Page 151 of Ruthless Chaos
“It isn’t?” she asks.
I nod, looking through the window. The glass is all fogged up, and some of the vines from the roof have started to stretch down and cover them.
“No. The school doesn’t own it at least. They don’t know it’s here.”
When I chance a look at her again, her eyes are back to roving about the room. “How do you know about it, then?”
I suck in a deep breath.
When I settled on the idea of bringing her here, I knew I would have to explain. That doesn’t make it any easier, though. It’s a little premature and I’m a little crazy for doing this. But it felt like the right thing to do.
“It belonged to somebody important to me. They had built it when they attended Saint Frederic a long time ago.”
She considers my words. “He must have been quite the carpenter,” she comments with a smile. I wince.
“She,” I say.
I can hear my own heartbeat. Something flashes across Alize’s features briefly. She catches herself quickly, but I recognize it instantly.
Jealousy.
I’m strangely pleased that the thought of another woman in my life makes her jealous. It gets my blood pumping. Maybe the way I feel about her isn’t so unique after all. I would kill any man who even looks at her for too long. If the feeling is at least somewhat reciprocated, then it doesn’t make me insane.
It makesbothof us crazy.
“It was my mom,” I say, watching as the tension in her jaw dissipates. “She attended this school before she met my father.” The mention of him forces me to pause a bit to settle my thoughts. “She came here when she needed time to think, away from everything.”
The corner of Alize’s lip rises slightly.
“It does feel like a haven,” she says thoughtfully. Even though I’m sure she’s committed every square foot on this tiny place to memory, she looks over everything again, as if in appreciation.
I watch her closely, reliving my first time in this place through her expressions.
I only found out about this cabin through one of my mother’s journals. Those diaries were the only thing of hers my father allowed me to keep after she died. I pored over them incessantly in the first few weeks after she passed. I knew that when I came here, I would have to visit this place, just to feel a little closer to her.
“Does she know that you still come here?” Alize asks, an innocent smile on her face.
I look away from her and at my twitching fingers.
There are too many memories here, too many feelings imbued in these planks of wood that I don’t want to relive with an audience.
“She died ten years ago,” I say softly.
The words don’t feel real. It feels like just yesterday that I came home from school and found her blood splattered all over the flowers in the greenhouse.
“Oh.Oh, I’m,” Alize’s struggling to find her words, and the pity in her voice makes my blood boil. “I’m so sorry, Alexander. I didn’t k—”
I cut her off to put us both out of this misery. “It’s fine. It’s been ten years.” I glare at her. “You don’t have to feel sorry for me. I’m fine.”
Alize’s eyes are glassy, and I absolutely hate the look on her face.
Maybe I would find it cute, or compassionate, or even empathetic if I wasn’t on the receiving end of it. I don’t want her pity or sympathy. I don’t want her to try to act like she understands what I am going through.
I’m ready to shut her up if she tries to console me, but she catches me off guard.
“What was she like?”
“What?” I ask, confused.
