30. Thoughts of her
A sky, rose-colored. Lilac little stars. The remnants of the night as the dawn bleeds in. Chalk, stagnant on the pavement that was that morning sky. That sky he had walked toward. When he climbed to the roof. When he saw the tent. When he saw her hand, the shadow of her hand, imprinted on the mirror beside her bed.
The water. Water, like her eyes. Water that had nurtured him. Fed him. Rocked him to shore, to John, to the City of Justice. Blue and bottomless. Inviting in hue, reflecting the sunlight, but freezing under the surface.
Music, like the music she had played on the piano. A subtle mockery of the fever that infested her chest, her blood. Melodies. Any melody, now, was… was…
Sunlight. No, not just sunlight. The color of sunlight. Red, like her hair. Pink, like her skin. Yellow. Like the yellow now drenching the walls of the tent. She was up there, on the roof, under the lamplight. In the biting cold. In her bed. He assumed so, at least. He couldn't have been sure. Because he had parted ways with her as they traveled toward their respective bedrooms. His, below. Hers, above. His, warm, dark blue, borrowed. And hers, cold, bright yellow, and, as far as they both knew, eternal. Eternally hers and hers alone.
"Goodnight, Peter Lake. Thank you for walking with me."
"It was my pleasure."
"See you tomorrow."
"Beverly."
"Yes?"
She had turned on her way up the stairs. He lingered on the landing, on the hallway that led to that room that wasn't really his. That room she wished she had. He wished she had.
"Your list," he said. "Why stars?"
She smiled, her fingers moving on their own accord up and down the railing. Almost musically. It was in her nature.
"I know them all," she said.
"Yeah, so I noticed. But why? Is there a reason? Do you just… like astronomy?"
She laughed. "I mean, yes. I like astronomy. But it's not just that…" She hesitated. Her mouth hadn't uncurled from its stubborn little grin, but she looked a bit self-conscious the next time she spoke. "If I were to tell you, Peter… would you laugh at me?"
"Not unless that was your intention," he told her, smiling. Then he shook his head. "I wouldn't laugh at you." He added, gently: "I would never laugh at you."
She thought about it for a moment. Looked down at him from the stairs. And he, up at her.
She finally squinted, teasing, and said, "I'll tell you. I promise I will. Just not now."
He chuckled. "Why not now?"
She bit her lips playfully, reaching back a hand and sinking her fingers into her hair. She unburied a single pin, slender and silver, and held it in the air. The crazed mane of dark red cascaded down her back, frenzied curls twirling as she spun and traveled up the stairs.
"It's late," she said, laughing, as she went.
Peter Lake watched her, without moving, until he couldn't do so anymore. He began to make his way down the hallway and felt funny, as if he hadn't walked in years and was only now remembering the practice of it. He let out a breath, loud and goofy and pathetic, a laugh, almost, and grinned up at the ceiling.
It's late.
The way her crazy hair had floated in a twirl, when she turned. The chaotic elegance of it. The way she had gone up the stairs.
He laughed again, but this time, softly, to himself.
It's late…
He now lay in bed. Thinking of her.
What was Beverly? Other than sky, and water, and music, and sunlight? This room. Beverly was this bedroom.
He would no longer be able to untether her from it. How her eyes had glided across the walls. How she'd seated on the bed he was now in. Asked about the attic of Grand Central Station. Listened. Spoken of the tent, and her fears, her fears of being buried by rain or snow. Water. She was water… to him, at least… and she feared water.
And the bedroom, too, was like water. Like her. A thick, liquid darkness that swept around Peter Lake as he let his head descend on the pillow. He felt like he was being rocked. Like he was moving, ever so slightly. Floating. That the floor undulated gently under the bed. He felt disoriented and heavy. He had not realized how exhausted he was until he actually had the chance to lie down.
Everything had happened today. All things that could have happened.
Would tomorrow be the same? He asked himself these things as he drifted off. As he sank into slumber.
Would it take such a toll on them both? Would he find a need for the white horse, now safely resting at the stables? Would he need to call out her name once more and drag her away?
Would he find more things to name after her…? Was it possible to find more…?
Thank you for reading, to those who are here today. It means the world to me.
Also, thank you so much to NotMarge for reviewing! You're a sweetheart!