A Thousand Moments

by RighterB

Modern AU in which Mary is a grad student in Chicago and Matthew is a hedge fund investor/ part-time lawyer/ multi-millionaire who is in need of a nanny to care for his 5 year old daughter. Romance and Angst ensue in this multi-chapter story. Long time reader, first time author.

8. Chapter 8

Hello all and thanks for sticking with me. I've realized throughout the process of writing this chapter (and the three previous chapters) that I am simply not able to "update quickly." I can't do it. I don't have enough faith in my own writing to publish it without it sitting in my mind, and my computer, for an indefinite amount of time. I want to make this story as great as I possibly can, and I'm simply not talented enough to do it quickly. I've had the first fourth of this chapter written for nearly a month but I would never want to post it without having the "right" ending, and the "right" ending only came to me (at two in the morning, of course!) five nights ago. I would say, on average, I rewrite any given sentences at least three times, so that takes a lot of time and effort. I hope I don't sound ungrateful because I have truly been humbled by all of your positive responses. I LOVE hearing that you are eager for the next chapter (What writer wouldn't want to hear that?) I just hope that you aren't getting aggravated with me when it takes this long. I could probably update this story weekly if I weren't so stubborn with where the chapter ends. In fact, I could have broken this chapter into four or five parts but I wanted to give it to you all as a whole because I think that it's the best way to read it.

OK, now this next part is my sad attempt to put into words my immense gratitude to Tumblin' Downton, aka SaraPellow, for doing a fabulous beta read for me. This chapter would have been a train wreck without her, so…thank you

Now enough of my rambling…You're all beautiful and I'm so thankful that you are reading my pathetic attempt to entertain and enthrall you…NOW GO READ THE CHAPTER! :)

---

Matthew's right hand was shaking.

Violent tremors raced through his nervous system making his vision blur and his brow moisten. He took several shaking breaths in an attempt to calm himself but still the nerves in his right hand continued to fire on, rattling his bones and disrupting his intentions.

His trembling grip on the golden fountain pen was vice like and he watched as his knuckles turned from red to pink, from pink to cream, and from cream to white. The pen, normally so cool and light, had taken on the blistering heat from his body. It was heavy in his grasp and it felt as if it embodied the troubles of a thousand men as Matthew held its tip tightly between his thumb and forefinger. The pen was in a state of suspension, hovering and shaking inches above the small book, betraying his quickly slipping composure.

He let out a single hysterical laugh and felt his facial muscles work tightly through the simple action. Matthew stood beside his desk, his knees locked and his feet firm, resting the weight of his body on his left hand as he bent over the small black notebook. It was fairly new, bought only five weeks ago in the early morning hours, but its strong binding, cool and lightly textured, and its thick, smooth papers now felt like his oldest and dearest friend.

He had taken to carrying the book with him always, tucked inside his suit jacket, placed deep inside the cotton pockets of his pajamas, or rested by his bedside table, but never far from reach should the need to fill it present itself, snatching him from his normal life. In moments of deep thought, Matthew would now find himself resting his palm against its cool surface or tracing the outline of its strong spine over and over, as if the straight line would eventually change, leaving him with a new path to discover. When sleep eluded him, he would open the book in the blackness of the night, and run his fingertips across the pressed and scratched surface, reading his own recent past like braille, not knowing which exact words he traced, but his mind recalling perfectly the newly scattered memories that inspired them.

Bright sunlight filled Matthew's office and his bent body cast a long and dark shadow over its wooden floors. After several moments, he gave up on trying to calm his shaking extremity and instead concentrated only on lowering his alien limb to the right upper corner of the creamy paper. His curved palm found its target and he lowered the pen's arrow-headed tip to the clean page, eager to dirty the surface with the thrilling moment he had experienced just moments ago; before he had come to stand by his desk, before he had entered his office in a breathless state of bliss, before he had reluctantly left her side, before he had smiled in darkness at her unseen laugh, but after he had stumbled upon his daughter, bent low in a darkened corner, her hands pressed over her round face concealing her eyes, slowly counting up to an unknown number.

Matthew's shaking hand moved over the paper and his initial sloppy marks slowly evened out into something that was clear. The simple action of putting pen to paper had calmed him, and the comforting escape of the rich black ink across the pure paper crept up into his fingers and spread to his clammy palm and to his strained wrist, before continuing further north and rapturously spreading through his system. In fact, as soon as Matthew realized his right hand no longer trembled, the fever that had enveloped him moments ago had completely passed, and he sighed with his sudden deliverance.

He stopped after only writing the current date, and stood straight to critique the scribbled word and numbers.

August 10, 2012

The written month was barely legible but the year was clear and smooth.

He bent again over the book and continued, pleased that his hand remained steady, while he wrote a short description of what had transpired minutes ago in darkness of his hall closet.

The task only took a couple minutes and the finished product was composed only of a few paragraphs that were made up of broken sentences. Matthew's description was short and clipped, leaving much to be desired and not scratching the surface of the deep emotions that had rained down upon him, leaving him saturated and glowing, but the simple act of transcribing it, of pressing the memory out of his body and through the tip of the golden pen, its black ink darker than the darkest night, made the brief event with her more real and, most essentially, forever permanent.

Matthew read over his words twice, and once he was satisfied with them, he picked up the small book and held it to his chest as he walked around his desk before collapsing into his chair. He turned in his chair to gaze at the city that stood as the backdrop of his existence, and still, he continued to hold the book to his chest, clasped lightly but surely in both of his hands. His hands glued his written memories to his breast and Matthew felt the life that dwelt within the book's pages warm his beating heart. His lids slowly fell and he felt the humming vibrations of the book's words against his skin, their rhythm and prose rattling his existence back to him, continuously repeating the moments of his recent past when he had awoken and found that he was, despite his haunted spirit, still alive.

Alive…

The book contained the proof of his vitality, drawn from beautiful experiences hidden within everyday circumstances.

Matthew filled the book's blank pages with the descriptions of moments, large and small, when he was reminded that he was alive. He wrote about the moments that left him breathless, moments that left him speechless, moments that made him laugh from within his soul, moments that tingled his spine and burned his lungs, moments so bright they eclipsed the heavy darkness in his eyes, blinding him but letting him see things he hadn't witnessed in years. He had taken to spilling his soul onto four-by-six inch pages of off-white paper and, in doing so, he tried to describe the events when he physically felt his life flowing throughout his system, warming his skin and reminding his heart to beat and his blood to flow. The book kept those memories safe and acted as undeniable proof that Matthew could still feel something other than despair. The book was a witness to his own happiness and would always be there to remind him that all was not lost.

His psychologist had suggested that he pick up the practice of writing down simple moments of happiness over a year ago, but when the concept was initially suggested to Matthew, the idea of ever experiencing anything other than complete numbness, which was only temporarily interrupted with shocks of pain or misery, seemed like an impossibility. The idea of ever feeling anything other than some degree of despair had never crossed his mind. He would remain a shell of a man whose only companion would be fear cloaked in torment, and Matthew believed this to be his only future and that was the absolute truth…until several months ago.

Until her presence changed everything; until a normal day in the middle of May when she had entered into his life and shook the solid foundation of pain beneath his trembling feet, causing the base of his misery to begin to crack and falter.

Matthew slept better than he had in years on the night of the Fourth of the July. He couldn't remember falling asleep, but he remembered the sight of his daughter's smile and the warmth of Mary's small hand in his own as he woke to the purple sky early the next morning. The happiness that the woman had sowed within him remained and he longed to keep the embers of her presence alight in his soul. Matthew knew that memories were fleeting and faulty and the desire to hold onto the wonderful feeling of having his daughter's rapt attention, the peace that came to him when he spoke freely of Lavina, and the savage pleasure of having Mary's fingers curled around his own, ate away at his insides. He would never recover from losing those sensations and knew that he must make the earth shifting events that had occurred last night a part of a permanent written history. He dressed with urgency in the shadows of the early morning and escaped into the halls of his silent home, and out of the glass walls of The Pearl, and into the slowly waking city streets. Matthew knew his destination and had the object of his journey, a small empty notebook, within his grasp before the sun fully rose. He returned to his home and escaped into his office and set about filling the first pages only minutes before the rest of his household woke for the day. Sometime later he emerged from within his office, and found his home echoing with the voices of those that had inspired the words written in the small book that he now carried deep within his pocket. The man felt light but the book felt heavy with his happiness.

Back in his office, Matthew opened his eyes to the city skyline and he slowly removed the book from his chest only to have his figures turned back the cover, revealing his first entry. [Not sure about this sentence. Is this what you meant? Back in his office, Matthew opened his eyes to the city skyline as he slowly removed the book from his chest, his fingers turning back the cover to reveal his first entry.

---

July 5, 2012

I've been lost for a long time.

I've been lost but I found myself last night while spilling bits of myself out to my daughter. Yes, I spoke to my daughter about her mother, but to speak of her mother is to speak of me.

Perhaps there is another way? Perhaps I do not have to keep my distance from my daughter? Perhaps she could forgive me, and perhaps I could forgive myself for the sins of my past?...Perhaps.

My soul awoke last night…I awoke and stretched to the wonderful memories of my past, the sight of my daughter's smile, and the warmth of her touch…She's so alive.

I want to live as she lives, fully and without hesitation. I have felt the life that radiates through her being only from a distance, and for so long I have desired a closer look. I felt her life last night. I grabbed out for her in the darkness, wanting only to test the solidness of her, only to confirm that my daughter's smile was not a figment of my imagination, and I was pleased to find that she sot me out as well. She was the one to entwine our fingers, locking me to her, and I'm so grateful for the simple action—I will spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to her. She held me tight. I held her tight. We held on to each other, simply but urgently.

I couldn't identify the feeling for a long time, but later that night, hours after I had reluctantly let go of her so that she could carry my sleeping daughter to bed, I realize that the swelling of my chest and the dragging of my stomach was the physical impression of my own happiness.

Happiness…I had forgotten you.

Happiness…I will now chase you, capture you, and bask in the glow of you.

The world had seemed rosy and the possibilities endless that beautiful morning, and Matthew rode his spiritual high of the night of the Fourth deep into the morning. He discovered his child in the kitchen, sleepily bent over a bowl and softly chewing soggy cold cereal, and he greeted her warmly. He wanted nothing more than to pick her up and hold her tight, to smell her skin and touch her hair, to feel her breath fill her small chest, and to start catching up on the life she had been living in his absence.

His daughter looked up at his greeting and the coldness that fell from her icy eyes sucked all of the happiness from him. The look she gave him stopped him in his tracks, and he felt his familiar depression snap back around him, as if it were always hovering somewhere very near, waiting for reality to dawn on him. He forgot the small black book he carried in his pocket and the wonderful events that had inspired them. At looking at the hate in his child's eyes, his mind began replaying his worst memories back to him—he remembered his wife's final broken moments, relived the day of her funeral, saw the second name that should be on her tombstone, watched, in broken pieces, his daughter cave in on herself with his distance, felt his mother's cold hand in his as she left the world, and heard Mary's deep echoing voice call him out on all of his sins.

The familiar haunting look that his daughter gave him drove the air from his lungs and it was as if last night had never happened. Her bright eyes were cold and she looked at him as if he was a stranger, and it was as if nothing had changed. But, then again, nothing really had changed. He was still a stranger to his daughter, and she was still a mystery to him. Did he expect to have all of his wrongs undone in only one evening?

He felt his grief settle back around him, uncomfortable but familiar, just in time to look up and see the woman who stood slightly to his child's right. Her hair was up and disheveled, her shirt was the color of blackberry wine, and her sleep-rimmed eyes were wide with undisguised alarm. She held him in her eyes and a bright blue mug in her hands, and Matthew saw how perfectly she read him. Mary knew how high his hopes had been only moments before and how those hopes had suddenly gone up in hot, violent flames. She moved towards him with the smallest adjustment, leaning forward as if she were physically unable to remain still, and silently urged him, using only her dark eyes, to cling to the joy and hopefulness that had warmed him moments before. She encouraged him wordlessly from the short distance, but the woman didn't know that her pleads were pointless, for Matthew had already gone cold; the delicate tendrils of his happiness had slipped through his trembling hands the moment his daughter's cool blue eyes fell upon his. He felt the hopelessness in his eyes finally sink into the woman's white flesh, and Matthew saw her reach out to him one more time as she slowly shook her head and her soft, red lips silently said 'no' before he turned and left the room.

He cursed the black notebook that was now the only memory of his stolen happiness. He wanted to destroy it, to send its pages up in red flames and erase the evening of the Fourth from his memory because it had made him forget his reasons for being closed off. He had forgotten why he had been so distant from his daughter, but her cold look the next morning served as a blinding reminder. He had always been so terrified to even attempt to open up to his child and now he discovered that those fears were well founded.

Matthew knew that he could handle Quinn hating him for his aversion, it was tangible, exact, something that could be pointed at and blamed, but should he try to have a relationship with her, should he try to be the father to her that she deserved, should she adore him and love him, and only later to find out the truth of his past and then hate him for the same reasons he hated himself, that, Matthew could not bear. Once she found out the truth of her mother's death and the truth of the other one, the one that Matthew even hid from himself, his mind graciously throwing up every roadblock against it so that it was only stirred up in his very darkest moments, Quinn would truly hate him. Quinn would soon know the truth of her mother's death, one day she would ask and he would not keep it from her, and Matthew would rather have her already hate him than have to endure losing her love. He couldn't cope with having her love and affection one day and then losing it the next; better for her to hate him always.

He knew his daughter was stronger than he was. Her adolescent years would be rough, but what he had witnessed in recent months made him believe that she wasn't so damaged that she couldn't live a normal healthy life. He had recently seen that she could form strong relationships was able to open up and she would do that with others, but not with him. He knew his motives were selfish and his actions were cowardice, but their result was something that he could cope with; it was something that would allow him to still get out of bed in the morning and continue pretending to live.

The next several days that followed had been the darkest that Matthew had endured in months. His brief hours of happiness now made his existence all the more hollow; he felt as if he finally understood what it was to be happy again, but now he knew that he never would be. Those bright hours mocked him ceaselessly, sharp and bitter, and they made his ever-present nightmares worse. He banished the black notebook to a shadowed corner and hoped that his distance would eventually turn it to dust. Sleep became even more elusive than ever and he hid himself from his daughter and her caretaker completely. Twice he took bottles of scotch to bed, hoping to drown out the sounds of crunching metal and broken glass, the smell of the sickness, and feel of his daughter's dead eyes on him. He was constantly reminded of all that he had done and not done, and he wept silently, night after endless night, into the warm cup of his shaking hands.

His saving grace came in the form of a knock.

It had been five days since the night of the Fourth and his seclusion had been so encompassing that he had only seen his daughter and her caretaker from a distance and he had not spoken one word to either of them.

Matthew had to come home in the early afternoon to retrieve some documents that he had left there in his sleep-deprived state. He could have sent an courier but he needed some fresh air and was sure that the deafening sounds of the city would drown out the screaming demons in his head. The afternoon was hot and beautiful and Matthew knew that Mary and Quinn were normally out of the penthouse at this time of day, so he was very surprised to hear the soft but insistent knock on his office door only after being home for a few minutes. He knew that it wasn't Elsie or Anna because they normally took their lunch at this time, and so he was only left with one option.

He momentarily considered remaining silent, hoping she would go away, but he knew her. He knew he couldn't hide from her when she was determined and, even despite his silence, she would eventually see herself in. He sighed and accepted defeat.

"Come in." His voice was weak with its lack of use and Matthew momentarily wondered when the last time was that he spoke aloud.

She entered into his office and Matthew felt his knees go week. Her long, dark hair was down and soft and she wore a burgundy top that clung tight to her every curve. Matthew looked up into her eyes reflexively, his nerves and muscles automatically pulling in the direction of her beautiful face, knowing the relief that would come. He found a home in the darkness of her stare and already the world seemed slightly less bleak.

"You've been avoiding us."

Her words were neither accusatory nor angry. She said them as a statement of fact and nothing more, but Matthew was still shamed by them.

She continued to tenderly hold him with her eyes and Matthew felt his composure start to slip. He was stressed, tired, and desperately lonely and he hovered shakily on the edge of breaking down and confessing everything to her, or crossing the room and pressing her to him, knowing that the heat of her body would warm his frozen soul.

However, he found another avenue of escape and reluctantly let his eyes vacate hers and land on the papers in front of him.

"I've been busy." The false words were soft with his defeat and they sounded untrue even to his own ears. Matthew knew that she would see through them.

"Don't do that, Matthew." Her strong voice walked the line between disappointment and pleading, and he knew that she would fight for him against himself. There was a beat of heavy silence before he heard her take several steps forward. He saw the outline of her dark shadow on the floor in front of him before she spoke again, "Please…please, don't do that."

He remained silent and she continued, "We haven't seen you at all in five days. I know…" She sighed and Matthew knew that she had looked away from him in an attempt to control her disappointment, "…that you remain at a distance for your own reasons, but it's never been like this before."

Another beat of uncomfortable silence filled the small space between them before she continued on, undeterred by his muteness. Her voice remained calm, and she spoke to him in a simple way, almost as if the grand room was empty and she was speaking only to the air.

"I just don't understand it, really. Five nights ago, we all have this beautiful evening together, and you reached out to your daughter and she responded so well to you, and I thought perhaps we had…" he saw, out of the corner of his eye, her hands fight through the air as she temporarily struggled and searched for words. Eventually her lips found their mark, "reached a turning point and that your relationship with her would turn over a new leaf, and that maybe things were going to get better, but then you just…disappeared again." He heard her hands slap her sides with her shrug of frustrated confusion, "I don't understand."

Silence again. The sound of her breathing tied him to the spinning earth. The feel of her eyes was the only sensation that mattered.

"Please say something Matthew."

He couldn't deny her request. "It was a mistake to speak to her so openly."

He heard her soft, wet mouth fall open with her shock and the feel of her stunned eyes grew heavier on his bones. Eventually, she recovered and Matthew felt the air lightly move with her whispered response, "How can you say that?...We saw her smile. You made her smile." She was pleading with him, begging him to see reason.

He finally looked at her again and was surprised to see how close they stood in his sunlit office. Rays of sunlight hit the curves of her face, making her fair skin turn an angelic shade of white. She looked delicately breakable, and heartbreakingly lovely.

He echoed her pleading tone, "She mustn't get close to me…I mustn't get close to her."

"Why?" She asked imploringly, her voice cracking with stress.

His grief and weariness defeated him and he sounded lost. "You know why."

His words hung in the frozen air and Matthew was mesmerized by the specks of white light that endlessly danced in the depths of her eyes. A flash of gold glistened bright against her bare neck, and he saw interlocking chains of sunlight fall somewhere unknown between the dark shadows of her breasts. The sight of her necklace corrupted him and her enticing chest rose and fell four times before she responded in a subdued manner.

"Yes…I do."

Her response was slow and Matthew remained grateful that they had not lost their tempers while discussing this most delicate subject.

He turned into hot liquid under her dark eyes and he watched with a mingled appreciation as Mary drank him in. She was all four seasons rolled into one; her red lips were the hot summer sun, her dark locks were crisp fall midnights, her skin was an endless winter blanket, and every dip, curve, line, and point of her sculpted and blooming body was the reincarnation of spring. She stood before him as lovely and as binding as the spinning earth beneath his feet, and Matthew suddenly remembered how he had always loved the change of seasons.

It was unsafe to be trapped in her eyes but he was paralyzed to do anything against them. Her gazed moved quickly between his own wide eyes and his slightly gaping mouth and then back again, only lightly brushing against anything else in her pursuit to undo him where he stood. She looked hungry and spent.

Mary sighed heavily and slowly turned away from him, her head angling towards the floor with forced effort but her eyes remaining fixed steadily upon his until the last possible moment. She looked pained and Matthew saw how much effort it took for her to complete the simple motion of dragging her gaze from his own.

His breath caught in his chest.

He knew the look she wore as she tore herself from him.

It was a look of desire. It was a look of longing. It was a look of wanting and needing, of floating and sinking, of hunger and satisfaction, of confusion and clarity all blended together into something enslaving and freeing. Matthew recognized that look. He understood that look. He lived that look day after day, and, most importantly, he knew the thoughts behind them better than most. The look in her struggling and battling eyes matched up perfectly with the erratic beating in his chest.

Clarity came to him as her red lips parted and gave way to a single shaking breath, and Matthew suddenly felt something inside of him rip away. Deafness came to him and his vision suddenly tunneled, everything else in the world fading away except for the outline of her. He fought against the bubbling in his stomach, the warming of his chest, and the rising hope in his spinning mind.

Could it be?...

Matthew fought against the impossible thought but, once it was implanted, it would not budge.

Did she?...

Their flirtation had reached a level that could be described as rampant, but did it end there for her or was she, like him, constantly longing for something more? Were her words and actions lighthearted or did they come from her, as they did from him, drenched in second meanings and poorly hidden yearnings?

Mary spoke again, her pained eyes remained on her feet, and Matthew was brought back to their current state. The pattern of her voice was a coolly whispered breeze, "Well, at least I know what you've told me in the past. You think you're a lost soul. You think you're a damned soul that can only cause damage and pain."

He felt the hand of God reach out and slap him across the face.

She did not believe the words she spoke but they were still saturated in the truth. The movement of her perfect mouth brought with it a painful reality and Matthew's newly found joy and astonishment battled against his now rising fear. His fear was great and terrible but he did not harbor it for himself.

His triumphant fear was only for her and his heart broke for Mary; he was no good for her, or for anyone, and she must be warned against him. Matthew's realization carried with it a physical pain and he broke under the understanding of what he must now do.

Matthew gazed upon her sadly, as if she were the last ray of sunlight he would ever see. His lips muddled through his fear and his broken words held a double meaning; one for his daughter and one for her.

"Getting close to me will only lead to disappointment."

The warning cost him greatly and he felt his heart lurch in his tight chest, as his body physically rejected his uttered words. His weary legs felt like jelly and the painful truth tasted bitter on his tongue, especially since every ounce of his being wanted her, and only her, in an all-consuming, completely engrossing, absolute kind of way. He wanted her beside him in the dead of night and all of the hours in between.

Mary's eyes snapped back to his quickly and Matthew read her disbelief and her shock, and knew that his statement had injured her.

"I don't believe that." Her voice betrayed her hurt.

He wanted to take back his words and promise never to say them again, but he bit back his apology and pressed on, determined to get his warning across.

"Loving me will only lead to heartache."

"That's not true." He saw the gleam of moisture in her eyes and felt her rising temper.

"It is."

"It isn't."

He adored and loathed her stubbornness. Her stare was accusatory and Matthew felt burdened beneath it.

Her look held more than disappointment but Matthew couldn't put a finger on what it exactly was before Mary spoke again, redirecting the conversation back to where it had begun, "Your daughter needs your love."

It was Matthew's turn to sigh and his hand reached up to rub his brow, hoping to relieve the screaming tension in his head.

"You're wrong, Mary… If Quinn loved me, like she might if I was an affectionate and attentive parent, my deception and her demise will be all the more devastating because of it."

"But…"

"Once she finds out the truth of her mother's death, she'll hate me. So isn't it better that she always hate me, than to love me and then be forever burned by my betrayal?"

Mary blinked rapidly but she had no response.

Matthew continued on, "I can handle her anger; I could not live with losing her love."

"Why is everything so black and white for you, Matthew? Do you think she's only capable of the two emotions?"

Her temper was breaking through despite her best efforts and he matched his rising tone to hers.

"This is the way that it must be."

"Why could she not forgive you?"

"That's…impossible."

"May I show you something?"

He was taken aback by her surprising and unforeseen request, and the room was filled only with the sound of their labored and shared breathing.

"What?" Matthew asked her after several moments.

"May I show you something?" She repeated again simply.

His confusion had stunned him and before he realized what was going on he had agreed and was following her out of his office and down the shadow filled hall, passing the guest bedroom door and then his own, before entering into the brightness of Quinn's room.

---

Back in his office on the 10th of August, Matthew's index finger and thumb flipped over the first page of the black notebook, revealing a pink construction paper that had been folded several times and placed inside of the book for safe keeping.

It must be kept safe.

The pink page slid out of the book and landed softly in his lap, leaving visible his second entry. The date was five days after the first and he remembered the day well.

---

He had followed Mary into his child's room and was pleased to find, for his own cowardly reasons, that Quinn was no where to be found. He asked Mary where she was and she had responded by saying that Quinn had fallen asleep watching some afternoon cartoons in the family room. She led him deep into the room, past his daughter's bed and playhouse, and came to a stop near her coloring desk and play area by the eastern glass wall. Mary stood with her arms crossed and Matthew had shoved his clammy hands into his pockets. They stood apart from one another, neither voicing their reasons for the distance, but both understanding the necessity of it. The tension was palpable. Matthew could feel it buzzing around his head and gluing him to the floor. She fidgeted with her own discomfort and sought solace in the rhythmic tapping of her right foot, which was shoeless and sockless, revealing scarlet colored nails.

He counted her tapping, and by the time he reached 22, Matthew's anxiety got the better of him and his nearly shouted question shattered the dense silence in the bright room. He asked her why she had brought him here and, judging by the hard look in her eye, Mary had not appreciated his sharp tone. He regretted his irritation and after he had apologized and Mary had let enough uncomfortable time pass by to make him feel like a scolded puppy, she responded by telling him to take a look around the room.

He found that he was, once again, irritated with her vagueness, but, eventually, Matthew let his eyes slowly drag around the room that they occupied. He looked at nothing in particular as he slowly twirled counter-clockwise, his eyes searching for something out of the ordinary. His gaze brushed over Mary, who looked at him with undisguised anticipation, Quinn's small library, her large playhouse, her bed, an assortment of toys and clothes, her drawing table, her colorful creations pinned everywhere to the southern wall, and then back to Mary.

It wasn't until his third pass over the room that Matthew finally found what Mary had wanted him to discover.

They were hidden in plain sight. They were ten feet to his right, pinned at different angles, on bright pieces of paper, behind her drawing table and tacked to the southern wall. Matthew moved towards the papers in a wide-eyed trance. There were over 30 of them and nearly all of the papers held creations made of a multitude of brightly colored lines. Her small hands had created thousands of lines and they each were shaky and broken, and drawn in an unorganized fashion around a point, or a dot, of light. The lines bloomed out from their separate center points, going randomly in every direction from each exploding center. Quinn's hand had drawn the fireworks in nearly every shade of the rainbow, and Matthew's first though was that he wanted to create more colors just so that his daughter could put them down on paper. He felt his eyes jump from brightly colored page to brightly colored page, eager to see all of them, but not really looking at one in particular.

He reached out and touched one of her drawings at random and, as his fingers felt the pressure that his child had spent to create the single green line, the air suddenly thinned and Matthew's breathing became even more labored.

His heart and his head went to war with one another.

She allowed him several moments before she approached. She had entered the space to his left and he had been unable to meet her eyes while his own were filling with the liquid expression of his exhaustion, frustration, and confusion. Mary's lungs were steady, her breathing even and easy, and Matthew was grateful that she spared him additional suffering by not directing her crippling gaze upon him. Just like his own glassy stare, the full weight of Mary's eyes were on Quinn's creations. However, while Matthew had looked upon the drawings with a multitude of different, warring emotions, Mary had gazed at them simply and it was obvious that the papers only made her happy.

She too reached out and lightly touched the center of a drawing several pages over from the one his fingertips were glued to.

She suddenly laughed softly and he heard the smile on her lips as she spoke, "She's been stuck on fireworks for a while now."

He had to close his eyes at her words, and if Mary had seen the tears that fell down his face, she was kind enough not to bring attention to them, "She's been fascinated with them for about five days…ever since you told her about her mother's love of them."

His touch on the paper was the only thing that was keeping him upright.

Mary laughed again, "You should watch her draw them. Such concentration. Such care." He focused on the sound of her lungs. "Every time she finishes one, she holds it out in front of her, and gazes at it with so much joy and adoration that you would think it was a priceless work of art…but then again, I guess they all are."

He almost told her to stop but he needed her to continue.

"She spends almost as much time drawing them as she does staring at them. I watch her gaze at the collection of them, her eyes jumping from one to the next and then taking in the group as a whole…She never says anything but the smile she wears says it all. She's thinking of five nights ago…and imagining the woman you described for her."

Silence filled the room and Matthew heard how loud he was breathing, his lungs attempting to suppress the erratic beating of his heart. Eventually, he felt Mary move and shortly after, Matthew heard the soft scratching of a paper being rustled free from a wall. He opened his eyes in time to see Mary pull the pin out of one drawing and grasp it out in front of her with both of her hands, the image facing away from him. Her eyes traveled across the page and her smile grew wider and Matthew felt his spirits rise slightly despite himself, the chemicals in his body unable to resist the sight of her full body smile.

Her voice was comfort and peace, "She drew this one this morning. You should have seen how she smiled when she finished it; I think it might have rivaled the one we saw together...Anyway, I asked her if I could have it and she said yes, but now I…" Mary looked up at him and didn't falter in seeing how plainly he wore his emotions, "…wanted to give it to you."

She took a final look at the drawing, as if she were memorizing it to be recreated later, before handing him the pink paper.

He didn't remember exactly what crossed his mind when first seeing the image his child had drawn only hours ago, but he did remember seeing it through the blurry lens of his tears. Mary had let him grieve, emotions running unchecked throughout his mind and body, and eventually Matthew managed to smile and laugh through the hard lump in his chest where his heart used to be.

His eyes rained down on the page, turning it to liquid, and Matthew wanted only to ingest the image so that it would forever be a part of him.

The top of the pink page held the now familiar design of Quinn's hand-made fireworks, exploding through the page in a multitude of colors, but it was the image in the middle that stole his breath away. Matthew had looked upon it and realized in an instant that his attempts to erase the night of the Forth from his memory had been a complete failure. Matthew had never been so pleased to fail.

Underneath the two-dimensional exploding sky, there were three figures, one smaller than the others. Their bodies, drawn in black, greasy crayon, where made of sticks and circles. The smaller one had orange swirls sprouting from the top of her head and she was arranged in the lap of one of the larger ones. This one's long, plank like hair was raven, just like the rest of her body, and she sat, on a royal blue line, very near the third figure. The third also sat on the blue bench, and he had a yellow scribble on his head, right above his blue dotted eyes. Matthew's eyes were caught on the crescent-shaped moons that hung sideways on all three faces, exactly where their mouths should be. His right hand traced the smile on his daughter's self-portrait.

"You see Matthew, I think you're already too late."

Her words surprised him but nothing could make him look away from the picture in his hands.

Mary continued, speaking gently and sweetly to him and Matthew felt unworthy of her kindness.

"You think that hiding yourself from Quinn will stop her from caring about you, but I've gotten to know your daughter and, despite her best attempts to hide it – she's only a child anyway and it's hard to hide such a complex emotion – I know that she already loves you."

Her words were a bullet to the brain and Matthew was surprised that his nervous system still controlled his eyes as he dragged them up to gaze in shock at the woman before him.

The sincerity of her words were getting the better of her, and Matthew watched her lower lip jump slightly with her trembling, but she pressed on, her tenacity to save him from himself driving her forward.

"She already loves you. I've seen it in her." The gold around her neck reflected onto her skin. "It's true that I've only realized it recently, but now that I see it, I feel like it's been there all along. She loves you. She simply doesn't know any other way. She can't hide it."

Mary looked away from him, like her next words would cost her something unknown, "I think it's hard not to love someone…even when you know that you're not supposed to."

He didn't want to speak but Matthew felt his lips move before he could stop them, "But the way she looks at me…with such detest."

She raised her dark eyes to his again, "It's not hatred…it's just a defense. It's the only way she knows how to hide from you the fact that she very much wants to be a part of your life. Like it or not, you are hurting her…and I think it's only natural that she wants to hurt you back to an extent."

"Well, the fact remains, she can't stand to be in the same room as me."

"She's proud, just like her father, but I think she avoids you for some of the same reasons you avoid her…" She paused but didn't lower her stare.

"The anticipation is killing me, Mary."

"You'd both rather avoid one another than have to the face the reality that you both want the same thing; a relationship, and a relationship seems impossible given the current state of things. I know that she wants your love…and I can see that you need hers."

Her strangled breath emphasized the word.

Mary's words were true, but Matthew had buried that desire for so long that he didn't know if he even remembered where he put it.

He didn't hide the truth in his next words, "I don't even know where to start or how to undo all the wrongs that I've done."

She had regained her composure, "You can't undo what's been done in the past…but you can start building something else. Something new. Something that should have been there all along."

"But how?"

"Start small…like you did the night that inspired this drawing. Rome wasn't built in a day."

She must have seen the helplessness in his eyes.

"Tell her about her mother and then see how she responds." She motioned around the room. "You must be a smart man to have built such an empire in such little time, so use your brain and heart to do what feels right. Feed her small affections and details and then build on those."

She moved closer to him in the brightness of the room, and he swam in the darkness of her eyes and knew that the smile on her lips was wrought only for him, "She's a child Matthew…if you do this right, she'll hardly remember the sins of the past."

His voice was small, "And what about my greatest sin of all?"

She hit an invisible barrier in the room. She paused completely, her smile faltering, slowly falling from her lips like autumn leaves, and Matthew nearly confessed to her once more. He wanted to spill out his guilt for her, to lay it flat and let the sun illuminate it for her eyes. He wanted to come clean, to squeeze the sickness from his insides and tell her the full truth of Lavina's death. He almost handed her his guilt and his loss, knowing that she would watch over them until he could bear the weight of them again.

However, the movement of her lips entranced him and Matthew suddenly felt content only to watch her speak.

"Let's cross that bridge when we get to it," He watched as her smile returned to him, "what matters now is that no more damage is done now that you know how much she loves you and wants to be loved in return. That simple, undeniable fact should be all the motivation you need. Remember that she loves you. Write it down and read it over and over again…" Matthew felt the black notebook jump from its banished corner across the house. "It won't be easy, but when are the things that really matter in this world ever easy?"

A retort formed in his mind but feel apart in his throat, and he was left with an open mouth, breathing the air that hovered around her. Mary had said all that needed to be said and she moved away from him slightly, turning toward the window, leaving him to sort out the madness in his mind and Matthew let her slide away.

He returned his eyes to the paper and looked hungrily upon the image of the three happy people that his daughter had rendered only hours ago in this very room. His eyes lingered on his stick-figure daughter and all of his reasoning for avoiding her for the past three years, started to turn to mist in depths of his mind.

Was it possible that Quinn loved him? Surely not…but Mary had seemed so convinced. Matthew looked at the pink paper in his grasp and remembered the night the drawing represented perfectly. He had captured his daughter's attention so easily, as if she were merely waiting to be ensnared by him. Speaking to her had been so effortless, as if he had never forgotten how. He had resurrected her smile so effortlessly, as if it were never dead, only patiently waiting for him.

All of Matthew's avoidance of his daughter had been done with the intention of Quinn not wanting anything to do with him so that Matthew could protect her from the truth of his past. He had intended for her to hate him so that he could not hurt her further, but if she already loved him, as Mary said that she did, then Matthew would not directly be the architect of any more of her suffering. If she already loved him, then he wouldn't deny her love in return. He was still convinced that Quinn would hate him once she found out about Lavina's untimely death, but his new resolution was to show her affection until she no longer desired it.

He slowly put creases into the pink paper and placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket, its resting place as close as possible to his beating heart. He then turned and walked the few feet it took to stand beside the woman that saved him from himself, over and over again.

He spoke to her and heard the deepness of his request echo around the room, "I'll need your help."

Her answer was quick, though she continued to stare out at the city below them, "I'll give it to you."

A quite peacefulness fell between them and he continued to stare at her unashamedly as the world continued to spin around them. Matthew counted his blessings against the creases framing her eyes and stood in quiet amazement at the color that came to her face under the heat of his eyes. A small smile caught on the corner of her mouth, and he knew that she enjoyed how his eyes memorized the patterns of her flesh.

The pureness of her skin brought about the truthfulness in his heart and she bowed slightly under his whisper, "I'm afraid that I'll fail, Mary."

He wanted her to look at him. He wanted her head to turn and have her eyes lock with his, knowing that the full weight of her gaze would drown out his fears. He longed to suffocate in her eyes, to burn in the fire that lit her soul, to bleed out from the gashes that her stare would cause. Her eyes could maim him; he wouldn't mind.

He wanted her to look at him, but she didn't.

She did something better instead.

She reached out blindly and touched his elbow lightly. He didn't jump at her touch; he only leaned in further, not content with their proximity until the border of her silhouette fell across his chest. The bend of his arm was not her final mark and Matthew felt as her fingertips slowly traced a path down his forearm, searching out his body as she hunted for the scattered pieces of his soul. He felt her hot pursuit through his jacket and shirt and he knew the exact moment that she brushed over cells and nerves, veins and arteries, muscles and bones. He held his breath as she reworked the delicacies of his anatomy. Mary eventually found the hollow bones of his wrist, pausing only slightly, filling the emptiness there. Further her hand fell and her touch outlined his palm, before her bones knocked lightly against his knuckles and his joints. The fine hairs that covered his hand stood in the presence of her seeking flesh and, eventually, her pursuit came to a close as she finally found his fingertips. His eyes had remained glued to her visage the entire time; Mary's eyes had fallen slightly and, though she continued to look at the city, Matthew knew that she was far away, chasing a thought, chasing a dream, chasing her fate. Her touch was insistent, asking but taking, and he flexed his fingers automatically around hers. Matthew felt her long digits fall in place between his own as if it were the most natural action in the world. At the contact, Matthew looked down at the spot where she held him, and in the light of day it was clear how complete their entanglement had become. Mary squeezed his hand lightly and the contraction restarted his heart.

Her smile fell upon the city but Matthew knew she had crafted it only for him to see.

She breathed deeply and then answered his spoken confession of fear, "You should have more faith, Matthew."

And suddenly he did.

---

Matthew picked up the pink paper from his lap and slowly unfolded the proof of his daughter's love. The rendering of himself, his child, and her caretaker was one of the most precious things in the world to him. If The Pearl were to go up in flames and Matthew could only save one object from a smoky grave, he would easily choose this single piece of paper.

He held the picture open, next to the black book so that he could see it in his periphery as he re-read his second entry, one he had written just over a month ago.

July 9, 2012

I took her advice and I'm writing this down to be re-read when things seemed to be stacked against me in my pursuit of a healthy, loving relationship with my daughter.

On this date July 9, 2012, I discovered that, despite every reason not to, my daughter loves me. Let her drawing also be a constant reminder of her love as well.

…faith.

I looked up 'faith' in the dictionary, wanting to have an exact description of her words to me on this day, and found this; 'Faith- n 1. Strong or unshakeable belief in something, esp without proof or evidence.'

Those are simple words, arranged into a simple sentence describing something that is anything but simple. I agree with the definition for the most part but I found one large flaw in it – I have evidence for my faith.

I can put a name to my faith, or rather, my faith has a name.

I held the hand of my faith again today.

That sentence too seems lacking, but as long as it's written down, forever etched, forever a reminder, forever a mark in time…that's all that really matters.

And so begins the pursuit of my daughter's heart.

Matthew looked at his watch and discovered that he still had another half-hour before they needed to get going, so he chose to waste the minutes in one of the best possible ways. He decided to continue re-reading his entries, his words, the handwritten pages of his life, each replaying moments in time when the world had reminded him that he was still alive and working towards a noble goal. Matthew wanted to consume those moments again, to relive the moments that left him fully alive, full of love, full of passion, full of pain, and, most importantly, fully open to all of the opportunities that this universe still had to offer him.

Matthew turned the page.

July 13, 2012

I know this will be a slow process.

Like moving grains of sand, waiting for a tree to grow sky high, or emptying the vast lake outside my window using only the cup in my hands.

I've begun to test the waters simply by making myself more visible to my daughter. I enter the living room and watch fifteen minutes of a television show with the two of them. I stay for breakfast and let my daughter hear me as I make pleasant small talk with her caretaker. I come home before she goes to sleep.

I want her to relearn the patterns of my day and see how they now include her.

I ate dinner with the two of them tonight and I felt her eyes on me the entire time I spoke to the woman that occupied the space to my left. Eventually, I ventured into unknown territory and took a risk on something unknown. I asked Quinn how her day was. It was simple. Easy. But it took all of the courage I possessed.

My question hung in the air, dangling above our heads in a thick cloud of anticipation.

Her small mouth eventually moved, her clear eyes locking with mine as her response put me out of my misery. She replied that it was 'fine, thank you'.

It was formal and stiff but she didn't say it with any trace of contempt or annoyance. Her simple acknowledgement meant the world to me; maybe one day I'll get the chance to tell her so.

The woman to my left let out a sigh of relief that matched the release of my own burning lungs.

Her darks eyes understood mine.

…

July 16, 2012

Quinn let me watch her draw over her shoulder today. It was a picture of an animal that looked something like a horse, its mane the color of strawberries and its back legs slightly shorter than the front.

I asked her if it was a horse that she was sketching and she confirmed my suspicions with a softly spoken 'yes'.

Before I knew what I was doing, I told her how her mother had wanted to buy a small farm just outside of the city with horses and when she, Quinn, was old enough to learn, her mother wanted to teach her how to ride them.

My child turned and held me tightly within her gaze.

I asked her if she would like to learn how to ride a horse. She looked at me longer, peeling me apart with her eyes, before looking away and returning to her coloring.

I left dejectedly, my head in line with my slumped shoulders.

Later, when I really needed to hear it, Mary told me that Quinn had talked her ear off all afternoon about wanting to learn how to ride and insisting that she should be able to name one of the horses Louis.

…

July 18, 2012

I've been sleeping much better lately.

That's all.

…

July 19, 2012

I watched my faith braid her hair tonight.

I was watching a movie with the two of them and noticed how she leaned forward and gathered her coal-colored strands into her fists over her left shoulder.

Her long fingers combed through the smooth darkness easily, separating the mass into three. She closed her eyes as she worked, as if the world outside of her mind would disrupt her goal. Her face was soft and relaxed, content and beautiful as always.

Her hands were efficient in their work and the job was done quickly. The long knot was full and softly constructed around the oval of her face.

I nearly told her that she had missed a strand near her right ear, but it fell so loosely down her neck and came to rest so naturally against her chest that it felt as if to bring attention its escape would be a great sin against humanity. So I let it be, but that didn't stop me from growing envious of it, as it got to lie peacefully against her skin for the rest of the evening.

What is it about the darkness that makes me want to foolish things?

...

July 22, 2012

I gave Elsie and Anna the night off and made dinner for the two most important people in my life tonight.

It was a simple meal. Only spaghetti and meatballs but Quinn had shyly volunteered to help me. I nearly shouted my agreement back at her, my excitement almost too much for my body to contain.

Mary placed Quinn on a stool and my daughter stirred the sauce while I rolled the meatballs and watched as Mary drank a glass of red wine while discussing how Quinn would no longer need her water wings soon.

I heard my child laugh for the first time in months tonight. She was alone in the family room with a bowl of ice cream as Mary and I tidied up the kitchen.

Her laugh was a small thing. If the television had been any louder, I probably would have missed it. She had laughed at something the animated animal on the screen had done and I yearned to rewind the movie, just so I could hear Quinn's happiness one more time.

My heart nearly exploded in my chest and I turned to the woman at my left. Mary looked back at me with an understanding joy in her eyes.

Eventually, we returned to the kitchen and washed the dishes side-by-side even though we both new that a perfectly good dishwasher sat slightly to the right.

I was very domestic. I enjoyed it more than I should have.

…

July 24, 2012

It's hot outside but the air inside is very cool.

I saw Mary shiver next to me on the couch.

I had to excuse myself from her and my daughter's presence because the urge to warm her skin with my lips was too great a temptation to fight.

…

July 25, 2012

Or, seeing as how it's three in the morning, perhaps I should clarify that it's really the twenty-sixth of July.

To be honest, I'm always pleased whenever Mary spends the night here, but I was grateful for it tonight because I needed her more than ever.

Quinn woke up several hours ago, screaming loudly into the darkness of the night. Her torment woke me and I sprinted to her room fully aware, all sleep having left me the moment her yelling pleas hit the air, and I swung open her door, ready to battle any demons I would find.

I was surprised to find her still asleep, drenched in sweat, fighting against an unseen threat. I picked her up and held her close, softly shaking her, attempting to wake her up and erase the terrors from her mind. My daughter slowly stilled and eventually opened her tear-filled eyes to look up into my face. She was peaceful and thoughtful and I saw as she realized that her terrors were only a dream.

However, the peaceful tranquility that had found her in the darkness vacated her a moment later and her threshing and fighting returned anew. She kicked and screamed in the night but the new battle that she fought was against the cage of my embrace. She scratched at my arms, punched at my chest, and screamed for me to let her go. I was stunned at her fight against me, my hurt and my pain locked my body more tightly around her, as if it was determined to hold on to whatever it was that we had gained in the last few weeks. I didn't let go and still she fought on.

A pillar of white and a curtain of darkness came to sit beside me and I didn't hide the suffering in my eyes as I looked into her face. My faith silently moved her mouth and I could only make out the shape of her 'I'm sorry' in the darkness because her red lips were such a contrast to her porcelain skin.

She reached out and slowly pried my child from my shaking arms. She quietly whispered to me, telling me to let Quinn go, telling me to give Quinn to her. My daughter slid from my arms and Mary's soft tongue started forming new words of comfort for my child. I sat still beside them and watched as she slowly calmed my child. Quinn hysterics eventually fell away but Mary continued to hold her tight, eventually rocking her into a deep slumber.

I moved so that Mary could return Quinn to her place in the middle of the bed and I walked beside her as we retreated from the silent room. I made no attempt to hide my disappointment and she, of course, read my thoughts like an open book.

Eternally my backbone and my heart, Mary reminded me to hold tight to my faith.

Then knowing that I needed it more than ever, she reached out and took my hand in hers again. It was meant to comfort me but the feel of her flesh on mine only corrupted my mind. Mary turned and started dragging me slowly in the direction of my bedroom. Her hand was strong and insistent and my body tightened in sweet anticipation. I was sure that this was the moment that we had been building to and that she was on the verge of making me forget everything around me.

I'm sure that going to bed with her could make me forget my own name.

But she dropped my hand at the cusp of my door and merely continued to walk down the hall to her own room.

Forever my temptation. Forever my savior.

…

July 26, 2012

Quinn just knocked on my office door and handed me a drawing and ran out of the room before I had time to look at it.

It's open next to me as I write this. She's drawn another self-portrait but in this one her small red mouth is drawn in the shape of an upside down 'u' and blue circles are falling out of her eyes.

Underneath the image of my crying daughter she has written "im sory".

She's worried that she's upset me with how she reacted to my attempts to calm her last night. What a marvelous child. What a loving spirit.

I'm going to find her now and tell her there is nothing to forgive.

…

July 30, 2012

Rage.

Is there a single emotion that can make you feel more human, more alive, more burning with your own vivacity, than the feeling of rage?

I know that there is but I can't think of one right now as my savage hatred burns through my system.

I want to physically hurt a man I've never met, a man I have only seen once at a distance through a screen of rainfall. I've struck only two men in my lifetime. Once on the playground when I was 10 and once more when I was 21 at a less than virtuous bar in Wicker Park.

I'd like to add a third man to that list today.

I hate what he does to her. She brushes it off, buries it underneath, but I still see it rise to the surface every now and then and I despise the cause of her suffering. She hardly says his name and each time she does, it looks like the word has hurt her mouth upon its exit from her body.

She battles with herself. I've tried to talk to her about it but she says that it's her own fault. I don't know why she lies for him.

He doesn't hurt her physically (if he did, I'd be writing this from behind bars) but something is amiss in their relationship. I'd be lying if I said that I didn't wish that she was unattached but, truly, I only desire her happiness. I alone want to be the one that makes her happy but if she won't let me do it, then I pray she finds someone that will.

Rage.

Of course I won't do anything because I couldn't risk hurting her further. I can't risk losing her forever.

So tonight I'll close my eyes and fantasize about the feeling of his broken skin under my fist.

…

August 2, 2012

I told Quinn that her mother and I use to watch the Sound of Music together every summer. Mary then put in the DVD and my daughter laughed at me as I sang along to all of the songs.

It was completely worth the embarrassment.

…

August 3, 2012

Played Monopoly with Quinn and Mary tonight. I let Quinn win but I didn't let Mary win. She beat me all by herself.

Slightly ashamed but overwhelming intrigued and wanting.

…

August 5, 2012

Discovered Quinn in the blue room today. I walked in on her standing just inside the door, the sun hitting her curled mop head, turning her hair a deep shade of red, precisely the color of her mother's.

I froze upon seeing her in there. No one ever goes in there. The door always remains shut. She looked back at me and I could not read the look on her angel face. It was calm, betraying nothing, but I was still shamed by it. I tore myself away and nearly ran down the hall, leaving her alone in the room.

I dread the day she asks me about why the walls in that closed room are that particular shade of blue.

…

August 7, 2012

I carried my sleeping child to bed tonight.

She had fallen asleep on the couch while we watched TV and as Mary started to carry her to bed, I stood and asked if I could do it instead.

Mary look taken aback but immensely pleased. I cradled my arms, happy that my body remembered the simple action and waited for my child to be passed to me. My hands brushed against Mary's core, touching her lightly in a place that I have fantasized about for months but I hardly noticed the heat of her body with the weight of my sleeping daughter now in my arms.

I looked deeply into my child's serene, sleeping face and a joy that I have not felt in ages pumped in my heart. I rocked her slowly, bobbing up and down, in the same motion that I used when she was a baby. I spoke to her quietly, but I don't know what loving words crossed my lips.

I reached her bed too soon and had to let her go too soon.

…

August 8, 2012

It rained today. I stayed home and spent the day with my daughter and Mary.

I should skip work more often.

…

Matthew's fingers turned to the final page and his eyes fell on the entry he had written less than an hour before. He read the broken sentences hungrily, longing to relive them over and over again.

August 10, 2012

Quinn and Mary are playing hide and seek. I found Quinn bent low in the corner, her eyes covered by her hands, rattling off numbers loudly to the empty room. She heard my footsteps and moved her hands to see me standing above her.

She smiled. I melted. She moved one finger to her lips, signaling for me to be silent and then returned to her counting. I moved away from her as quietly as I could.

It rained again this morning and I opened the large hall closet to place my umbrella inside it. As the door fell open, I heard Quinn shout 'ready or not' and before I knew what was going on, two long arms reached out of the darkness and pulled me into the blackness. The door shut surprisingly quietly behind me, and the first thing that I was cognizant of was the feel of her warm body standing very near my own.

Mary laughed lightly and whispered for me not to speak. I smiled and nodded to the darkness. Although, I couldn't have spoken aloud even if I'd wanted to because the feel of her warm whisper against my face had driven the air from my lungs.

The closet was as dark as night and we stood so close to one another that certain parts of her body were brushing certain parts of mine. The small space suddenly felt like another world; a world where rules didn't apply and a world where tomorrow would never come. I felt as if I could do anything I wished within this darkness and no consequences would ever find me.

Silence and breathing. Silence and breathing.

My other senses were enhanced by my blindness. I felt her mind race and her knees shake. I could smell her hair and taste her exhale. Her blood was loud in my ears. My own blood was loud in my ears.

I reached out and easily found her hand despite the darkness. Our fingers fell as they were designed to do. I wanted to see her face. I longed to see her face. I needed to see if her eyes would shine any differently in the tender moments before my lips pressed against hers.

The sound of quick, soft footsteps made my head jerk back and my hand released hers, and before another second passed, several feet of space had formed between us. Quinn passed by our hiding spot and as the sound of her bare feet rounded a distant corner, I quietly excused myself from Mary's presence.

Even as I write this, my body feels 'off'. It feels as if something has been set in motion and my limbs and my heart will not settle until that something is fulfilled. I'm hungry and I feel as if my body has been promised a great feast and it will not rest until it is satiated.

I wanted to kiss her. I should have kissed her.

It wouldn't have counted in the darkness.

Matthew slowly closed the book and lowered it onto the desk in front of him. It was exhausting to read those words and feel those feelings and relive those moments, but it was also very satisfying work. His eyes saw the black cover of the book but his mind started to drift into dangerous territory. His hand reached out of its own accord and while his finger set about the familiar act of tracing the spine of the book, Matthew's mind forged the naked curvature of Mary's back.

It was easy work. His mind effortlessly fell into the fantasy.

She stood in front of him, bathed in stars and moonlight, her back a clear canvas for him to write his name. He reached out and was surprised to find that his fingertips did not sink into the white clouds that covered her skin. His touch started at the base of her skull and he felt the tension that she carried in her shoulders. His hands ached to move that stress away. His mind traveled lower and his eyes found it fitting that her shoulder blades looked like small wings, carved by the hands of God. Still lower down her back his mind continued to travel and his fingers felt the dispersed ridges of her vertebrae, falling down the chain of her spine like a series of small mountains or large goose bumps. The thought of her flesh covered in chills made his mind shift the picture and now every inch of her skin was covered in braille-like markings; her white flesh created words for him to endlessly read using only his hands and his lips. His mind finally reached the deep curve of her back and it settled there for a long time. Matthew decided that it was right here, in the hollow of her spine, the shelf of her body, that he wanted to stay. He would tether himself to her there. He would rest his hands on her hips, her bones molding to the shape of his hands, and he would never let until she asked him to.

A loud double knock woke Matthew from his trance and he was momentarily surprised to find himself in the brightness of his office. The world sped up and he was suddenly acutely aware; he could hear the dust gathering on his books and see violet and jade rays of light. Matthew recovered quickly, shoving the book into his suit jacket and smoothing down his hair as she turned the knob and entered his office.

Matthew sighed in quiet amazement. His fantasies did her an injustice.

She stood before him, the portrait of a goddess drawn in black and white. Her chest draped in white, her legs wrapped in black, the gleaming onyx of her eyes, the pearls that lined her mouth, bare, smiling at him from across the room. Her inky hair was down and full and it stood in stark contrast to the ivory paint that covered her skin. The deep crimson that covered her lips was the only color disrupting the dual-chromatic palette.

Her smile revealed nothing. Matthew looked at her and knew she would pretend that what had transpired between them earlier, in the darkness of the hall closet, had been little more than nothing. He would honor her wish and pass it off into meaninglessness, though it would cause him great harm. They were getting good at this ruse.

The only thing that could drag his eyes away from Mary was the smiling child resting on her hip. Quinn was dressed in a smart navy dress that made her look quite grown up. Her short legs were covered by white tights and her feet where encased in shiny dress shoes. Matthew could almost smell the delicate soap that Mary had used to wash Quinn's hair and skin, the process turning her skin into rose petals and silk. His daughter cleaned up well.

Mary spoke to him from across the room, "We came to get you. Are you nearly ready to go?"

He remembered how to speak, "What time is it?"

"Almost 2:30."

"Oh," he looked at his watch, confirming her words, "so it is. Just give me a moment."

He rose and started searching his desk for the papers they would need for their meeting, shoving them, slightly carelessly, into his satchel.

Matthew addressed Quinn, his eyes and hands still rummaging, "Are you excited Quinn?"

Her voice was hushed, betraying her fear, "A little a guess."

He paused at hearing her stress and Matthew turned back towards his daughter. Quinn was partially hidden from his view but the slight crinkle in Mary's brow matched his own concern. They both knew how momentous a change the child was about to encounter.

Mary spoke to her next and she made her words lighthearted, injecting understanding, and trying to calm the child with only her speech, "Well, meeting your first teacher can be a little scary, so it's ok to be a little nervous."

Matthew built on Mary's words, wanting to provide further encouragement for his intimidated child. "You know, before you were even born, your mother knew she wanted you to go to this school and I couldn't have agreed more. I know that you're going to love it."

Quinn's head rose slightly at his words and he could see her courage start to burn a little brighter.

Mary spoke next, "Your father is right. You'll make new friends, read new books, play new games, and learn new things. It's very exciting."

In two short weeks Quinn would soon start attending the prestigious Belle Academy in the Gold Coast neighborhood of downtown Chicago. The Crawleys had a three o'clock appointment to tour the school, meet the dean and Quinn's teacher, and so Matthew could sign papers and write the school a very large check. Matthew had asked Mary several weeks ago if she would be willing to go with them, to support Quinn and provide her with the unique comfort that he was not yet able to provide for her. Mary had wholeheartedly agreed and it wasn't until several days later, over a round of midnight drinks, that she had confessed to him that she had planned on going with them, whether or not he had asked her to.

Mary spoke on, angling her head so that she could look directly into Quinn's face, "So what do you say, darling? Are you going to be brave? Are you going to be friendly to everyone you meet today?"

Quinn looked back at her, searching Mary's face for a trace of doubt.

Matthew held his breath as Mary spoke to her once more, "Please, Quinn. Will you do it for me?"

The child pondered her request for a moment longer before she eventually gave in. The child gave the woman a small smile and said, "Yes" to the space above Mary's right shoulder.

Matthew didn't hide his sigh of relief as he turned away from them and restarted his search.

Mary spoke again, though her strong voice carried across the room in his direction and Matthew knew that she was speaking to him. "Well, while you finish up, I'm going to grab my blazer and bag and get Quinn a snack for after the meeting."

"Ok, I'm sorry, I'll be done in a minute and then we can leave."

"We'll meet you by the door."

He heard her turn and continued to speak, though Mary's words were now meant for his daughter's ears. "Quinn, I've been thinking, and I think that you should tell your teacher that joke that you told me the other day."

Puzzlement coated her small, high voice, "Which one?"

"The one about the moon and the barber."

A beat of silence, and then sudden understanding, "Oh, yeah…you like that one don't you, Mary?"

Mary responded, giggles lining her words, "Well, not as much as you."

The sound of Mary's laughter made him eager, impatient to see her light up like he knew that she would, and Matthew pivoted on the spot, turning in the direction of their conversation, not knowing that that slight alteration of his stance would alter him forever.

Mary continued to laugh softly and her hand reached out and started tickling the center of Quinn's belly, causing his child to erupt in a laughter and a joy that could not be contained.

Mary spoke again, her voice louder than before battling to be heard over Quinn's laughter.

"Don't you remember how you laughed through the whole joke the first time you tried to tell it to me?"

The sound of his child's laughter affected him on a chemical level and Matthew felt his heart grow inside his chest and he feared that its expansion would soon crack his ribs.

Mary continued on, her free hand still tickling, "You laughed so hard that you had to tell it to me again, and, even then, I could just barely made out the punchline."

Mary's laugher grew harder and more natural, her ribs quaking under the assault of her joyous hysterics. Their shared laughter was untamed, and blissful, and easy, and the image of their communal happiness was the single most beautiful thing that Matthew had ever seen.

Mary threw her head back and met his eyes and Matthew had the full privilege of witnessing her unbridled joy.

And it was there…

It was right there…

It was the image of his once broken child, laughing along with the woman that had put her back together. It was the way that Mary held her, close to her chest, so that his daughter's smile formed only for her. It was the way that Quinn looked at her, with love and truth, with respect and security; and it was the way that Mary looked back at her, with adoration and honesty, with reverence and protection.

It was in the tilt of her hips and the line of her back. It was the angle of her jaw and the curve of her shoulders. It was the arch of her brows and the shape of her lips.

The world paused and time stopped but they continued laughing.

The sun hit her dark hair, transforming strands of blackness to rich burgundy and deep copper. Her dark eyes were brighter than he had ever seen them before, like deep brown pools of liquid, and Matthew was drenched only in her. She dripped from his fingertips and filled his mouth and ears, suffocating him in the most absolute and magnificent way.

He had been denying it for a while now. Perhaps, he had been denying it from the first time he saw her three months ago, across the vastness of his living room.

He'd been on the edge of it, on the fragile cusp of it, for so long now that to deny it any longer, to fight against the beautiful image before him, as it flooded his eyes and drowned his heart, would only lead to his certain death.

It was just there…

It was an acceptance of his fate.

It was her. It was only her.

It was within his reach and he grabbed on to it without a second's hesitation. It glowed in his hands and radiated throughout his body. He felt it in his bones. He felt it in his being. He felt the violent and beautiful shift take place.

Mary and Quinn's continued laughing formed the backdrop of Matthew's metamorphosis.

He fell apart. He was remade. It was chaos. It was peace.

The change was complete and he was left trembling in its wake.

She looked back at him one more time and Matthew didn't try to hide it from her; surely, so fundamental a change had left marks on his skin. She smiled at him as if she knew but still her laughing continued. She turned to leave and if Matthew had been able to speak, he would have begged her to stay.

Soon he was alone in the warmth and brightness of his office, though the sound of Mary's and Quinn's shared joy somehow continued to fill the room.

Hours and days seemed to pass by.

Sensations and mobility found him once again and Matthew's first movement was to dig into his suit pocket, searching for the only thing that could possibly contain this revelation.

He found the notebook and the pen seemed to magically appear in his right hand. He opened the book, the pages automatically falling open to the next clean sheet of paper.

She had focused his body and his script remained smooth.

August 10, 2012

It seems wrong to degrade my feelings for her to a single word, but a single word is all that this language has given me as I attempt to name it.

Love.

I am in love.

Simply. Wholeheartedly. Completely.

---

Leave me with your thoughts? I'm curious to know them. I had originally planned on focusing only on Matthew's journal entries in this chapter, but after I started writing, I felt that I HAD to flush out Matthew's decision to try to re-connect with Quinn, and I felt that Mary had to be more directly involved in his decision. I felt that to just jump directly into the healing process would have not done justice to the story line that I've created thus far.

The next chapter will feature an invitation, Mary inside of Matthew's bedroom, and an emotional confession. I've taken to occasionally posting previews on my tumblr page once I finish a chunk of the next chapter (the link can be found in my profile) but be WARNED that it my blog is NOT spoiler free. I've been watching the third series of Downton and I reblog all things Downton, specifically Matthew and Mary, like its hot. I'm also THE laziest person when it comes to tagging my posts (I normally just hold down the control button and click on the Reduce, Reuse, Recycle symbol)

RighterB out.