Chapter 13: The Sea Lion

There's a gloom in the room, ever since James told me about the necklace. It's like that conversation has popped our bubble, where my room was our own whimsical little rabbit hole where the real world doesn't exist; where we both can run from our problems.

But nowadays, James spends more time by the window, his eyes wandering outside.

By the third day, I've lost my mind and put together a plan to get his mind off it all. Mine too, if I'm going to be honest.

I walk up to him, gingerly, and wring my hands in front of me. It isn't until I'm right by his side that he looks at me. Though I don't mean to, I almost jump. I've rarely seen him without his glasses, and I've definitely never seen the bags under his eyes so dark. He looks like a different person.

Gulping, I'm careful with my words. "I can't imagine what you're dealing with, but... I figured we could do something special." Extending my hand, I offer, "I can't break us out of the castle, but I can show you the library."

"Library?" His eyes don't change, but he picks up his glasses and takes my hand.

I press a finger to my lips. "Shh."

I open my door and sneak him across the small landing. The attic storage room is right across the way, the second half of the transitioned attic Mom made into my bedroom. I focus on the turning knob and how long it's been since I last went rooting through Mama's things. Not that I've admitted that to anyone; recognizing that Mama exists is a secret, behind-closed-doors kind of activity, but even that can't keep my brain occupied.

Nope, all I can think about is the large, warm hand in mine.

The inside of it isn't nearly as callous as I expected, but from the necklace alone, I can assume that James doesn't exactly have to do a lot of manual labor. Not that Mom and I aren't privileged; we have our own three-story house with a mini-research room built in. But we have that "lives comfortably" money. James seems to have "doesn't know what to do with it all" style to him, underneath the scholarly charm.

Granted, the back of his hands aren't nearly as soft as the inside. There's a slight dryness to them and even a scar at the crux of his thumb and index finger. I want so badly to ask about it, but loud questions on the third floor landing are bad news.

Especially when I know my voice is at risk of squeaking since James actually dared to hold my hand back.

Once I shut the door behind us, that's when I finally start talking. After I let go of James' hand, though. That thing is dangerously distracting.

Gesturing around the room, I say, "It isn't much, more of a storage closet, really but-"

"It's wonderful." James laughs under his breath and straightens his glasses on his face, looking around the place like I've brought him to a beautiful museum. To his credit, in a way it is one, though I'd prefer the Smithsonian myself. "So you had this in your house your entire life and never explored it?"

I shake my head. "Never was much of a reader. Until you."

James seems like he's about to say something, but then his eyes transfix on the shelves and he walks towards them like I don't even exist. After that he's a goner. He belongs to the books.

I don't mind, really, getting to watch him think my dusty collection of stories and baby clothes is beautiful.

He pulls the weight of this silver-lined black book off the shelf (from what I remember, Mama loved hardcover books but hated book sleeves). His eyes alight, he said, "My mom loved Poe, too. We are definitely reading this next."

I take a quick glance across the rows, and from the few names I recognize, none of it is quite my... style, no matter how impressed James seems to be.

Failing to cover up a grimace, I say, "There is a lot of... poetry here, isn't there?"

"So your Mom liked poetry." He shrugs and chuckles, a different kind than normal, a well-worn timbre of a long-lost inside joke. "But trust me, there's a special flavor of person who has this much Emily Dickinson in their library."

Unfortunately, I don't know the joke.

"Really?"

James nods absentmindedly. "Dickinson was a hardcore goth gay before goth gay was a thing. Well, goth bisexual. But still. I would love to know what your mom's teenage closet looked like."

I snort. "Maybe I should read some Dickinson, then."

"There's also a lot of Poe, Oscar Wilde, Sylvia Plath, multiple copies of Sheridan Le Fanu's Carmilla- I'd love to bet she dressed up like a sexy vampire one or two Halloweens. A lot of vampire-lovers are like that."

I know I should laugh, but I'm bewitched instead. It's like the guy's brain is on fire. Sure, I've seen him smile when we read, but this? I'm helplessly pulled under his spell. The entire room feels warmer, just because he exists in it.

I ask, "You can learn a lot about people from books, huh?"

"Absolutely." After a moment of looking thoughtfully at the pages in his hands, he says, "For example, I love a lot of classics, which secretly means I just really loved my english teachers. And you seem to have a particular love for books about the sea: Odyssey, Moby Dick, and Robinson Crusoe. Makes sense, you're a marine biologist. But it's more than that. You also secretly love passion and adventure, dreaming of wherever the waves take you." Whatever his book magic is, it makes my tongue feel numb, and I have no defense. I could listen to James tell me stories about the sea for the rest of my life.

My brain stumbles a bit too hard on the "rest of my life" part of that thought and face goes a sun-blistered pink; I can feel it from the inside of my cheeks.

But, luckily, James can't tear his eyes from the collection of Edgar Allen Poe that he's flipping through. "Half surprised from your maritime upbringing and this spread your mom didn't name you "Annabelle Lee"."

Looking at him, I can't help but wonder if I would've been happier as a child, if I spent more time in this room. I wish I could be this excited about scaling these mountains of words stacked between two paper covers. They might've been a thousand adventures I missed on, ones that made me feel happier.

Ones that made me happy enough, period.

Running a hand across the top shelf, I lament, "I really should've gotten into reading more. Would've been able to see a lot more of the world."

"I mean, this isn't exactly the same as experiencing things. Would've probably made some of your days more interesting, but wouldn't have made up for the whole... imprisonment thing." James furrows his brows and asks something I wish he didn't ask. "Kai, why don't you just... leave?"

The answer is complicated, more complicated than handsome boys who lived in my bedroom for two weeks should know. It takes a bit more than a bright, warm smile and the cutest reading glasses I've ever seen to break those kinds of rules. Anyway, while James can be wooed by Astra, and maybe even a little by Kai, I doubt he'd be into cuttlefish.

Trying to keep it to vague terms, I say, "My body doesn't work quite right. So I have to stay where I'm safe."

James scoffs. "My favorite mug was chipped, doesn't mean I ever stopped using it."

"'I'm not a mug."

"The analogy stands." Shaking his head, looking at me like I'm ridiculous, he says, "You do know that you're the most interesting person I've ever met, right?"

I instinctively roll my eyes, but, craziest of all, he looks like he means it, his bright honey eyes open and kind and shameless. The man is just as much of an open book as the ones in his arms.

But it's easy to understand why he'd think he means that. I roll my eyes and lean onto the top of the book shelf. "Duh. I'm practically a real-life Rapunzel."

"I didn't mean that." He shuts the book and I have to be careful not to let my skin prickle. Not because of the noise, though that doesn't help. Instead, it's because of how serious James was staring at me, unwaveringly. "You're not a problem, Kai. Being different doesn't mean you deserve less than anyone else. Hell, my dad gets to freely walk amongst society and he's a giant asshole. You don't see him worried about being a burden. So why should you?"

I don't even know how to swallow anymore after that. My brain turned into a clean slate and all that's written on it is one sentence: James doesn't think I'm broken. Everything feels soft and raw and dreamy and I can feel my chest knot in the center of it all.

If he could only understand how much that meant to me, maybe if I figured out a way for him to never find out about the cuttlefish, he could- We could-

Before my chest caves in on itself, I toss my eyes to the ground and say, "I'd like to hear a Poe story."

I don't need to look up to know he's disappointed.

"Are you really sure about that?"

I let his words hang in the air for a second, almost asking myself the same thing, before nodding.

In the next few seconds, I wait for him to start the questions or the yelling or the frustration; all the things that follow being the clam that I am.

After almost a minute of painful silence, he says, "Fine."

James doesn't sound too pleased, but he opens the Poe book back up to whatever he was looking at. He sits down on the floor and gestures to the spot next to him. However, he doesn't wait for me before he starts reading, "I cannot, for my soul, remember how, or when, or even precisely where, I first became acquainted with the Lady Ligeia."

I settle in next to him, something that's becoming sort of routine. While I can feel his prickly annoyance in every word and the tension in the air, he doesn't force the issue.

For the life of me, I can't remember the last time it wasn't. With Mom, if she wanted to talk about something, we did. And if she didn't, well, under the rug it went. Situations are often forced on me, where I have to hold everyone else's feelings in my hands are the norm. I honestly don't know why I bothered telling him no.

But instead, he lets me walk away.

Not happily, but he did.

Mom never does that. She's like a white water raft. You roll along with her or you're at risk of getting swept under and crushed against the rocks.

For the first time since I met him, I look at his sunny curls and crinkled eyes and wonder: maybe he could be more than just a dream boy, if I let him. He stayed by Astra's side and kissed them. He enjoys spending time with Kai and finds her interesting. Maybe he can be different to me, just like I'm different to him.

I open my mouth to speak, even though I don't have any words to say. I just want to say something, hopefully of the important sort. Something that will move me one step closer to him, or bring him one step closer to me, wherever a lonely cuttlefish and a lonely sun boy might meet.

But then there's a knock at the door and my soul leaves my body, along with all thoughts of romance.

"Shit." I get up, but I shake my hands when he tries to follow. "Stay here."

My hands are shaking when I turn the doorknob, and I spend a few milliseconds convincing myself it just has to be Beck or some sort of accidental, paranormal noise. I don't believe in ghost, but-

But, just as I open the door, the alternative is much, much worse. Standing on the landing is my worst fear: Lynn Caspen, hair pinned up, her eyes squinting at me. "Kai? What are you doing in there?" I take every mental precaution to keep my fingers still and shut the door behind me.

"I wanted to look at some books."

"What? You don't read."

I'm somehow panicking hard enough that I round all the way back to cooly sarcastic and say, "Incorrect. Everyone reads every day, in fact, from social media to the weather app."

"Smart-ass." Mom laughs, and I can finally take a breath. The suspicious squint is gone and all that's left are her adorable dimples, smiling at me like there isn't a fully-grown man in the other room.

Granted, as far as she knew, that isn't even an option (unless you counted Beck). Mom asks, now leaning casually against the wall, "What'd you find?"

"Just some depressing poetry and vampires stories?" Trying to go through my brain files on some of the things James mentioned while I was stuck staring at him like an idiot, I remember a really long author name in there about said vampires... what is it...? "I think I might read this, er, Camilla book."

Much to my surprise, Mom gets this sudden misty look of recognition in her eyes. "It's Carmilla. Your mother lo-" And then, at the almost-cursed mention of the word "love", it's like the nostalgia bus got hit by the "sense of reality" semi-truck and all that misty smiling bullshit turns into a frowning look of avoidance, fast. She says, "Don't read too much, okay, sweetheart?"

If it had been anyone other than Mom, I would ask about it. But I know better than to do that. I just give a clueless nod and say, "Okay, Mom. I'll be careful."

I'm about to go back in when she grabs my hand, pulls me close, and kisses my forehead. This time, she almost bashes into my head. It stings, but it feels realer than any of her other recent, obligatory forehead kisses.

When I look up at her, Mom's looking very sympathetic and sentimental, which is... weird. Normally she's buzzing around in excitement or just doing the "suddenly serious" style. These kinds of softer smiles are... Well, let's just say I expect it from Patrick Bateman faster than I expect it from her.

But here she goes, rubbing my hands all affectionate. "I know I've been really busy lately, Tiger. And I know when that happens it's not easy on you. How would you like a nice you and me dinner date next week? I'll kick Beck out and everything."

"That'd be nice." I'm not lying, even if I'm kinda panicked she'll follow me around all night now. "I'm just gonna get back to my reading."

Luckily, Mom just nods and gives me this weird wink. "There's a good line on page 104. You'll recognize it. Just don't use it recklessly on any internet romances, okay?"

I give a weird, uncomfortable smile and duck back into the room, making sure to lock it behind me.

James, who'd been quietly reading across the room, pops his head up from behind the shelves to look at me.

Exhaling, I walk over and sit next to him, saying, "Crisis averted."

"That's good."

"Can I see one of those Carmilla books?"

"Sure." He hands over a paper-back book covered in reds and purples. James asks, "Planning to actually read on your own for once?"

"Hush."

Though my Mom only served to give me a heart attack, I flip through the pages like my life depends on it. Maybe because it's the first time she willingly referenced Mama in years and I'm starving for it.

Finally, on page 104, I quickly catch exactly what she means: You are mine; you shall be mine. You and I are one forever.

Ignoring the middle line, the words are familiar. After all, every time I was sad, Mama would hold me close and whisper it in my ear. Especially on days where I felt like my skin would always hurt us.

But I wasn't the only one she used it on. A couple times, I caught Mama and Mom holding each other close, and she'd whisper it in her ear, too.

I try my best to cover up any personal significance, telling James, "I think my mom just told me romantic secrets about her marriage through book pages-"

There's a shaky, muffled sob.

I look up to see James trying his best to smother the sound, tears in his eyes. Reactively, I avert my eyes and say, "Oh! Sorry."

"No. Me. I'm sorry. I was just thinking how much my mom would love being here." I dare to look up at him and James just keeps looking around the room, his hair flopping around his head. It's like he's an action hero who's found his loved one alive at the end of a movie, and I can't understand it. "Thank you, for all this."

"What do you mean?"

"The books. This tiny library."

I take a step closer to him and, despite my better judgment, start rubbing his back. I don't know what I'm doing, really. I just remember Mama used to do that when I was a kid.

James says, "I barged into your house and you let me stay and take care of me and even- I'm just really lucky. I don't think I even have friends who'd do what you've done." James blinks and looks straight into my eyes, only a foot from his. "You're special, Kai, you have to know that. Please tell me you know that."

"Not really." When every single muscle on his face flinches in frustration, I correct, "But I think I could learn to listen."

James starts scanning my face, like he's looking for something. I don't know what. But I do understood that somehow our noses are getting closer and I can feel his breath on my cheeks and he smells of cinnamon and-

And just as I think I might kiss him for a second time, he backs away. His neck's a little red and there are several conflicting expressions flashing across his face, from his furrowed brows to those crinkles in his face and that far-off look in his eyes that I met this morning.

Before I can ask what's wrong, he grabs a handful of books and says, "We should get back to your room before your mom gets nostalgic and comes back or something."

Now he's the one dodging me.

My hands a bit numb, I say, "You're right, we should."

We don't read together that night. Instead, James just sits by the window and stares at the moon and the stars. The pit in my stomach, the one that started growing when he told me what happened to his mother's necklace, is only getting bigger.

He's like a funny, charming sea lion, isn't he? And what do male sea lions do?

They migrate north when the time is right.

From the beginning, I prepared for this. I even have the money ready for him, if he'll take it. This was always going to be our endgame.

So why do I feel so sick inside?

Despite the fact he has so many bigger concerns right now, the only part I care about is that sooner rather than later, he will leave me.

And worse, a retching, vitriolic part of me has completely jumped ship and doesn't want him to go. Ever.