Richard Gansey III wasn't the last person Blue had expected to show up at 300 Fox Way on a Friday evening, but his arrival certainly was a surprise. She heard him before she saw him – or, rather, she heard the Pig; the guttural coughing of the exhaust could most probably be heard from the other side of Henrietta.
"Blue!" her cousin Orla called in a teasing, sing-song voice from her own room, "Someone is here for you!"
"I may not be psychic, Orla, but I'm not deaf either," Blue yelled back, trying to sound nonchalant.
The truth was the sputtering of the raucous engine and the crunch of wheels on the gravel driveway had made Blue's heart perform a gymnastics routine of Olympic gold medal standards. She rushed down the crooked stairs, her mismatched striped socks slipping a little on the wooden floor, and opened the door before Gansey had even gotten out of his car.
"It seems you're finally getting this psychic thing, Jane," he smiled as he pulled himself out of the old Camaro.
"I've heard it's infectious," Blue replied, unable to match his grin. "What are you doing here?"
Gansey didn't reply immediately but instead turned back to fish something out of the Pig. He remerged with a stack of books, a rainbow of spines against the ridiculous yellow of his polo shirt. The books were of varying sizes and ages: some paperbacks with cracked spines, some old volumes which seemed to be held together with tape and hope.
"Ah," Blue said knowingly before Gansey explained. "Glendower."
"Definitely getting more psychic," Gansey affirmed. He shifted the books in his arms and, for a split second, seemed almost nervous. "I was going to do some reading," he said, more tentative than usual, "But Noah and Ronan are burning something foul-smelling they found downstairs back at Monmouth and Adam's working so…"
Blue knew he didn't mean to say it like she was the last choice and for once she let it slide. She been fighting a losing battle with algebra in her room and Glendower and Gansey were welcome distractions. "Come on in." She stepped inside and held the door to let him in, "Though I can't guarantee that my aunts aren't burning something equally foul-smelling."
For Gansey, stepping into the bright blue house was always a new experience. Blue had lived there her whole life and was used to the tiny ceramic animals that perched on the windowsills; the dark, midnight-purple walls on which hung ethereal Klimt ladies, grayscale city skylines and sunny baby pictures; and the friendly, oval handmade rug which lay calmly on the floor. But Gansey saw something new each time. Now, he noticed a jam jar filled with colourful sea glass on a three-legged stool by the coatrack. A pair of black Chuck Taylors strung up with different coloured laces rested by the living room doorway. He felt a warm rush of happiness as he detected mint among the scent of incense, cinnamon and rosewater which hung in the air, and a feeling of familiarity when he deliberately stepped on a floorboard he thought he remembered was creaky.
For Fox Way, it was unusually quiet. The upstairs toilet gurgled contentedly and the sound of Orla trading fortunes for compliments drifted down the stairs. Blue's aunt Jimi was napping and Maura, Calla and Persephone had unexpectedly (or perhaps knowingly) gone out to see a movie.
Blue led Gansey to the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. Tea was taken seriously in this house and Gansey had learned quickly that turning down a cup was not an option. "Flavour?" Blue asked, pointing to a row of glass jars on the counter. They contained tea leaves or bags and each bore a handwritten label. Gansey selected something called oolong because he liked the name and Blue chose something red.
Both of them were all too aware of the last time they had been alone together. It had involved stars and an almost-kiss that they had promised to never speak of. As Blue poured hot water into two mugs, she ached to break that promise. She had convinced herself that she would not fall in love with Gansey and it was not often that she proved herself wrong. But it had become clear to her that she had been disastrously, heartbreakingly mistaken. She had found that wishing to be someone else was both useless and boring but she allowed herself a second to wish it anyway before forcing herself to be sensible again. If you kiss him, he will die, she told herself. Twice. Then three times.
"Thank you, Jane," Gansey said softly as she passed him his mug. Their fingers brushed against each other and both pretended it was an accident.
They sipped in a silence which bordered on being uncomfortable before it was interrupted by a yawn almost as large as Jimi to whom it belonged. Blue's sizable aunt swept into the kitchen in a silk kimono and immediately enveloped Gansey in a hug. Jimi was a big believer in hugs and performed them frequently and with force. "Gansey, darling!" she exclaimed, "How wonderful to see you! Where are the others? Oh, it really is so nice having you boys around, especially when the house is so quiet. Are you staying for dinner? Are you a fan artichoke?"
"Aunt Jimi," Blue cut in, though not rudely, "I think the idea is that an at-least two second pause is required for him to actually answer."
"Pish posh," Jimi retorted, "I already know, don't I?" She winked at Gansey who decided quickly that Jimi was one of his most favourite aunts.
"Are you going to use the kitchen?" Blue asked. "We were going to, um, read." She motioned to the stack of books by Gansey's elbow but immediately wished she hadn't. The faint freckles on his arm were golden under the light of the fake Tiffany lamp and it took a beat too long for her to look away. When she did, she could still see their constellation behind her eyelids as if it had been stamped onto them.
"Maura left me in charge of dinner," Jimi replied, "And I read online that artichokes can be sautéed or eaten with mayonnaise!" Mayonnaise was another of Jimi's passions. "It might have been and eaten with mayonnaise…I am going to experiment! You are welcome to stay though."
Blue was familiar with Aunt Jimi's cooking experiments. More often than not, they ended in pizza or Chinese food being ordered and, if Calla was around, a new swear word being added to Blue's vocabulary.
"We'll take it upstairs," Blue said firmly. "Yes, yes, we're definitely sure."
She picked up a few of the books so Gansey wouldn't have to balance them all with his tea and nodded towards the stairs. Gansey's heart thrilled a little. He had never been upstairs in the house and never, ever been in Blue's room. He assumed that's where they were going since the house wasn't that big and he guessed there couldn't be many spare rooms due its large population. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the picture frames that lined the stairway because he was sure the other option would most likely cause him to spill his tea and he burned enough already without it.
The room Gansey followed Blue into was unlike any he had ever seen before, though it did not take long to guess it was indeed Blue's room. The walls were covered with cardboard trees and paper chains of leaves and branches hung from the ceiling fan. It struck him Blue's own personal Cabeswater: something magical of her own.
"You made these?" Gansey asked. "They are wonderful."
He sounded impressed but Blue leaned against the closed door and looked at him to make sure he wasn't joking. The last (and only) time she'd had a boy in her room, he'd made a tear in one of her trees and now she was overprotective of them. But Gansey seemed genuinely mesmerised and she smiled and shrugged modestly.
"It didn't take as long as you'd think," she said. She was glad they were talking about something, even if the something was paper trees. "The worst part was cutting the leaves. There are just so many of them, you know? I mean, it is a forest."
"Do you draw? Paint?" Gansey asked. It wasn't what he wanted to ask but the questions that were running through his mind could not be spoken, especially not in her bedroom.
"Both, a little," Blue replied. "Nothing serious though. I like doing bigger projects. I painted the walls in the living room. And you know the wall in the kitchen with all the plates? The pink one? That was me."
"Honestly, I should hire you as Monmouth's interior decorator," Gansey smiled. He hovered awkwardly before perching at the foot of Blue's bed.
"I thought I made it pretty clear I wasn't for hire a long time ago," Blue said, feigning irritation.
"How could I forget?" Gansey laughed. "It wasn't that long ago," he added quietly, though mostly to himself. "It's hard to imagine a time when you weren't part of this, Jane."
"A part of what?" Blue asked. She wanted very much for the answer to be more than 'the quest'.
Gansey's look was dangerously charged with something Blue couldn't name, but she felt like it mirrored her own. It ripped a hole in her chest. "My life." Gansey's answer was barely audible but his words rang in Blue's ears long after he said them.
Blue moved to sit beside him on the bed. What am I doing to myself?she thought. It was a small room, a small bed, and if she moved her hand even two inches it would brush against his.
"I wish you hadn't said that," she whispered. It sounded like a lie and they both heard it.
Gansey suddenly felt annoyed. Annoyed that at the promise they had made last time. Annoyed that if Adam found out they would only hurt him, and he was already broken. But mostly annoyed at Blue's curse and whatever stroke of misfortune had caused it. Usually so sure of himself, he was irritated that he didn't know exactly what he wanted from Blue, only that the longing was burning him from the inside out.
Carefully, he put his empty mug down on the floor and looked at Blue. She was beautiful, so beautiful. Now, she was dressed thigh high striped socks and a tunic which had ridden up just a few inches to reveal a centimetre of bare skin. Her brown eyes seemed to be asking a question and Gansey wanted to say yes, yes, yes.
"Jane," he murmured, tucking a strand of loose, chin-length hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come. I didn't come to beg anything off you, not this time. I promise."
"You wouldn't have had to beg," Blue said, equally quiet. It was the kind of quiet meant for two people but to those two people, it was louder than the heartbeats that rushed in their ears.
Blue reached up and took his hand in hers. Not looking away from his burning eyes, she traced the lines of his palm with her thumb. Surely one of her aunts or half-aunts or mother's friends would be able to read those lines, would be able to tell her they were roads on a map that diverged to align with her lifeline. But she didn't need them, not really, to know. The way every nerve in her seemed to dance and throb was confirmation enough. This is it, she said to herself, this is the real thing.
"Jane," Gansey breathed. She felt it stir her eyelashes. "We promised."
"We promised we would never speak of it again," Blue said, "Not that there wouldn't be another time."
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of Gansey's pretty lips. Blue wanted to put her fingers to them, not to be kissed, just to feel the shape of them. She wanted to run her fingers over every inch of his skin and memorise it like her favourite poem. She could do that. She could have that.
There was no need for words. Neither of them knew any that would speak as eloquently as their fingers which nimbly undid buttons and pulled and felt and touched. She fell in love with the skin at the back of his neck where his hair came to an end in a point. He traced again and again the space between her collarbones, the dip that went down and down and down. She learned that the fingers on his right hand, the one he wrote with, were more calloused than those on his left. He committed to memory the way he spine curved when she leaned into his shoulder. It was a miracle, the way her head seemed to have been made just so it could fit in the nook between his ear and neck. Their linked fingers were a completed jigsaw puzzle. Their skin was fire against fire; they were ablaze.
"I need to go," Gansey said. It was the thirteenth time that he had said it. They were a tangle of bare limbs on a warm cotton sea and it seemed like a tragedy to leave it for the cold shore.
"You need to go," Blue finally acknowledged. She ran her finger down the slope of his nose; it was one of her favourite slopes of his body.
She did not look away as he pulled his shirt over his head again but it seemed a shame for his glorious skin to disappear behind it again. He walked backwards out of the door so he could look at her and keep looking at her until he had gotten in the Pig again and pulled out of the driveway.
Blue returned to her room to realise he'd forgotten the books. They were still on her bed. She picked them up and finally looked at them: among the Glendower titles were Tarzan, and Jane Eyre and some Austens she had read and more that she hadn't heard of.
She left them on her bed even after she'd turned off the lights and gone to sleep.