JACKSON
I feel dirty from what happened at Studio Paris. It was a mistake, it was unlike me, and I let the alcohol get to my head. That's not say it was a drunken decision, it can't be blamed entirely on alcohol, but it did its job of barring the logic from entering my brain. I don't want Alexandra - not in the slightest. I want April. I want April, but she's intent on keeping me at a distance, and that was enough to push me in the other direction. It wasn't the right thing to do, but there's no taking it back now. It happened.
But having April's body in my arms is better than any other physical gratification I can think of. She smells lovely - light and airy - and she's soft in all the right places. With my arms wrapped around her lower back and my cheek resting over her heartbeat, my loose heartstrings begin to pull together into a tight drum, intact once more. As she strokes the back of my head, I close my eyes and let out a long breath. There's no denying that this is right where I'm supposed to be.
She didn't have to go outside and clear my name, but she did. She could've smeared me and debilitated our foundation, but she didn't do that either. Instead, she defended my name and made sure they had nothing of substance to put me in a bad light. I'm not sure of the correct way to thank her or if she'd even accept my gratitude at this point.
She's not moving away, though. I have her near for the first time in what feels like forever, though we've been back in the city for barely a day. She continues to hold me, arms wrapped around my head, and I lean into her in a way I haven't let myself do with anyone since my father died. Even after I hurt her, she's taking care of me. I don't understand why, because I know she's angry. But she hasn't left. I'm so used to people leaving; I don't know how to process this. I don't know how to move forward. I only know failures in relationships - I'm not well-versed in communicating through issues. No one's ever stayed before. I've never been worth it.
"I'm not good with feelings," I say, gathering the courage to use my voice. "Talking about them, or… or having them. I never get it right." I blink slowly, staring at the fabric of the dress over her chest. It lies comfortably atop the swell of her breasts, just low enough to put her freckles on display. "I don't have a good reason as to why I did what I did," I continue. "But I think a part of me made that choice so you would feel the hurt that I'm feeling."
She pulls away, holding my shoulders while looking into my eyes with a hard stare. "What do you mean?" she says. "How are you hurt?"
I frown, wondering how she still doesn't know after I told her how much her lie gutted me. "I explained it to you," I say. "Your lie upset me, April. The fact that you would lie in the first place instead of telling me that you're not ready to discuss the truth. Do you know how long I've spent being lied to? Nearly my entire life. My father was the last person who ever told me some semblance of the truth. I thought I could count on you for much of the same."
"I'm not your father, Jackson," she says. "I didn't come here to save you."
"I'm not asking you to save me," I say. "I would never."
"It sure sounds like that's what you're asking me to do," she says.
"It's not," I defend. "In the life I lead, I never know who to believe. Who's sugarcoating the truth to get on my good side, or get the in with my family. I thought it was different with you, but knowing that I was wrong kills me. You left my heart out to dry, April, and I still can't understand why."
"Of course you can't," she says, fire in her eyes. "You keep talking like I've lied to you around every corner when that is just not the case. I told you about the way my life used to be, even the things I was ashamed about. I told you about my dad and how hard it was when he died. You know all about my sisters; I even let you meet them! I let you in in so many different ways, Jackson. But you're constantly asking for more that I just can't give."
"You can trust me," I say. "I told you that I trust you and that hasn't changed. You still inspire me. You still make me want to create. I look and you and… I feel something. That's never happened to me before." Something changes in her face - it softens a bit and I feel more welcomed. "It's hard for me to believe I'm the only one between us who feels like that."
She's quiet for a long time, looking down and rubbing circles on my shoulders with her thumbs. Finally, she takes a deep breath to say, "You're not." She lifts her head and watches me soberly, pressing her lips together. "But I'm not used to letting people in," she says, speaking slowly. "I'm used to protecting myself."
"You don't have to," I say, overlapping her hands with mine. "I'm your husband. I can protect you."
She looks away again, smiling breathily with disbelief. I can tell she doesn't know how to process what I've said, and I'm honestly not sure where that sentiment came from. "That's not what I mean, Jackson," she says. "I've done just fine protecting myself for my whole-"
"But you don't have to shoulder that weight anymore," I say. "I'm telling you that you can let those walls down. No one's going to hurt you, April."
She takes a quick breath that makes the muscles in her neck visible. She reaches up to hold it and bites her lip, deep in thought. "Once I tell you what happened," she says. "Whenever that may be… you won't look at me the same."
Her entire face falls as she says those words - it's clear she believes them. "That's not true," I say, reaching up to hold her face and trace her cheekbone with my thumb.
"Yes, it is," she says, sniffling. "And contrary to what you might think, I do care about you. And because of that, I care about how you see me." She blinks hard, warding off tears. "I don't want you - or anyone - to know what I did." She looks away and steps back, stepping out of my grip.
I stand up and level our playing field, eyes trained on her while she wipes her face. Her skin is blotchy and there are dark circles under her eyes; she's exhausted and it shows. "Why don't you lie down for a bit?" I offer. "I'll give you some time for yourself."
She looks at me, surprised, like that was the last thing she expected me to say. "Oh," she says. "Okay. Sure, thank you."
I nod curtly and give her a small smile, then head out of the room. I linger in the upstairs hall for a long while, listening to the shower turn on as she undoubtedly gets in, then wander past the east wing to a sector of the house I haven't been in for years and years. My studio.
When I open the door, it's like stepping back in time. This is the house I lived in as a boy, after all. Everything is how I left it nearly ten years ago, covered in dust to boot. The easels are still set up by the windows, but the paintings are sun-bleached beyond recognition. There are full, tattered sketchbooks lying on the countertops and dried, brittle paint brushes resting in glass jars. The smell is exactly how I remember it and, if I close my eyes, I can picture my father at my side. This place used to be his, and it was for as long as I used it. On the day he died, I locked it up and never came back in. It's strange now, being here. It's almost as if I'm not allowed. Back then, it was a rule that I wasn't to come in here without his accompaniment. It wasn't because he thought I would wreak havoc on the room, but because he was my partner in creating art. He was still teaching me; I was still learning. When he passed, he hadn't yet taught me everything he knew. I still had a long way to go and now I have to forge that path myself.
There's an urge to speak aloud to him, but I ignore it. That's delusional, to think he's somewhere where he can hear me. The reason I feel his presence is because I was so used to it as a boy, and he was always in close proximity in this part of the house. It's not because his spirit is here or something otherworldly like that.
I'm an adult now. I wonder what he would think if he knew the type of person I've grown to be. Shame riddles my veins when I realize that, in some aspects of my life, he might not be all too proud of me. He wouldn't like how my mother and I revolve around money or the lavish ways in which we live - one mansion was always more than enough for him. The one my mother lives in now is extra, he would think, and unnecessary. He would want more of our money to go to charity and for us to connect as a family.
Though he was disapprove of the lifestyle I've grown into, I know for a fact he wouldn't disapprove of April. He would be head over heels for her, and that's a quality in which we share. He would think that she's capable of wonderful things, instills values in me that he was trying to, and brings me back to earth when I need it. He would say that I could learn from her hardship and show her that a life without suffering is possible. I'm intent on giving her as much - I will make him proud on that front.
I pick up a sketchbook and leaf through it, finding old drawings that are barely there, faded with age. I take a lasting look around the room and make it a point to redress it - I'll clean everything up and reinstate the quality it once held so I can come in and work when inspiration strikes. I can't always stand at the foot of the bed while April sleeps, a hotel notepad balanced in my hands. I need a workspace and this is perfect. I want to show it to her when she's ready, when I'm ready. Not now.
Before I leave, I pick up a guitar in the corner and dust it off, holding it like I would a newborn child. It feels fragile and delicate, like any errant move might break its neck, but it's simultaneously familiar and refreshing. I haven't played for years, but when I strum the out-of-tune strings, I can remember the way the calluses felt on my fingers. It won't take long for them to regrow.
I twist the knobs on the headstock to tune it and try the sound again, finding the sound much more pleasing. It's not perfect, it's been sitting for much too long to be perfect, but it'll do for what I want to use it for. I carefully step out of the studio and make my way back to the master bedroom, trying to recall the chords and notes that are necessary to play the song running through my mind. It reminds me of her. Ever since the moment she became more than just someone my mother hired, she made me think of this song.
April left the bedroom door open and when I peek in, I see she's asleep. She's wearing a long t-shirt and a pair of orange underwear, resting on her side with her knees bent. There's something small and blue tucked close to her chest, and it lights something in my memory. That was with her when she first arrived, and she protected it like it was precious. It had been folded then and now it's free - it looks like something of a blanket.
I don't study it for too long though, because I want to get these notes out. I play slowly, taking the song at half-speed, and sing softly. "Blackbird singin' in the dead of night… take these broken wings and learn to fly," I sing, taking my time in walking close to the bed. She doesn't stir - her side stays rising and falling slowly as she's deeply asleep. "All your life… you were only waiting for this moment to arise." I can't help but smile as I watch her, so peaceful, so immersed in her own world. I keep strumming, standing directly next to the bed now, and I think she starts to hear me. "Blackbird singin' in the dead of night… take these sunken eyes and learn to see… all your life… you were only waiting for this moment to be free." She inhales deeply then, rising to the surface. Her arms tighten around her chest, pulling the blue fabric close, and she slowly rolls onto her back to look at me. Even though her eye contact makes my heart plummet, I keep singing. "Blackbird fly, blackbird fly… into the light of a dark, black night."
She smiles blearily, eyes still half-closed. She rubs one with her fist and watches me fumble with the strings, still getting used to the way it feels to play again. "Blackbird fly…" she sings, her voice quiet and light. "Blackbird fly… into the light of a dark, black night…"
I finish out the chords and set the guitar off to the side while keeping my feet planted firmly where they are. "You know that song," I say.
She nods, blinking slowly. "You can't carry a tune," she says, teasing me.
"That's why I have you," I say, which makes her smile bigger.
For a moment we stay looking at each other, gauging the next move that neither of us are able to predict. In an instant, she seems to realize that she still has the blue fabric in her grip, so she subtly slips it under a pillow and I pretend not to notice. It's clearly not something she wants to call attention to, and I respect that. "If you wanna join me, you can," she says, scooting over to create more room.
"Oh," I say, making more space but setting the guitar on the floor. I get settled next to her on the mattress and lie on my side so we're face-to-face. Not close and touching like we'd gotten used to, but good enough for right now. Just being close to her is enough to put me in a higher spirits.
"I didn't know you could play guitar," she says, both hands tucked under her chin. "Is there anything you can't do?"
"Well, I'm not a great cook," I say. "Also, golf is not my strong suit."
"A rich man unable to play golf," she says, tone light. "An oxymoron if I ever heard one. I'm so sorry to hear that."
"I'll live," I say.
Her eyes move about my face and I try to keep up with their path. It's difficult, though, and even more so trying to read her mind. I have no idea what's going on inside her head, though I wish I did. "You're still good," she says. "How long has it been since you played?"
She caught on. I told her that it had been since my father passed that I last was able to draw, paint and play the piano. I can only assume she put the pieces together and knew it had been quite a while she I picked up the guitar as well. "He was teaching me," I say, letting the words come slowly. "When he died. He had been giving me lessons. That's one of the few songs I had time to learn."
"Oh," she says, face faltering. "We don't… we don't have to talk about it. I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"You couldn't have," I say. "But I don't mind talking about it. Not with you. It's been a very long time since I was able to talk about him at all." She gives me a wary look. "And I'm not expecting a trade, April," I say.
"Sorry," she breathes.
"You don't have to be sorry," I say. "I'm just trying to get better at reading your mind."
She scoffs. "Good luck with that."
I smile a bit. "I was in the studio just now. The one where my father and I used to go to practice art. Draw, paint, what have you."
"Did being in there remind you of him?" she asks, cutting straight to the point.
"Of course it did," I say. "It smelled just the same. Everything was in its place, which means no place at all. He wasn't much one for tidiness and order like my mother is. He always said that the studio was our place to be messy, to be artists. In there, we were free."
She reaches out and touches my cheek, resting her palm over it. She trails her fingers over my jaw and runs her thumb through my trimmed beard, eyes never leaving mine. She likes what I'm saying, I can tell. "What sorts of things did you used to make?" she asks.
"I've always liked to draw people," I say. "But no one's pulled me in like you do."
She breaks eye contact and the movement of her hand slows. There's a vein in her forehead that barely shows, but as her pulse speeds up I can see the blood beating through her skin. She traces my lower lip with the pad of her finger and watches my mouth, and I can tell her thoughts are whirring at warp speed. "The reason…" she begins, but falters. She takes a deep breath and steels herself. "What you did with Alexandra hurt me," she says, and I feel the sting inside my own chest. "And the reason it did is because…" She can't seem to get herself straight. She keeps stopping and rewording, rewiring the ideas as they come through. Finally, I understand that it isn't easy for her - opening up like this - and she's genuinely trying. I make it a point to devote all of my attention to catching every last syllable that comes from her lips. "Because I know our marriage isn't normal, and we don't love each other. We didn't get married for that reason. But… you were right earlier when you said that I have feelings in this, too. I don't know how you knew that, but somehow you did. I don't know how to explain them nor do I want to right now, but you should know that much. I care for you, and I care about you. Sometimes, very deeply, I think. But most of the time, I don't know. And…" She lifts her lashes to look right into my eyes. "At the end of the day, legally, you're my husband." Her eyebrows come together with concentration. "More than legally, too. You share your home with me; we share a life. I gave you my body and I thought I had all of yours." She pauses. "I missed you last night, Jackson. That's what it comes down to. I missed you and you were with another woman. That's why I'm hurt."
"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it from the bottom of my heart. "I know that probably doesn't mean much because I allowed it to happen, but I am sorry. And it will never happen again. I do take our marriage very seriously. Coping with my pain in the way I did was wrong. I don't consider myself immature, but I acted as such and I'm better than that. I'm a better husband than that. I was in pain, but that was no way to deal with it."
"Thank you," she whispers. "And I'm sorry, too, for hurting you. I shouldn't have lied, I know. There's no excuse and I'm not going to make one. I should have just stayed quiet. I'm not ready to give that part of myself away, but I could have just said that. I didn't mean to hurt you. I was wrong, too."
I nod softly, taking this all in. There's not been many instances in my life where a fair and honest communication has taken place. And, it seems, for the first time, something like that has happened. This might be the first moment where our union has resembled marriage or something close to it. "Thank you," I say, dragging my fingertips down the length of her arm. "I missed you, too, last night. I shouldn't have dealt with it the way I did, but I was trying to forget about-"
"Shhh…" she says, touching my lips in order to make me stop talking. "You don't need to say any more. We're okay now, I promise. I'll try not to hurt you again if you can say the same."
"Of course," I say.
"That means no more hurting my ears with your awful singing," she says, a smile sneaking onto her lips.
"Hey," I say, moving her hand away from my mouth. "That was straight to the heart." She laughs and takes my hand to bring it close to her face, kissing the palm while still looking in my eyes. "I guess that means I can't be Elvis for the Halloween ball."
She raises her eyebrows and drops my hand. "What are you talking about, Halloween ball?" she says, looking dubious.
"Exactly what I said," I say. "Maybe I can be Elvis, then."
"Since when did you start joking?" she asks, eyes lit up as I lift to hover over her body. She holds either side of my face and grips tightly, laughing as our noses touch.
"I have a great sense of humor," I say.
"That's up for debate," she says. "So, tell me about this ball."
I lower down to rest my weight on her and she adjusts accordingly, winding her arms around my shoulders while I lay my head on her chest. Her heart beats beneath my ear and I curl one arm around the small of her back while the other hand traces shapes on her bicep. "My mother is very passionate about the holiday," I explain. "It's a costume party, essentially. With music, dancing, food and drinks."
"Ooh," April says. "Drinks."
"I'm not ruining another Gucci tie for you," I say, and that makes her chest bounce with laughter.
"So, no, you will not go as Elvis," she says. "That's embarrassing."
"I'm only kidding," I say. "We were already given our costume assignments, anyway. We'll be going as royalty."
She lets out a long breath, followed by a groan. She picks up my head to look at me and says, "Am I going to have to wear a corset?"
I can't help my smirk. "Most likely," I say.
"I am dreading this," she says, and I move higher in order to press my lips to hers. Her crinkled expression soon turns to one that's much more open, and she eventually parts her lips for me. When my tongue touches hers, she smiles before pulling away with a flush painted on her cheeks. "How did a conversation about Halloween turn into this?" she asks.
"I haven't kissed you for far too long," I say, still cupping her jaw with one hand. "Come back. I have a lot to make up for."
She giggles and lets me taste her mouth as I kiss her - thoroughly and passionately. Her eyelashes flutter as her body relaxes, and my pride swells knowing that this heat between us is something that hasn't been lost. When she weaves her fingers through my hair in order to keep me close, I have her in the palm of my hand. "I liked who we were on our honeymoon," she breathes, sighing as her lips move against mine. "Remember, how you said?"
"I remember," I say, skimming a hand down her side to land on her bare thigh. Her skin is smooth and silky; I can't help but run my fingers everywhere they can reach.
"I liked having sex with you," she continues. "I liked it a lot." I lift up to create space between us so I can look into her eyes. "Was that just… was that just a one-time honeymoon thing?" she asks.
"Not if you don't want it to be," I say.
"I don't," she whispers. I grin and kiss her neck, smiling against her skin as she stretches her body under mine. She drags her fingernails over the back of my neck and gives me chills, forcing my hips to buck against hers. "Let's have make-up sex," she says, speaking directly into my ear. After she says the words, though, she pushes me by my shoulders to look at me with a stern expression. "But I want you to shower first."
Humiliation bubbles inside me because I know she's right. I don't want any trace of what happened left on my body when I give it to her. "Join me," I say, and I can tell the statement catches her off guard.
"In the shower?"
I nod and say, "No place better. You can make sure every inch is washed."
She blushes and I sit up to give her room to do the same. She keeps an eye on me as we wordlessly make our way to the bathroom, and after I turn the water on and close the door the room begins to steam instantly. She undresses bashfully, shoulders curved with her hands covering what's below her waist, but I do so with confidence. I throw my dirty clothes into the closet and walk unabashedly to the shower, which makes her roll her eyes with a sardonic-sounding laugh. "I've never seen a man strut like you do," she says.
"I'd be surprised if you met a man who could do much of anything I do," I say, pulling her under the water with me.
She leans her head back and soaks her hair, closing her eyes in the process. With my arms draped around her lower back, I can't help but kiss her neck in the position she's in. She's too tempting for me to do anything but touch her. "I don't know how to respond when you say stuff like that," she admits, voice sounding from beneath my lips.
"Say nothing," I say. "And let me prove it to you without words."
She insists on washing my body before anything happens, and I agree wholeheartedly. She soaps up a loofah and runs it slowly over my skin, scrubbing in some places and trailing through the suds with her fingers in others. Once I'm free of my sins, I get a good grip on the backs of her thighs, about to lift her up and press her against the wall when she stops me with her voice. "Wait," she says, one hand flat on my chest. "Condom. Get a condom."
"Shit," I say, stepping out of the glass enclosure briefly to grab one from the medicine cabinet. I've already ripped open the package upon coming back, but she takes the latex from me and sinks to her knees with a lascivious look in her eyes.
As she begins at the head and rolls it on, she doesn't look away from my face. "This is mine," she says, an undertone of power in her tone. She stands up again, leaning against the slick shower wall while grabbing the back of my neck and waiting for me to lift her. When I do, I waste no time in sinking inside her with one swift motion, mouth attached to her nipple. She digs her nails into my shoulder and says, "You're mine."
"Say it again," I grunt, hips gyrating slowly against hers in a refined, calculated motion.
"You're mine," she repeats, tossing her head back as her mouth falls open. "And if you let another woman put her hands on you again, I will fucking kill you both."
"Jesus Christ," I moan, face in her neck as I grab two handfuls of her ass. "Fuck, April." I'd forced myself to stop thinking about how amazing it felt to be with her - not just to fuck, but to have sex, to make love. I've never made love to someone; my experiences with sex have come nowhere near this level. When April and I are together intimately, we connect in a way I had no idea was possible. No words are needed past a certain point, we nearly morph into one person - one soul, one body.
Because of this, we come at the same time. There's no rushing to get her there as I hit my peak - she finds her way organically and the sounds she makes only intensify my orgasm. I pull her body tighter against mine, wrapping my arms as far as they'll go around her and trapping her in, body bucking around and inside hers. She whimpers against the side of my face, trying desperately to catch her breath as the shower jet pours on both of us.
"What I said," she pants while coming down, still wrapped in my arms. "I'm sorry… I-I don't usually swear like that. I don't know where that came from."
"You got possessive," I growl, biting her shoulder. "I liked it."
"Okay," she says, lifting my face to hold it between her palms. As I look into her eyes, she's dead serious. "Then I meant it."
…
"That hurts! I can't breathe."
"It's called the price of beauty, my dear."
"I don't want to pay it!"
Another yank on the corset and April lurches forward, the strings in Calliope's hands. She gasps, mouth falling open in an expression that doesn't help in keeping my mind out of the gutter. "It's just for a few hours," Calliope says. "Suck it up."
"Ow!" April exclaims, holding her waist that's grown even tinier with the mechanism tightened around her. She looks to me, eyes desperate. "Please, god, tell her to stop. She's manhandling your wife."
I chuckle and walk closer, adjusting the heavy cape around my neck in a way that suits me better. "It's for the look," I say, eyeing her. "And you look stunning."
"You said I looked stunning before I put any of this on," she grumbles. "I don't see why I can't just go as 'girl who really doesn't wanna be here.'"
I laugh again as she grits her teeth - Calliope is tying the knot at the bottom of the corset and finishing her up. "You'll enjoy it once we arrive," I assure her. "You love parties."
"I love champagne," she says. "Don't get it twisted. But it's unlikely I'll be able to fit anything in my stomach with this on, let alone breathe all night!"
Calliope pinches April's shoulder lightly before coming over with an armful of her queenly dress. "You sure are a complainer, aren't you?"
"Is it wrong to enjoy breathing?" April grumbles, barely moving her lips.
"Arms up," Calliope says, and April obliges. The dress flows over her body as her head comes out, and Calliope helps to bring out her ornately curled hair from the collar. "Headpiece on."
"Headpiece!" April echoes, but allows Calliope to put it on and make sure it has no room to budge.
"Now, close your eyes for touch-ups," she says, and again April does as she's told. Calliope swipes over her face with powder and lipstick, creating a royal look if I've ever seen one. April has been dressed in modern formal wear before, but seeing her like this ignites something entirely new in me. She looks like Marie Antoinette, but beneath the layer of demureness is a powerful quality that goes unspoken. There's pure force beyond her beautiful face and I'm sure I won't be the only one to notice it tonight.
"The car is outside, if you're ready," I say, extending my arm for hers.
"Isn't the party at your mother's house?" she asks, gripping my arm while trying to keep her balance with the wide-skirted dress. "I feel like a cake topper, by the way."
"Well, you look nothing like one," I say, stroking her hand. "And yes, it is. But she doesn't live next door, you realize. We live on the same property, but her house is nearly five miles away. We'll drive."
"Right," she says, leaning on me as we descend the stairs.
"Ah, the royal couple," Antonio says as he waits at the bottom of the stairs. "Happy Halloween, my lieges."
"You know The Addams Family?" April murmurs, speaking close to my ear. I nod. "I think Antonio felt inspired by Lurch."
I close my eyes and keep my laughter at bay, given that Antonio is still staring us down. "You're awful," I say.
"This is probably his favorite holiday," she continues. "He can be as creepy as he wants and no one can say a thing."
"Have an enchanted evening," Antonio says once we reach the bottom of the steps. "Can I expect to see you two returning later?"
"Yes, but please don't wait up," I say, using a firm tone of voice. He's known me since I was a little boy, so it's common for him to overstep boundaries now that I'm a grown man. I don't think I'll ever stop being 'Robert Avery's son' to him. I've still not grown into being 'Jackson Avery' in his eyes.
"Yes, sir," he says with a nod. "Enjoy yourselves."
Once we're out in the fresh air, I help April into the car and she can't stop laughing over the fact that she can barely see around her skirt. It doesn't take long to get to my mother's mansion, though, and once we do the whole place is already lit up with activity and sound.
"The party started without us," April says from behind bunches of fabric.
"We're fashionably late," I say, getting out and going around to her side. I help her to stand and straighten her outfit, and she takes as big of a breath as possible while standing up impeccably straight.
We make our way inside and greet a few people, and soon my mother catches my eye from across the room. As soon as she does, she stops talking to whomever she's with and makes her way over wearing a cool expression. "The king and queen have arrived," she notes, acknowledging April with her eyes. "Happy Halloween. Your looks have already stolen the show. You've taken people's breath away."
"They're not alone there," April says quietly.
"What was that, dear?" my mother asks her, and I fight a smile.
"Oh, nothing," April says. "I was just wondering if you had any champagne?"
"Of course we do," my mother says, like it's a silly question to ask. "Look around for a staff member with a tray of flutes. You shouldn't have to look hard."
"The house looks wonderful," I comment, knowing how much that will mean to her.
She beams. "Thank you, son," she says. "Decorators have been working tirelessly for the past few days. It came out just as I envisioned it. If you take a look around past the main area, you'll see that certain rooms have themes of their own. So, beware."
"Glad to know it," I say. "I wouldn't expect anything less from you."
"Have fun," she says. "Celebrate. It's why we're here."
With that, she walks off and leaves me to lead April into the ballroom where music is playing and drinks are being taken around the room. "I spy with my little eye!" April says, freeing my arm to trail after a staff member with champagne. "Be right back." She grabs two flutes from the tray and downs one in a gulp, and she's nursing the other as she makes her way back to me. "I was gonna give you this," she says. "But I got too tempted. So sorry, baby."
I smile a bit to myself at the pet name but I don't call attention to it. I don't want her to take it back. She's finished with her drink in less than a few minutes, of which I've spent studying her profile as she watches people dance.
"No one's dressed as anything scary," she says. "All of these costumes look like they cost an arm and a leg. What's the fun in that?"
"I really don't know," I answer honestly, taking care of the empty flute for her. "But would you like to dance?"
She finally looks my way and I notice her face has turned a light shade of pink. It's adorable. "I'd be delighted," she says in a fake accent, and takes my outstretched hand.
We meld with the other bodies on the dance floor perfectly, picking up the steps as if we've been dancing together for years. She's good - she learned quickly - and her strong suit is being able to hold eye contact without ever missing a step.
Her waist is firm because of the corset and I keep my hand planted where it is, the other softly gripping her hand. I maneuver around her skirt and keep us flowing nicely with the baroque music, listening to her breathy smile as I kiss her cheek when the song finishes. I let my lips linger, breathing in the scent of her, and she gives me a hug with her arms wound around my neck. "Can we find somewhere to sit down, your highness?" she asks, her voice curling against my skin. "I'm already sore."
"Of course," I say, keeping an arm around her as we exit the dance floor and the ballroom entirely. This mansion is newer, meaning I don't know it like I know my own, but we find a quiet place eventually. There's a bench in the hallway where only a few other people are wandering, and we're alone enough to be satisfied. "So, what do you think of this so far?" I ask her once we sit down.
She expertly removes her headpiece in a way I didn't know was possible and instantly seems lighter. I can't imagine it was easy keeping it up - her neck must have been exhausted. "It's festive, that's for sure," she says. "I've never seen anything like this done for Halloween."
"No?"
She shakes her head. "Halloweens for us were always for trick-or-treating. Obviously, Mom couldn't afford to buy costumes for all of us, so she made them when we were really little. And once we got older, me and Libby made our own and ones for the little girls. There were many, many years that I was a ghost if we had a spare sheet." She giggles. "I made the cutest little fairy costume for Alice when she was two or three. I'll find a picture whenever we go back to the house. I was so proud. She loved it so much."
I can't help but smile as I listen to her recount the memory. "That sounds nice," I say. "I like that your family had traditions."
She meets my eyes. "Well, yours did too, didn't it?" she asks, making a grand gesture with both arms. "This is something you do every year. That's a tradition."
I turn the corners of my lips down in a frown. "This… no," I say. "It's a fine party now. But it's been going on for my whole life. So, yes, it's a tradition - but as you can probably imagine, for a seven-year-old, not a pleasant one. I detested these parties, having to dress up as a prince or a knight in order to look elegant instead of scary. I wanted to be a ninja or a zombie like my friends got to be. I didn't want my nanny to put me in an expensive outfit and force me to play nice with the adults. I used to dread Halloween."
"I would, too, in your shoes," she says, leaning against me. "This wouldn't be fun at all for a kid. It's barely fun for me now."
I chuckle a bit and she does, too. When she leans on my shoulder, I wrap an arm around her and kiss the side of her head, tasting hairspray. "I don't want this for a child," I say, testing the waters. I'm not sure what makes me say it, but the words are coming and there's no stopping them. "I'd love to make our children's costumes from scratch and go trick-or-treating like a normal family. Like you did. I don't want to bring them to these parties when they're young."
Directly following my statement, April sits up with a rigid spine. She stares ahead, unblinking, and the color drains from her face. She keeps her eyes trained on the floor without a response for a long moment, fingers curling through the heavy fabric of her skirt. I wonder if she's breathing, because I can't tell.
"Bathroom," she says suddenly, breaking from her trance without looking at me. "Is there… is there a bathroom?"
"Down the hall and to your left," I say, eyes trained on her as she gets up to leave. "Do you need help with your dress?" I ask.
"I'm fine, thank you," she says without turning around, heels clicking against the marble as she fades from view.
Once I'm alone, I lean forward with my elbows on my knees and shake my head. No matter the situation, I almost always seem to ruin it with something I say. I hadn't thought the sentiment was too heady, but my words definitely triggered something within her. Her aura changed in an instant. She became sullen and hazy compared to the lighthearted manner in which she walked in. I curse myself, knowing I can never get anything right, even when I try my hardest.
I'm still lost in my thoughts when I hear a bloodcurdling scream come from down the hall. At first it doesn't pique my interest, given this is a Halloween party after all, but when I hear my name shouted in much of the same tone, I fly to my feet. That's April's voice.
"Shit," I say aloud, racing down the hall in the direction she went. I find my way to the bathroom and push open the door, calling, "April?"
I catch sight of her dress first, standing like a sentient being in the corner - without her in it. As I scan the room, I notice it's set up like a murder scene complete with blood over almost every surface. On the mirrors, the sinks, and spread everywhere on the floor. And when I see April amidst it all, my heart stops in my chest.
"I-I took my dress off because it-it got blood on it and…" she sobs, crumpled in the corner wearing nothing but her slip and corset. "I fell," she continues, bringing her arms up. They're covered in fake blood - she's entirely soaked from her hair and face to her shins and ankles. It's saturated the white fabric of her slip a deep crimson, and she's never looked more terrified. "Blood all over me," she says, eyes wide and distant. She lifts her hands to her face and turns the palms in as if she's seeing them for the first time. "There's blood all over me!" she screams, entire body shaking with the power of her voice.
"It's fake," I say, kneeling down to try and get her up from the floor. "April, it's fake blood. This is for Halloween, it's-"
"All over the bathroom, I'm gonna have to clean it," she says, shaking harder than I knew was possible. "It hurts, it hurts so bad. I'm bleeding and it didn't work," she says. I gather her into my arms and she collapses against my chest, but her knees aren't strong enough to keep her up, so I lift her. "You cut me and it didn't even work!" she shouts.
"I didn't cut you," I say. "You're not bleeding, it's fake," I say. "It's just for show. You're okay."
But she's not here with me, I can see that much in her eyes. It's terrifying, how far away she is - I don't know how to get her back. "We have to do something," she wails.
"Do you want to go to the hospital?" I ask, grasping for straws.
"No!" she screams, louder than I've ever heard anyone scream. Tears are pouring down her face and creating rivulets over the thick layer of blood on her cheeks. "It's too late and they can't know and I just need you to sew it up! It hurts and we have do something about the baby!"
I look her dead in the eyes and try to call her back. "April," I say sternly. "What baby?"
In that moment, something clicks. She looks at herself like she doesn't recognize a thing, then meets my eyes with a horrified expression. "Jackson," she breathes, and all I can do is nod. "Where's Matthew?"
"I… I don't know who that is," I say, growing more desperate with every passing second.
Her chin trembles and she buries her face in my neck, crying so powerfully that I have to lean against the wall and sink to the floor to sit the pool of fake blood. She tightens her arms around my neck and bawls for all she's worth, lessening the sounds of the party and every thought running through my head. I don't think there's much to be kept anymore - I just bore witness to the pain she's been fiercely trying to hide. None of this makes sense, but I'll hold her for as long as it takes. Covered in fake blood, I hold her on the cold bathroom floor until she stops sobbing, now a crumpled, sticky mess in my arms who's looking up at me from the crook of my elbow. She breathes slowly, eyes trained on mine, and I just cradle her. I don't ask for anything, I don't speak. All I can do is wait for her to come back and try to figure out what should happen once she does.