. We all need to know, as much as you need to tell.

  “What happened next, after Padraig appeared?”

  Chapter 24

  “You’ve disturbed my nap this day.” The beautiful man smiled, showing gleaming teeth, and nodded toward the small grassy knoll that rose beside the road. “Twice.”

  Fenella could not look away. Her thoughts buzzed in her head like a trapped fly. Despite his fashionable garb, this man was no ordinary lord. She had never met one of the fair folk before, but she had heard stories and songs all her life. His nod at the hillside alone told her what he was.

  She managed to drop a wary curtsy as the faerie lord’s eyes took in Fenella from the top of her silky red head to her dusty bare toes. It was a slow gaze, and it grew appreciative as it moved.

  “Yours is a large laugh,” he remarked, “to come from such a small creature.”

  To hide their trembling, Fenella fisted her hands in the fabric of her faded homespun skirt. “I am sorry, sir. My humblest apologies, sir, and it will not happen again.”

  “You’ll never laugh again?” The lord raised his smooth, elegant brows. His eyes brimmed with charm that Fenella could see but did not feel. She pictured Robert’s plain, shrewd face with its snub nose and shy warm eyes, and his quickmoving, wiry body and work-roughened hands. Robert was hers and she was his. They had picked each other.

  “No, sir. Not if you dislike it, sir.”

  “I don’t dislike it,” said the lord pensively, his gaze on Fenella’s mouth. “At least, I think not. I’ve never heard anything like it before. Laugh again, girl. I wish to better judge the music of it.”

  Fenella pulled her elbows in tightly against her sides. “I am sorry, but my laughter is not mine to command. It comes as it chooses.”

  “Surely you can summon a small laugh.”

  Fenella shook her head.

  “No? Even if I were to plead? I might do that. Your laugh seemed to me as if it could conjure a celebration.” The lord took a step closer to Fenella. His expression was intent. “Would it surprise you to learn that I have had little to celebrate in life so far? I see you would not believe me. Believe this, then: It would please me to hear your laughter, and all sorts of good things might happen, if you were to please me. I have enough power for that. Power enough to reward one pretty human girl.”

  Fenella found his barrage of words confusing. She clung to her refusal. “I cannot.”

  The lord looked thoughtful. “Laughter comes from amusement, but also from enjoyment. Perhaps if you were to enjoy yourself? What if I took you to a grand soiree? Would you laugh for me then?”

  Fenella frowned, not understanding.

  “A party,” explained the lord lightly. “I could invite you to a court ball. It would be like nothing you’ve ever known, or even dreamed. A village maid like you, who knows nothing, has seen nothing. You would love it, I am sure. You would be impressed and happy.” The faerie lord touched Dando’s saddlebag, and lingered there. “Even a highborn lady could not command such a dress as I would give to you. It would be my gift, in exchange for your laughter.” He paused and then added, almost gently, “And only for your laughter. This I swear. I would take nothing from you that you do not give.”

  He looked sincere, so sincere that if Fenella had been a fool, she would have believed him. But she was no fool. And though he might be a faerie lord, still she knew his kind. It flared her anger. There were human men like this too, who thought a girl could be bought.

  How dare he try to tempt her with a party and a pretty dress? Yes, she’d been dreaming of dresses, and perhaps somehow he knew it. But she would n
ot risk her future at a handsome man’s whim, and still less for a dress. As for a party, what was a celebration without the people you loved nearby? What was laughter without beloved faces around you, laughing in return?

  Fenella chose her words carefully. “I’m sorry, sir. Such a dress would be above my station. Nor would it become me.”

  “Your station will be what I say,” said the faerie lord arrogantly. “And the dress will be chosen to sing out the glory of your hair and skin. You have no idea how beautiful you will look.” His glance skimmed her figure again, lingered on the crossed neckline of her fichu and her throat above it, and came again to her face and eyes.

  “Only laugh,” he said again coaxingly. “Such wondrous, joyful music. I have the strangest feeling that it would change everything, if you would but laugh with me.” He hesitated and then added, with an odd diffidence, “My offers are not made lightly. I could change your world. You would live like a queen, in comparison with how you live now.”

  He stood up tall then, and straight, as if he were making a vow. Tension seemed to ripple through him.

  Fenella took in a careful breath. She did not want her world to change.

  The tales and the songs said that you lost your wits at the beauty of the fey. The tales and the songs said that when one of them beckoned to you, you would helplessly follow. The tales and the songs spoke of faerie celebrations, rites at which you would dance and feast and make wild love. Human decades would slip by in one faerie night, unnoticed.

  But the tales and the songs were largely about men, not women. Fenella was not feeling it; or at least, she was not feeling it for this particular faerie lord.

  Perhaps it was simply that her heart was already given.

  “I repeat: I cannot laugh on command, sir. I must be amused. I must feel joy.”

  “You think I can do neither for you?”

  She had not seen him move, but the lord was nearer. Much nearer.