Page 31 of This Vicious Hunger
“Olea, you’re talking in riddles again and I’m sick of it.”
Olea steps closer to the gate. And another step. One more. Her bare toes wriggle in the dirt. This is the closest we’ve been since she took the poplinock from me so gingerly.
“What I’m doing here in this garden is vital,” she whispers. “Dr. Petaccia is a genius—you don’t need me to tell you that. But what if I told you that her public work, the things she has you helping her with in the lab, is a mere speck in comparison to what I’m helping her with in here…?”
“I’d say you’re full of shit,” I answer coldly. “Because, frankly, what proof do I have? I’m willing to bet you won’t tell me exactly what—”
“I can’t,” Olea begs. “You must see why I can’t tell you. If even a whisper of it gets out… It’s too big and far, far too precious.” She rubs a hand along the line of her jaw, her eyes going soft and misty. “Before you came I’d have given everything for this—for your friendship. I was so—I was so lonely, Thora. Florencia is gone often, for conferences and more research, and I’m always left behind. And the plants… even they couldn’t get me through. I started to wonder how long I could do it, how many more times I might sit in that tower and cry myself to sleep.
“And then I met you. And suddenly it didn’t feel so hopeless. The nights didn’t feel like a punishment any more. The plants noticed, you know. They want you the way I want you. Your friendship is the most important thing to me in the world.
“And that’s why you must understand that I’m not keeping secrets from you to hurt you, or because I don’t trust you. It’s the world I don’t trust. Here, in my garden, I have control over it all. Inside these walls the secrets are safe. If I could tell you, then I would, Thora, I truly would. I don’t want to keep secrets from you.”
I jam my hands into my pockets like a petulant child, half tohide the way my fingers shake. I want nothing more than to believe her, to believe that she feels the same for me as I do for her. And the truth is I can’t stay angry at her. And I would never, ever want to risk her passion.
“If you can’t tell me, then I don’t know how we can go on…” I begin. Olea worries her bottom lip between her teeth and, completely unbidden, I picture biting it. “I want the same trust and friendship you do, but there will always be secrets between us as long as this gate divides us, won’t there? It isn’t fair and it isn’t right, but it’s true.”
This time Olea doesn’t flinch—and this is the only proof I need to know I have her. Guilt swirls like an oil slick inside me, but I console myself that I’m not manipulating her any more than she wants to be manipulated. She wants this just as much as I do, only she’s too frightened to admit it. I won’t be cowed any more.
“You still want to come in here?” she asks quietly. “Even though you know it’s dangerous? I can’t guarantee you won’t be hurt. You asked me to promise that I’d keep you safe… What if I can’t do that?”
“Olea.” I reach out and wrap both of my hands around the bars of the gate. The air is rich with the promise of summer rain, but most of all I can smell her—that bitter, floral perfume. It’s in my nose, under my tongue. I want to bathe in the scent. “You said it yourself: in the garden you have control. I won’t fight that. You don’t have to tell me anything about the work you’re doing—you can deny it to the doctor if it’s her you’re worried about. I won’t tell her I’ve been inside, and I won’t touch anything. We can just talk as we’ve done before. I want to learn about your passions. I want to learn aboutyou. And this way you won’t have to be alone.
“So I’ll ask again. Will you let me in?”
This time I know that Olea’s silence does not automatically mean no. She looks down at her hands, flexing her fingers. They look as if she has dipped them in ink, murky tendrils dancing from her nails right to her knuckles, as though she’s plunged her fingers in black wax. When she finally meets my gaze there is a resolve in her eyes that I have never seen before.
“Florencia is at a conference next week,” she says. “Monday—come at midnight.”
Chapter Seventeen
Leo is already in the dining hall when I arrive on Monday night. Our first dinner after my illness was awkward, full of staccato pauses as our frosty conversation thawed, but within an hour we were talking like old friends. It’s amazing how quick he is to forgive my moods, and I’m amazed at my own ability to forgive his secrecy about Olea. Still, I planned to avoid him tonight to save him a night of my anxious clock-watching.
I ate a large dinner intentionally early, two plates of string pasta with rich, creamy sauce and a doorstop wedge of white bread and butter on the side; by the time I left the hall I was hardly able to walk, but the fullness was worth it knowing I’d need the energy to be alert when seeing the garden for the first time. Alas, by seven o’clock I’m absolutely famished again. It feels like there’s a vortex in my gut, just waiting to suck up everything I put in my mouth. I can only assume it’s keeping such strange hours, how when you don’t sleep enough your body flits between extremes of hunger and thirst simply trying to regulate itself. And when I sneak in, hoping for another meal—just a snack—there is Leo, already at our usual table.
Leo looks happy to see me and I pretend I’m happy to see him. No, that’s not fair, Iamhappy to see him. We didn’t have our originally scheduled lecture with Professor Almerto today—I found out he’s attending the same conference as Petaccia—so I’ve not seen him since last night, which seems like an awfully long time given how long I’ve been awake today. I’m just not in the mood for any conversation where I have to be present. My brain is far too fixated on later, on the garden and Olea.
We fall into our usual routine, ordering our meals and chatting about our day’s lectures and reading in the short time it takes for the food to arrive. Normally now is the time Leo changes the subject, to something lessmessythan science, but tonight he doesn’t do that. Instead he watches me as I wolf down yet another portion of the ridiculously creamy pasta, buttering yet another thick slice of bread.
There is a war happening behind his eyes. I can see it, but I can’t stop it. He rubs at the day-old stubble on his chin, clears his throat, and refolds his napkin into what looks a little like a swan. I chew my food carefully and swallow, waiting for him to speak.
“I saw you in here earlier,” he says finally. “Through the window.”
Ah, I think. I knew I should have avoided him.
“You were eating then, too, weren’t you?”
“Honestly, Leo, you’re not much better than those mother hens in the family rooms you told me about. Is it really any of your business how, or when, I eat?”
“I’m just looking out for you. I know you weren’t well last week and I…” He leans in. “I wanted you to know that I can be very discreet.”
“Discreet?” I raise an eyebrow. “And why, exactly, would youneed to be discreet? Just because I’m hungrier than usual? I’ve been working hard over the weekend and today felt endless.”
“Well… I’m no prude.” He hems. “You know. And maybe I’m wrong because I thought… Well. Anyway. I’ve noticed things. You have that strange sort of… bitter smell. And your moods. I can help if you… In case you’re…”
“In case I’mwhat, Leonardo?” I spit. “Wearing too much perfume? Getting fat? Apostles forgive me, but if you think it’s your duty to tell me that I’m gaining too much weight, then I’m more than happy to tell you what I think of you.” Of all the ridiculous, rude, absolutely banal things he could choose to have a problem with, this is the one he’s decided to tackle me over? For the first time in weeks I find myself missing Aurelio’s sarcasm; at least I knew where I stood with all that. That’s the trouble with Leonardo—he’s too kind-hearted, and damn nosy, for his own good. Petaccia was right about men and their agendas, but I didn’t expect this kind ofmothering.
“No!” Leo exclaims, his eyes going wide. “Goodnessno, that’s not what I mean at all.” He wipes his forehead with his napkin and it comes away wet.
