Bookish and the Beast

They really aren’t planning to stay here very long.

The other three rooms are an office, an unused bedroom, and a bathroom. But no book. The last door at the end of the hall is cracked open, and I give a tentative knock before I poke my head inside.

As I thought, it’s Vance’s bedroom, and it looks like a hurricane went through it. The gray comforter is bunched in the middle of the bed, and the pillows are strewn haphazardly across it, like someone who has a hard time getting to sleep. There are clothes piled on the floor and a fifty-inch TV screen with the television logo softly bouncing from one corner to the other. There’s a gaming console hooked up to it, and a Game Boy lying on the floor, screen glowing as a Pikachu wiggles left to right, ready to fight a Hitmonchan. The eight-bit Indigo League music that flooded my childhood sings softly from its mini-speakers.

Huh, I didn’t realize he played video games. Or that he was that much of a nerd. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling because I will not smile for Vance Reigns. I will not. I wholeheartedly refuse.

Now where is that book?

I cautiously begin to pick over his things, feeling a bit like Indiana Jones stealing some precious artifact from a remote region he definitely doesn’t belong in, but it isn’t on his nightstand, or his couch, or his bookshelf.

As I turn toward the dresser, a black mask catches my eye. As I creep closer, even in the darkness of the room, I recognize it. Because it hasn’t changed in the month since I’ve seen it. It actually feels like yesterday. But it can’t be the same one, can it? Outlined in glimmering gold, speckled with the constellation of Ambrose Sond’s home galaxy.

No, it can’t be.

But who else would have—

“What are you doing in here?”

A knot forms in my throat.

Slowly, I glance over my shoulder, his mask in my hands.

Vance stands in the doorway in dark gray sweatpants and a cotton T-shirt spread tight over his shoulders. There are spots of sweat on his chest and under his arms, and his platinum hair is pulled up into a bun, stray hairs plastered to his neck. At his heels is Sansa, sitting with her pink tongue lolling out of her mouth, fresh from a run.

He looks like I feel—surprised and betrayed and…

It can’t be him.

It can’t be.

As my mind denies, denies, and denies again, his eyes sharpen until they could cut through the space-time continuum and blast me into the netherverse. “What are you doing in my room?”

“I—I came to look for—for…”

For a book.

Not you.

And at the same time I think, I found you.

I wasn’t looking.

But I found you.

“Please leave,” he says, stepping out of the doorway. His voice is surprisingly soft, and the edges are shaking. As if I’d stumbled upon a secret he never wanted me to know.

But why?

My mind is reeling as I make my way out of his room.

He clears his throat, and I glance back. “The mask,” he says, outstretching his hand.

Oh—I’m still holding it?

I quickly give it back to him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He holds it tight to his chest. “Because I’m not who you pictured, am I?”

No, definitely not. Not at all. But the guy I did picture—lovely and patient and kind—has evaporated from my imagination, leaving nothing but the raw look of an unwashed Vance Reigns in his wake. “I—I don’t know what I pictured,” I manage to say.

Which is a lie.

And he knows it. He reads me like an open book.

He scoffs. “Oh, I’m sure I’m exactly who you pictured then, aren’t I? Vance Reigns, the guy who can’t get one thing right, who ruins everything, who screws up every good thing he gets.”

Oh.

“You aren’t denying it,” he adds to my silence.

I bite the inside of my cheek again and whirl back around on my heel to leave. If I say anything else, I know I’ll regret it. I’m angry and confused and wishing I hadn’t come up here at all. If I hadn’t, then I would’ve never found out the truth. The spell wouldn’t be broken.

And it occurs to me—

He probably thinks the same.

He realized it was me, and wished he hadn’t.

I hurry down the stairs. I’ll tell Mr. Rodriguez I had to leave early today. I don’t want to stay anymore. My eyes are burning and I refuse—refuse—to cry in front of this jackass. But I can’t seem to shake him, either, because he follows quick on my heels.

“Wait a moment,” he says as I leave.

“Fine! You’re right! You aren’t what I pictured—” As I whirl back to him, I don’t realize how close my heel is to the edge of the step until I no longer feel the ground, and by then it’s far too late. Try as I might, pinwheeling my arms, I can’t keep myself from falling backward—so I grab onto the only thing I can:

Vance Reigns.

And I pull him down with me.

WITH A PAINFUL GROAN, I roll off my side and onto my back. I had to twist myself to the side so I wouldn’t land on top of her, and my shoulder stings from the impact. I suck in a painful breath and push myself to sit up, and once I figure that I’m not broken anywhere, I turn around and snap at her, “Can’t you stop falling off things for two seconds!”

But she’s already trying to get to her feet—and something’s wrong. She’s leaning too heavily against the wall, favoring her right foot, but she’s still trying to walk. Her back is turned to me so I can’t see her face. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m rushing to my feet.

“Oi, you’re hurt,” I say, reaching for her elbow to steady her.

She wrenches away from my touch, her eyes wide. Tears fleck her long brown eyelashes, and they make me pause. She’s crying. I’ve never been very good with people crying. She quickly rakes her hands over her eyes, smudging her liner.

“I’m leaving, d-don’t worry—” She tries to take another step, but her ankle gives.

I catch her, and bend down, pulling my other arm underneath her legs, and swoop her up into my arms. She yelps and wraps her arms tightly around my neck. If she tells me to put her down, I will, but she doesn’t, so I carry her over to the couch and set her down on the cushions, before I go find an ice pack. Elias put one in the refrigerator a while ago when he burned his hand in the oven. I hope it’s still—ah, there it is, right on top of the peas, where he left it. I grab it, and the first-aid kit underneath the sink, and quickly return to the living room, where she’s trying to get up off the couch.

“Sit,” I command.

“I’m not a dog,” she snaps in reply, to which Sansa—being a good girl on her dog bed in the corner of the living room—gives a haroomp and flops over.

I try again: “Please sit down.”

She hesitates, halfway between standing and leaning on the couch for support, but she must weigh her options in favor of sitting, because she slowly sinks back down onto the cushions. I go around the couch and sit opposite her, reaching for her foot, when she knocks my hand away.

“Do you want me to look at your foot or not?”

“Not would be preferable.”

“I should at least take a look at the swelling,” I say.

She hesitates again, and then she squares her shoulders and gives a single nod.

I gently lift her foot to my lap. “Elias taught me,” I say before she can ask. “Said if I wanted to do my own stunts, might as well learn how to treat myself, too. He went to school for nursing. Said it wasn’t his calling—not enough pain-in-the-ass rich white kids.”

“I can’t believe he gave up nursing to be your babysit—ah!” she gasps as I feel the underside of her foot, and bites her bottom lip hard enough to leave a white bloodless indentation.

“Well, good news,” I say after a moment, running my fingers gently along her ankle. “I think it’s fatal.”

She gives me a withering look. “You’re the worst.”

“So I’m always reminded. I think it’s only sprained, but when Elias comes back we can take you to the emergency room.”

She looks away, frowning. “I think it’ll be fine.”

“It might not be.”

To that she huffs, but she doesn’t rebuke me again. I gently wrap her ankle with an Ace bandage and prop it up on the coffee table, and go rifling into the first-aid box. “Want some pain relievers? Are you allergic to anything?”

“You.”

I offer her a bottle of ibuprofen and the ice pack. “Who isn’t?”

She frowns, shifting uncomfortably again, though I can’t tell whether it’s from her ankle or something else. “…Are you okay?” she finally asks.

That surprises me. “Oh. Yeah. Of course I am.”

The garage door opens, and Elias comes in, laden with two bags of groceries. “Is that Rosie’s car still out front?” He rounds into the kitchen when he sees us on the couch in the living room. Then he notices the ice on her ankle, and the first-aid box, and drops the groceries on the ground. He turns an accusing eye to me. “What did you do?”

I give him a withering look.

Honestly, not everything is my fault.