Page 71 of Shadows in Bloom

“The project. Weren’t you paying attention?”

She shoots me an irritated look, but says nothing.

With an exasperated sigh, I proceed to explain the assignment. I tuned in just enough to grab the important parts. And unlike some people…I can multitask.

“Why that book?” Winifred whispers when I’m done.

“Why not that book?”

She levels me a distinct look telling me to cut the shit and be serious.

It’s a familiar expression, one I used to get from her a lot. And for a brief moment, it has a pang shooting through my chest.

But I immediately squash it with contempt and a bitter smile as I recite from memory, “‘What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where to start from.’”

Winifred’s eyes dim, her mind drifting elsewhere, as she reflexively responds, “‘Through the unknown, remembered gate, when the last of earth left to discover, is that which was the beginning…’” Her gaze refocuses on mine with a gentle blink. “T.S. Eliot.”

One of our favorites, once upon a time. And as if recalling the same, her eyes drift toward my desk where The Bell Jar sits face-up.

Plath, Eliot, and Sexton—the only Holy Trinity that mattered to her before she traded them—and me—for her three-faced daddy in the sky whose only contribution to the world was fear and brain rot.

“Good girl,” I murmur, arching an impressed brow. “Surprised there’s anything of merit still left under all that religious nonsense you’ve engorged yourself on.”

She flinches, a wounded look pinching her face, before she quickly replaces it with a glare. “I suppose I could say the same for you. Who would’ve thought there’d be any room left in that giant egotistical, bitter head of yours?

My brows fly up. “Me? Bitter? Gee, I can’t imagine why that would be.”

Her face reddens and she looks away.

That’s right. Feel shitty.

“Anyway, back to the assignment,” I grit out after several seconds pass without a peep, much less an apology. “While everyone else fights over Genesis or Job or one of the other easy and boring books we’ve gone over ad nauseam… we’re going to spice it up a bit. Get morbid. Get?—”

“It’s supposed to be a warning,” Winifred cuts it tightly.

A pause, then, “You say warning, I say manipulation.” I wave a careless hand. “But that’s neither here nor there because I can appreciate good imagery and a thrilling tale as much as the next person, and if I’m going to be stuck working with the girl who broke my heart, I might as well get my kicks somewhere.”

She snaps her head my way, eyes bulging, cheeks beet-red.

“By the way,” I say drolly, looking all around her head, my nose bunching, “that braid is dreadful.”

Fury blazes from her eyes, and fuck if it doesn’t send a thrill down my spine.

“As I was saying,” I begin, “I think?—”

“Why were you in the woods?” she blurts, catching us both off guard.

My brows fly up toward my hairline. “Why are you wearing that hideous sweater on a ninety-degree day?”

She fumbles for a retort.

I tilt my head, eyeing her curiously, if not suspiciously. My lip curls up. “You stalking me now, little bunny?”

Everything in her seems to solidify.

Eyes glazing over, her entire expression slackens as her mind clearly takes her elsewhere. I can imagine exactly where too, and while it pleases me to see that my taunt had its intended impact…

I can’t help but feel a little sad too as my own shoved down memories threaten to rise.

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