Chapter 7; éclairs

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Two months passed.

Jaylin hadn't seen Tyler since Bobby's funeral. And even then, he hadn't attended—he only drove past, took in the sights because something in him wouldn't settle until he knew this was real. The hospital bills didn't convince him wholeheartedly that the night had happened the way he remembered, his own statement to the police felt surreal. But seeing those suit and tie silhouettes gathering at a coffin's edge—that was somehow enough for Jaylin. Almost too much when he caught Tyler's rangy shape, an arm around Olivia's waist. She had her head on his shoulder. Her hand on his chest.

They fit the role of mourning couple in love well, but Jaylin knew better.

Tyler was only another reason why love didn't exist.

"Yo, man, you listening?" Matt's voice echoed from the empty library walls. He was drumming his pencil against his knee, a comic book hung over his lap. He fingered over the next page and pinched the eraser between his teeth. "I was thinkin', what if I surprised her? Bought her flowers. Daisies or whatever girls like, y'know? Showed up at her place in a tux with a limo. Took her out on a nice fancy date—"

"You got money for that?" Jaylin asked, clicking to the next page on his bulky old library computer—the antiquated kind with CRT monitors that took up more space than they were worth.

Matt had come to get him that night—he'd seen the condition Tyler left him in, and for the past month that Jaylin had been back to work, Matt had clung to him like gum to his sneakers. For the most part, he sat around reading comics and belching out carbonation one Red Bull at a time. Being here with Jaylin when he should have been anywhere else. He was a friendly guy, Matt. Too friendly for his own good.

"I can put some aside," he countered. "I think...you know, I think it'd be worth it."

"Tisper doesn't like flowers, so you've already screwed that plan up."

"Tell me what to do then," Matt whined. "I gotta fix things with her."

When Jaylin didn't respond, Matt leaned over and peered around the monitor. "You ever watch porn on that thing?"

"Sometimes," Jaylin muttered into the palm that held him up, clicking over to the next photo.

Matt clamored atop the service desk and spun his body over to take a peek. He frowned at the spectacle on the screen. "Wolves? Seriously, you're still on that?" Then he bounced from the table and dropped himself into the extra swivel chair beside Jaylin. "I told you, my dad said there were some gray wolves spotted a few months back. They're comin' back to Washington, you know? That's gotta be what killed Bobby."

"It wasn't a gray," Jaylin said. "Look." He moused over to the second tab and the screen slid down to an image of an entirely different wolf—its fur a blackish red like dark garnet and baring its gums in a nasty snarl. "It was like this, I think. The other one was a Yukon, I'm pretty sure."

"A Yukon?"

"Yeah," Jaylin typed up the name into the browser and the screen came to life with image after image of the earthy brown wolf he'd seen that night. Large-chested and regal, but nothing quite like the real thing; the wolf he saw in person was far more beautiful.

"He was like this. But bigger. They were both bigger. They don't live in places like this, Matt. Both of those wolves, I think—I'm pretty sure they live in colder habitats."

"What does it matter?" Matt asked, kicking his feet up on the desk. "Bobby's dead and they got a nice meal out of him. Wish they'd just taken Tyler down too."

"There are wolves—massive-ass wolves just eating people we grew up with, Matt. Aren't you the least bit curious?"

Matt suddenly snapped his way, an anger in his eyes that looked alien to Jaylin. "I'm curious as to why I found you with a fractured rib and a busted nose. I'm curious as to why that piece of shit was out there so late lookin' for you. And frankly, Jay, I'm just wondering why karma hadn't found him sooner. I'm glad for those wolves." He snapped open his comic and burried himself in the pages. "If they were men, I'd buy 'em a fuckin' drink."

Jaylin sighed noisily and closed out of the browser. Then he spun in his chair to look at Matt, who refused to return his stare. Jaylin knew he was listening—Matt just wasn't good at letting his emotions show. He'd rather tuck them away in a box and bury them in the darkest depths of his big empty head.

"Jewelry, makeup, dresses...Tisper likes things that make her feel pretty. But not flowers; she always manages to kill them, no matter how hard she tries," Jaylin said. "The same goes for fish. So y'know... don't buy her a fish."

Matt glanced to him and nodded slowly, but his head inclined to look at the pages again. "Do you think she'll forgive me?"

"No," Jaylin replied.

"Then what do I do?"

"Keep asking for it." Jaylin tossed his jacket over his shoulder and popped up from his chair. "Maybe one day, she'll feel generous."

"Where ya' goin?" Matt rolled his head back to watch Jaylin pass. "Your shift's not over for four more hours."

"Break," Jaylin put simply and wandered off through the halls of the large, empty library, where rows of uniform study-desks parted like the red sea. He'd never been one for reading, but Jaylin always liked the seclusion of libraries. They put his worries at ease.

The moment he swung through the front doors, Jaylin was slapped with a cold he hadn't felt in quite some time. It was the chilliest night on record—felt like the dead of winter, though it was hardly the middle of September. Jaylin wondered if the cold meant an early winter. He hoped so; he never liked the sticky summer heat or the storms of a humid fall.

As he leaned against the library's exterior bricks, breathing in cold air until his lungs hurt, Jaylin found himself looking to the moon. Such a thing was all he could see nowadays, like maybe he'd find an answer in the creases and the craters if he just looked hard enough. For weeks, he'd watch the cycle—taking brief mental notes of the way the moon folded in on itself. The way it died out entirely, and came alive again fourteen days later. But Jaylin never came any closer to finding out just what happened that night. And despite the way he slowed when he passed the treelines—gazing into the dark, hoping to find those same two spectacular canary eyes raking back—Jaylin hadn't seen another wolf since then.

At the feel of a hand on his shoulder, Jaylin spun in a start. His eyes laid upon the unkempt sandy locks, and the high bone indented cheeks of Alex. He looked just as gaunt night of the party—dark, deep-pressed circles beneath his eyes, and dressed just as casually in a simple white t-shirt and khaki shorts. A grocery bag suspended from the curled fingers of his left hand, the right had yet to leave Jaylin's shoulder.

"Did I scare you?" he asked, something unusually shy about his smile. Why would someone from the Sigvard family seem so timid as Alex did?

Jaylin shook his head—but yeah, his heart was thundering. "No. Uh, hey. We're not open right now, but you can leave your returns in the drop-off box—"

"I'm not here for that," Alex said. He had stuffed one fist into his short pocket, his shoulders risen up like a turtle ineffectually trying to hide in his own shell. He handed the bag to Jaylin. "Your friend was missing her phone right? And her jacket too, I guess. Anyway, here they are. Our maid found them while she was cleaning out the cellar. Um...she probably already bought a new one, right?"

Jaylin took the bag from him, and it was definitely Tisper's phone that sat dead atop her denim jacket. "How did you know..." Jaylin had started to ask. He paused when he saw Alex's lips form an o.

"Heard about what happened to you," Alex said. "Thought maybe someone had too much to drink at the party—maybe it was our responsibility. You're a contact in her phone, and I didn't mean to pry but I saw you mentioned you got a job here and I—"

"You read our texts?" Jaylin asked, digging her phone from the grocery bag. The battery was dead and the screen only showed the icon of an empty charge.

"No—I um. Just a few. I'm not—" he adjusted the hem of his shirt. "I'm not a creep, I promise. It just seemed like the only way to locate you."

Alexander did seem like a bit of a creep but Jaylin disregarded the strange sentiment with a laugh. "It's no big deal. Thanks."

He'd started to go back inside, when Alex blurted out so suddenly, "Dinner." Jaylin turned to him and he dug in deep for the words he actually meant to say. "We're having a dinner party tomorrow. My mom wanted to know if you'd come."

"Oh." Jaylin started backwards up the steps. Dinner? His mom? He'd been physically assaulted. Wasn't like it'd earned him a peace prize. "I can't. My mom can't really leave the house and I have work Friday. I work nights so... I'd probably be asleep."

Alex gave him a tight-lipped smile and a small nod—and not much more than "I'll see you around." And then he was scuffing the sidewalk on the way to his green, paint-chipped Prius. For a boy who'd dropped ripe from a tree of wealth, Alex Sigvard didn't look or act or drive like a rich man.

Reaching for the handle door, Alex paused. "Hey, you know...there's always a ton of leftovers. Why don't you stop by after work?" In Jaylin's silent hesitation, Alex added, "If you want." Then he cracked open the Prius door.

Jaylin watched him go, and only when he was out of sight did he slink back in through the library doors.

"Well, that was weird," he commented as he fell back in his chair beside Matt.

"What's weird?" Matt yawned, scrolling through the myriad of porn videos he'd pulled up in Jaylin's absence.

"You went to the same high school, right? Is it usually like Alex to invite people over to the Sigvard's place for dinner?"

Matt slid his eyes from the screen to Jaylin. He held his stare with brows twisted in curiosity, then he gave an incredulous laugh. "I mean, I was only there Sophomore year and Alex was a Freshman. Barely knew the guy. Shit, I say go for it. Dude's loaded."

"I'm not going to take him up just because he's rich, Matt."

"I'm just sayin'. If someone like that offers you anything, you take it. Pride ain't done nothing for no one in these situations."

"So you'd go to his place for dinner if he showed up out of the blue like this?"

"I'd eat out of his palms if he wanted me to. Hell, I'd drink my milk from his boot."

"And if he offered you sex?"

Matt paused for a moment, then a grin splattered over his face. "Then I guess it's a better time than ever to question my sexuality."

-

Despite knowing Matt's advice was perpetually terrible, Jaylin couldn't stand the sight of the empty fridge back home.

When he found himself standing on the stoop of the Sigvards' home, it was nothing like he remembered. He'd only ever been in the place during parties, then hundreds of people cluttered the halls and danced in the foyer. In fact, this made three times he'd stepped foot on the mottled floor, three times he'd stared in awe at the crystal chandelier that cast light on the world like sun through the eye of a diamond.

He looked back at the maid who'd opened the door and allowed him in. She smiled humbly and nodded her head forward. "Alexander is asleep upstairs. The last door on the right. I'm sure he won't mind if you wake him."

"I'd rather not," Jaylin said politely. "I don't want to bother anyone. I'll be quiet."

The maid bowed her head and wiped her hands along the silk of her nightgown. She was young and pale, and like Alexander, something about her cast strange goosebumps up Jaylin's arms. "Of course," she said. "A basket's been prepared for you. It's in the refrigerator."

Then she left, hurrying out of the foyer as if she was only in Jaylin's way—like it was possible in such a colossal house.

He had contemplated staying home and declining Alex's offer but food was scarce and Jaylin was starved. It wasn't that his mother couldn't manage a trip to the store—she'd been itching to leave the house for weeks. Since her condition had improved, she'd been up and about, cleaning and scrubbing and cooking. That's exactly why Jaylin thought to take Alex up on his offer. His mother was never one to waste food. If there was an abundance, she'd have no reason to cook. No reason to strain herself or her wallet with a trip to the store.

He knew where the kitchen was. Jaylin knew where most places were in this house. He couldn't forget; that was the problem. His feet took him hesitantly to the embellished crown of a doorway arch. Just beyond it was a lavish dining room—the kind they only show during thanksgiving specials on television. The rich cherrywood table stretched on at least fifteen feet, Jaylin assumed. He wondered how lonely it must feel to sit at a table so big. It always felt like some kind of solitary confinement to be by himself for his meals. To be reminded that you are really, truly alone—to have a dozen empty seats to accommodate such an awful feeling—he couldn't imagine it.

He skirted around it, surprised when he felt the decorative ferns brush against the back of his arms. This place left him at unease, but there was something so alluring about it. He'd felt it every time before. It reminded him of the paranormal documentaries Tisper binge-watched every October. When someone became possessed, they wanted to stay just where they were. They felt comfortable in the shabby, musky old haunted shack. That's how Jaylin felt now—like he wanted to leave, but all the more he wanted to stay. He was possessed by this place.

His fingers followed along the ridges of the table top to the sound of a running dishwasher, until he found himself in kitchen—all the shades of ebony to silver, sparkling clean and streak-free. The only thing that had changed was the stove back-splash, mosaic tiles once chipping, now new and glistening under the oven's warm light. He'd spent enough time staring at that wall to know the difference—angry at Tyler for bringing him to a place like this, then disappearing to leave him alone with strangers. He remembered pouting, sipping something strong while he watched the clock on the oven tick on.

Jaylin cleared his lungs with a slow breath, and crept to the massive double-door fridge. He'd never seen so much food in one shiny metal box. He hadn't even realized he was hungry until his stomach crooned at the sight of bacon-wrapped dates and decorated quiche.

Then he found a basket—filled with all sorts of food and wrapped up in cellophane. It was tied up in a gold ribbon, and a small note attached that read "Jaylin".

He lifted the basket with delicacy and set it atop the kitchen island, a splash of guilt spoiling his stomach. He sighed and gave the note a flick. He felt like a leech, taking from these people and giving nothing in return. But what did he have to give? Maybe he'd write a thank you note.

He shut the fridge silently and set the basket aside. He should have left then. That would have been the appropriate thing to do, but something about this place only called him deeper. He left his basket in the kitchen and walked along the hall where the light was dim and fiery, reflecting like a sunset from the silver vases beside each door. Then he saw it—the single door frame with the faint little pencil marks.

Beside each of them were the letters, AL and AN, and various dates stenciled below. It was a height chart. The youth of Anna and Alex Sigvard, forever etched in this place. He remembered Tyler, his long body pouring over him, his forearm pressed to the frame above Jaylin's head.

Yup, he had said, holding a spot with his finger. You're the same height Alex was when he was twelve.

It wasn't true; he was nearly the same height as Alex even now, but Jaylin remembered laughing, giving Tyler a shove. He remembered pushing from the wall to escape the intimate space. He remembered Tyler catching him around the waist, slinging him back. Looking at him the way the boys always looked at girls in the hallways. The way Tyler always looked at girls.

For some reason, Jaylinfound himself walking the halls of the Sigvard manor like a ghost. Taking back every memory he'd shared here with Tyler. Collecting them all in his head, looking for a way to set them on fire like old photographs.

It wasn't long before Jaylin found himself in the foyer, creeping up the crescent staircase. He was quiet as he walked, stepping from the balls of his feet to the tips of his toes until he reached the bathroom.

Jaylin stepped inside and the door clicked closed behind him. And then it was like a bubble in him had popped. The dread that he'd been feeling—the sick, heavy despair he knew was to come—spilled out in terrible force. There was the granite sink Tyler had pressed him up against, the mirror that shivered with distant music as they'd kissed, drunk and starved. It was here that he whispered words in Jaylin's ears that played him like a marionette. Words that pulled at his strings, told his heart that if those threads broke, so would he. And he did. Jaylin broke in so many pieces, it would be impossible to gather them all. Impossible to make himself whole again.

This wasn't the time or the place, but after years of bottling his past, it was rising up again. Breaking the cap.

He lowered himself to the ground, pressed back against the shower wall and blinked back the burning tears. He really, truly thought Tyler loved him. He was young and gullible and desperate for someone to. But love didn't exist to Jaylin now. Maybe that was where he had made his first mistake; by believing love was something he could ever actually take for himself.

Jaylin heard the door click open and he dabbed the wet from his eyes.

"Sorry, I was just—"

"Éclair?"

That voice didn't belong to Alex. Jaylin turned to look, startled by the brown messy hair, and the tired but beautiful complexion of the man from the photograph. Quentin, Sadie had called him. He was dressed for comfort—wrapped up in jogging sweats and a long-sleeved Henley. He was hardly the rich, suit-compressed tycoon from the night of the party. There was a nature to him now. Tired lines creased beneath his eyes and lazy stubble peppered his jaw. He smelled faintly of wine and a light scar marred his neck where his pulse fluttered his throat. His forehead wrinkled into a curious grin as he caught Jaylin staring.

"Well? We can eat éclairs, or I can ask what you're doing in my bathroom."

Jaylin recognized the liquor lagging his words. "Are you drunk?" he asked.

"Am I?" Quentin shut the door and wandered closer, taking a seat beside Jaylin on the bathroom rug. A bottle hit the floor with a thud, and Jaylin watched the wine slosh in its half-empty bottle, a plate of éclairs placed on the tiles beside it. "Our secret."

"Wine...?" Jaylin asked. It looked old and expensive—the label written entirely in French. "In here?"

"Hiding from the lady of the house," said Quentin. "What are you hiding from?"

"Memories," Jaylin replied.

"Memories in my bathroom?" Hearing him say it like that turned Jaylin a bit red. Almost as if to alleviate the embarrassment, Quentin laughed and offered him the bottle of wine. "This'll help."

The two sat in silence after that, Jaylin picking apart éclairs, chancing glances at Quentin as he watched the lights flicker above the bathroom mirror. He

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