Staring at her from across the room, I don't know what to think. She sleeps now, breathing her soft, deep breaths. Half-dressed, I shiver in the settling chill of the early morning hours. I pull on a shirt absent-mindedly, not taking my eyes from her face, nestled against the pillow, her milky skin, glowing in the moonlight coming through the window, the soft curve of her shoulder, hip, breast. I sigh heavily, wondering how I deserved to lie beside her, to melt my skin to hers. How could I have, for so long, despised this girl, now displayed in all her glory for me?
The answer is one word, one man: Father. I blame Father for all the years frittered away in hatred, anger stewing and festering in his little boy. He is to blame for the time that we could have spent enjoying each other's company but instead we spent barely speaking and only with fierce words and fiercer tones. I never thought anything could ease that loathing, but now my heart is bared and full of her.
Running fingers through my hair, I leave my chair and cross to the bed where she sleeps so placidly. The freckles on her shoulder are barely visible in the pale blue light but disappear entirely when I pull the blankets up over her. Her skin is hot against my fingertips. I walk around the bed to the window, opened wide to the night. The sill is inviting, and I sit down, alternating my gaze between the graceful form in my bed and the dazzling cityscape out the window of my third-story flat. I feel myself sink. Picking up the piece of parchment on the desk beside the window, I read over it again. Mum was calling me home to deal with Father's estate, all the shit that defined him—and me.
My hand clenches, crumpling the parchment, and I bury my face in the crook of my other arm. I am partly to blame for her steering clear of me for so long. While father was a manipulating, selfish bastard, I lived silently, compliantly, by his rules, making myself up to be just like him. I was always someone else, never myself, and now that the bastard is gone and I can finally be myself, be somebody that someone could maybe love, I discover how undeserving I am of someone like her.
Leaving the sill, I give in to my restless legs and begin pacing. Suddenly I realize how barren the room is, just a writing desk, a frameless mattress and box springs, a chair, a small closet. I have lived in the flat for eight months, and the walls are bare, almost cold. I hadn't dared bring along any of my old things from the manor in fear of the same environment keeping me the same person. But this isn't me either. My attention returns to the piece of parchment, now a wad in my hand. I try to flatten it out, remove the creases, read it a third time. But I feel that sinking again and abandon the attempt, discarding the letter in the waste bin.
"What time is it?" I hear and turn to see her propped up on one elbow and holding the blankets up to her chest.
"A little after four," I answer. "Did I wake you up?"
"No. Are you all right?" The concern on her face is almost motherly. But then she pats the bed beside her in invitation, turning thoughts of mothers to thoughts of lovers. Could it have been this way all along, if it hadn't been for my name? I don't want to think about what-ifs. It's too late for that. While I still bear his name, she will be infinitely my superior. It doesn't matter that, behind the blood feuds and facades, I've loved her all along. I close the window to the cool breeze, and, as I lie down and she pulls her warm flesh against me, I vow not to hurt her with my presence. She won't suffer because of who I was, and who I am. Mum is right. I have to go home and figure things out.