Page 44 of The Preachers' Promise
One time, I came home to discover she’d fallen and had somehow smashed my father’s beloved flat screen television on the way down. I’d taken the blame for it, lying and telling him that I’d been playing with my baseball indoors. My uncle had been with him at the time—or at least a man he insisted I call ‘uncle,’ though I don’t believe we were blood related—and they’d held me down and beaten me so badly they’d broken my jaw and several ribs.
I was ten years old.
I’m a disappointment to my father—I know I am. He hates everything about me. The way I dress, the music I play, and now he’ll hate the woman I love. I’m sure of it, because she’s fragile, too, and she has issues of her own. He’ll say I’m only interested in her because of her problems, that I have mommy issues, or some shit like that.
I don’t buy that, but it does worry me that Ophelia might be vulnerable to the same addictions as mom, especially if she doesn’t deal with everything she’s been through properly. It’s easy to escape into alcohol and drugs, especially if it’s a slow descent, but it’s a hell of a lot harder to find yourself again.
I strum a couple more chords on the guitar and tune the strings. No one has played this for some time. I wonder how often Cain’s friend uses this place. Is he the musician, or did he build this room for someone else?
The door cracks open, and I look up.
To my surprise, Ophelia is in the open doorway. She’s found a change of clothes from somewhere—a white t-shirt and a pair of navy-blue shorts, both loose on her but better than the outfit from the facility. Her cheeks have some color back to them, perhaps from the heat of the bath, and the ends of her hair are damp. She hasn’t washed it, but I guess it must have trailed in the water as she’d soaked herself.
“Hi.” She seems shy, lingering in the doorway.
I offer her a gentle smile. “Are you feeling better?”
I go to set the guitar down, but she shakes her head.
“Don’t stop,” she says. “I want to hear you play.”
I can’t help but widen my smile. “You do?”
She enters the room fully, takes a seat in the leather chair in the corner, and tucks her feet up under her. “Of course. I love your voice.”
Her praise warms me, and I grin. I take a few more minutes to finish tuning the guitar, then pluck at the strings until the air fills with music. I start to sing…
“Is she real or an apparition,
Can I trust in my own vision,
She breathed new life into my soul,
I’m consumed with making her whole…”
I keep going, risking tiny glances up at her to judge how my playing is affecting her. Her eyes are shiny, but a smile touches the corners of her lips. It’s all I want—just to see her smile again.
I finish playing and set down the guitar.
Ophelia bursts into applause. “I love it, but I don’t recognize it.” She gives her head a tiny shake. “Not that I should be surprised, considering I hardly know anything popular.”
“You wouldn’t recognize it.” My cheeks warm, and I glance away. “I wrote it. I wrote it for you.”
I risk looking at her again, holding her gaze this time. Our eyes lock. There’s such a connection between us, our eye contact speaking more than words. She pushes herself out of the chair and slowly crosses the room toward me. When she reaches me, she wraps her arms around my neck and straddles my hips, seating herself on my lap. The stool is precarious, so she keeps her toes on the floor, and I grab the backs of her thighs to hold her in place.
She presses her forehead to mine, and her eyes slip shut. “I loved it, Malachi.”
“I loveyou, baby.”
The words slip out before I even think them through. The moment I hear myself say it, it’s like a punch to my chest. Adrenaline shoots through me, and my heart kickstarts. Fuck. I hadn’t meant for that to slip out. It’s too soon. She’s been through so much, and now I’ve probably just fucked it up again. How could she possibly love someone like me? She’s so beautiful, so ethereal, and I’m like some reject from a 90s emo band.
Ophelia lifts her forehead from mine. She stares at me, her mismatched eyes wide. “Say that again,” she demands.
Do I dare?
I force myself to be strong and tell her because it’s the truth.
“I love you.”
