I'm only sort of happy with this one. I really loved writing it but in the end it didn't please me too much. Ahh well, read and review! And make sure you check out my last chapter…I didn't get any reviews, and that made me one said fanfic author!
Sorry for the long while. I was lacking inspiration. But here it is.
Story Thirteen
Title: The Bookshelf
Rating: K
Summary: Cecily broods over a relationship that never happened.
One year, eight months, two weeks and a day. Is that how long it's been? Surely the calendar is lying. He kissed me just yesterday, hidden by a bookshelf, pressing me against the wall, but carefully, as if I was delicate might break.
He won't remember me when he sees me, of course. I rarely remember such dinner parties, when someone is throwing yet another suitor in my face. I doubt that he remembers everyone who he's been thrown at, either. So at least there's that to solace me. If he doesn't see me and remember that kiss like it happened last night and completely melt, he'll completely forget me, and being forgotten is better than being spurned.
The clock strikes seven and startles me. Yes, it's truly been a day now—before it was just a rough estimation. I hear someone come up the steps and move away from my vanity, from my calendar resting haphazardly across the same space where my perfumes and powders reside. "Are you ready, Cecily dear?" Mother asks, and I turn around to see that she's entered my room, fully prepared for the ball. I nod as she runs her eyes over me, answering her own question with a slight gesture of approval.
It is not far to his home. The ride only takes half an hour, and I listen to Mother chatter the entire time. "Their son will be home, Cecily," she informs me, and I look away from the window, feeling my heartbeat quicken, to my displeasure. "You've met all of them before, of course, about two years ago, at a dinner party?"
One year, eight months, two weeks, a day, and forty-five minutes ago, I correct her inwardly. I smile and nod, murmur, "I believe so."
When we get to his home, his family's home, rather, the doors are opened for us and we're allowed inside. It's already somewhat crowded. Some guests are loitering in the parlor, perhaps greeting others or waiting for somebody before they enter the ballroom. I see him immediately, an arm looped through his. The arm belongs to someone familiar, although I'm not sure who exactly she is. Again, my heart does something that I don't approve of: It sinks completely, and I feel as if its remnants are resting somewhere within my toes. He turns around, and I think that our eyes meet, but perhaps he doesn't notice me.
Perhaps Simon never noticed me at all.