Page 74 of The Sinner and the Gunslinger
Heat flares where he touches, and I sigh, almost giving in to the urge to stay here. I want to shower, get dressed into something cozy, then sit by the television eating popcorn and chocolate chip cookies.
“Do you remember,” I say hesitantly, “when we would stay up and watch movies?”
He nods, gaze still lost on my lips. “We would pretend to go to sleep, then sneak out once the matron was snoring. We’d sit right up close to the screen so we could hear it with the volume down. Sometimes we’d put a blanket over our heads and the TV, like our own private little fort.”
“You let me watch Dracula.”
“You let me bore you with Westerns.”
“We were happy, weren’t we?”
His eyes finally flick up to meet mine. “Yes, we were.”
“I want to find our way back to that place.” My throat is thick and tight. Saying it out loud feels scary. It’s like the moment it left my lips, it became a tangible thing—something vulnerable and out in the open. Something that can be stolen.
I’d like to blame the demons and Lilith, but there was the Sisterhood too. For so long, that was my reality, and Zeke was a dream. I’m not sure it’s possible to switch them again. We might not even survive... and then there will be hell. My reckoning.
I shiver.
“Hey,” he whispers tenderly, chucking his finger under my chin. “We’ll get there. I promise.”
Cross your heart?I want to whisper, but the words conjure pain instead of hope.
“Wildcat.” His forehead drops to mine, and he shakes his head. “I broke a promise to you.”
“I know.”
“Never again.”
All I can muster in response is a nod.
“Come on,” he says, a tone of regret in his voice. I feel like I ruined the moment with something that should be left in the past. “You’re right. We need to shower, eat, and rest.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re in dry and warm clothes, walking to Orlov’s cottage in the near dark. I’m even wearing the brown complimentary knitted pullover with pink floral patterns. We found the knits in the closet. I made Zeke wear the man-sized one.
“Wish I took a picture,” I mumble to him. His sweater is still two sizes too big, and he’s wearing a matching beanie. Also a little too big.
“I feel like a crochet doily.”
I chuckle. “But I’ll bet you’re warm.”
He shrugs, smiling. We stomp up the steps, shaking the snow from our boots. Voices inside are as boisterous as Orlov. I hear younger voices mixed in with the older. Zeke barks a sudden laugh.
“What are they saying?” I ask, curious.
“Someone is telling the other they’re annoying. The mother says they’re both annoying.”
“They’re laughing.”
He nods. “Sounds like a normal family.”
We both become lost in our thoughts when we should be knocking on the door. With the conversation and the quaint cabin with herbs and flowers in pots, this feels... domestic. Foreign yet familiar. Addictive. And we haven’t stepped a foot inside.
I clear my throat and lift my fist, ready to knock. “Remember, I’m a nun.”
I knock. Zeke again gives me a look that says I’ve stolen Christmas.
A teen girl opens the door.
