✺✺✺

                   "AREN'T THERE STAIRS?"

                    "Locked,"  Paris said.

                    "What about the windows?"

                    "Have you looked outside?"

                     Rory pushed her wheelchair back through the cluttered path of objects, her sharp jaw flexing against her cream skin. The sound of her wheelchair striking metal drew Paris's attention.

                    "What are you doing?" Paris demanded.

                    "I'm . . . not entirely sure."

                    "Stop it, you idiot!" Paris said. Frustration flowing through her, heavy and thick. "Knocking yourself against the elevator isn't going to get us out of here."

                    Rory paused. "How about the door to the stairs?"

                    Miserably, Paris said, "I told you, it's locked. The hospital sealed off the basement years ago because of―"

                    "Because of?"

                    "Rats," Paris whispered, and she shuddered.

                    Blankly, Rory stared at her.

                    "Rats?"

                    "Rats," Paris said, and she wrapped her arms around herself, almost instinctually. Thinking of the sharp-teethed, oily-haired, beady-eyed demon creatures.

                    "You're scared of . . . rats?" 

                    "Yes, I'm scared of rats!"

                    Just thinking of their pointed red stare, their long shivering snouts, and the chitter of their tiny, clawed feet against concrete made Paris's head spin.

                    Rats―her childhood nightmare.

                    "I'm sure there aren't any rats in the wintertime," Rory said soothingly. And then she snickered.

                   Paris whipped around. Crossing her arms.

                   "I don't think this is funny," she said coldly. "Any of it." 

                   "My sense of humour was always better than yours, though."

                   "Your sense of humour is inappropriate."

                   "That's what makes it better."

                   "Just because something is dirty, it doesn't mean it's funny!"

                   "I disagree," Rory said, a wicked glint in her eyes as she pushed her wheelchair through decade-old remnants of items. "I think I'm hilarious."

                   "You and no one else."

                   "Maybe I'm a misunderstood genius."

                   "I think you're misunderstanding the part where anyone else considers you a genius."

                   Rory smirked. "But you're afraid of rats."

                   Paris swiveled around, blushing furiously. "That doesn't qualify as a comeback," she gritted out. "Try again."

                   But then something occurred to her―the hospital had locked off the basement years ago. 

                  There would be no heat here.

                  And already the cold was starting to seep into the floor, slithering against her exposed skin. Paris shivered in the pale light of the window.

                 Soon, it would be freezing cold here.

                They didn't have much time―they had to get help.

                 They couldn't be trapped here.

                 And especially not after the conversation Paris had just had with Rory. 

                You cut me off. You don't want to hear my explanation.

                You're afraid of getting close.

               You're afraid of getting hurt. 

                And all of those things . . . all of those strikes . . . . 

                They had hit home.

                Now, looking at Rory from across the basement floor, surrounded by the clutter of lost-and-found items and dusty belongings, Paris thought of why. 

               Why she cut herself off.

               Why she didn't want to hear an explanation.

               Why she didn't want to let anyone get close to her. Why she didn't want to give anyone permission to hurt. Why she didn't want to give anyone the power to love her.

              I am afraid. 

              And the easy explanation . . . it was that she loved her work, her patients, more than she wanted a social life. It was that she didn't need to be loved. She didn't need anyone to rely on. Paris had graduated med school. She had gotten this job here. 

              She relied on herself. She was independent.

              Everything she had earned in life, it had come from her hard work.

              And that was the easiest explanation, but it wasn't the only one.

             Maybe it was, in part, what had happened to London. She had chosen to love that little girl growing inside of her. She had chosen to keep the baby that had been a product of a night she wanted nothing better than to forget.

             But it wasn't only that.

             The king―and his offer.

            His stupid, stupid offer.

            Break Rory's heart. Make her into a docile princess.

           Tame her. 

            It would end badly. Things like this always did. But Paris's children came first, and when she thought of Michael and Gloria and Tasha and Dhonielle and Isabella―sweet Izzy―she thought of them dying.

            There wasn't enough research on their illnesses.

            There weren't enough people working on a cure.

            But the king's offer―it could change that.

            And Paris's kids came first. Her kids would always come first.

           Even before herself.

           Even before the girl she loved.

✺✺✺

           IT HAD BEEN OVER AN HOUR.

           Paris was shivering now―shivering against the cold and the wind and the icy concrete floor. 

          She was tucked against the wall, her legs stretched out in front of her. 

          Rory was still rolling herself through the maze of objects.

          "What are you doing now?" Paris said.

          "I'm looking for rats," Rory said with no touch of humour. "It should be nighttime soon. I wouldn't want them to eat us while we sleep."

          "Maybe they'll eat you and leave me alone," Paris muttered.

          "In that case, I guess I won't be looking out for you anymore. Every man for himself."          

          "No!" Paris said quickly. "I mean, fine."

          "So if a big, scary rat crawls right up to you in the middle of the night, you're not going to scream?"

           "What are you afraid of?" Paris shot back. "Because last I recall, it was commitment."

           "At least that's more dignifying than a rat."

           "At least my fear has teeth and beady red eyes."

           But Rory pushed her wheelchair towards Paris, and in the dimming light of the window, blue shadows danced over her sharp jaw and high cheekbones.

           Those eyes, burnt-sienna, bristled with a challenge that was more than playful.

           "Then let's talk seriously," Rory said. "I may be afraid of commitment. I might have flings and one-night stands. I might flirt with anything that has legs. But what about you?"

           "What about me?"

           "Rats aren't your greatest fear," said Rory stubbornly, shaking her head. "You're scared of getting hurt. You're scared of failure."

            "Failure?" Paris scoffed. "How?"

             Rory rolled closer towards her, and she lifted herself up, propping her leg on the ground until she could slide into a sitting position.

             She pushed the wheelchair into the clutter, and then they were facing each other. 

             Paris, with her back to the wall.

             Rory, opposite from her, a few feet away.

             There was no amusement, no playfulness in Rory's tone now as she said, "If something happens now, if you let yourself get hurt, you'll blame it on yourself. You think it'll be your fault. You consider every loss, every death, a failure on your part."

            Isabella―that little girl.

            Paris should have been able to save her.

            And Tasha―had her mother committed suicide because of her? Because of Paris? 

            "Not everything is your responsibility," Rory finished.

           "I know that!" Paris snapped.

           "You have to let yourself feel, you know," Rory said. "In order to heal. Everyone has emotional wounds. We just have to cope."

           "That's rich coming from you," Paris said, and Rory flinched.

           Immediately, she regretted it.

           She knew Rory was doing her best. She had noticed the twitch of Rory's fingers, the stitch of her breath. Symptoms of withdrawal. There were no signs of alcohol in the princess's blood, and that meant she was trying.

           "I'm sorry," Paris said in a breath. "I didn't really mean that."

           "No," said Rory, her eyes flashing. "You did. But I . . . listen, Paris. I've been honest with you. I want to fight for you. I want to deserve you. So I'll be honest now."

           The light from outside was slowly becoming dimmer.

           Soon, it would be dark in here. Pitch-black.

           In the fading light, Rory said, "I've struggled with drinking since I was fourteen, and you know that. Declan used to . . . you know I idolized him. But I've been trying to stop―I'm not just one month sober, Paris. I'm five weeks sober."

           It was a week's difference.

           But Paris knew instantly what that meant.

           Rory had made the decision to be sober before she had gotten to the hospital. She had made the decision on her own. She hadn't been forced.

           "Is that why you were snowboarding that day?" Paris said. "To take the edge off?"

           Rory had once told her that there was a constant buzz in her system. A craving for adrenaline. And maybe that had been why.

           "Yeah," Rory admitted, looking down. "That was probably the reason for the accident."

           Paris tucked her knees into her chest. Right now, she didn't feel like the accomplished pediatrician, the honored med student. She didn't feel like an adult with her own home and her own choices and her own family.

            She felt like the same eighteen year old girl she had been five years ago.

            Sitting in the church, waiting for Rory to come.

            An argument.

            Sex.

           And then another argument―one that couldn't be solved by the frenzied touch of skin to skin, mouth to mouth, moan to echo.

            Finally, Paris asked, "Why?"

            Rory glanced up.

            In her eyes, Paris saw the glittering understanding. The sharp-edged realization. Paris had asked―she wanted the explanation.

            And for a moment, Paris didn't let herself regret it.

            "I didn't believe you when you told me my brother had raped your sister, because I was scared." Rory's voice was broken, but clear. "Do you remember when you told me London had a crush on Declan?"

            "I remember," Paris said quietly.

            "And then London started hanging out with them, remember that? You know what Declan and his friends were like. Hard-core party people. Looking for a constant high."

             Paris remembered that―how London had stumbled back to the dorms day after day. Whenever their mother called, Paris had covered for her sister by saying she was in the shower. Those days, London came home every night completely stoned. She'd pass out for twelve hours straight.

             "Your sister said she was sober the night it happened," Rory whispered.

             "I know."

             "I didn't believe that," Rory said. "I thought she was lying. She said Declan was black-out drunk, and he forced himself on her. It didn't seem real."

              "London wasn't drinking that night because she was pregnant."

✺✺✺

              PARIS WAS SIXTEEN YEARS OLD. SHE WAS DATING RORY PRESTON.

              That day, as London pulled her aside and whispered those words―I'm pregnant―Paris knew exactly who the father was.

               The crown prince.

               Declan Preston, the heir to Valeria.

               Red-faced, blotchy from crying, London said, "I don't know how to do this."

               This―not the baby.

               Telling their parents.

               "Are you . . . are you going to drop out of school?" Paris asked. 

               Miserably, London shook her head. Her chocolate-dark curls were secured in a high bun, and her face was streaked with traces of her mascara.

               "I can't do this," London said.

               "Yes, you can," Paris insisted. "Whatever you decide, I'll support you. You're my sister."

               "The headmistress . . . the professors, they'll all call me whores," London rasped. "How can I? Even our parents will believe it."

               "I'll be right there next to you," Paris promised. "I'll hit anyone who calls you a whore."

               "You've never thrown a punch in your life, Paris," said London, sniffling. But a choked laugh bubbled from her lips anyway.

               "I'm a fast learner," said Paris fiercely.

               "Thanks, Paris, but . . ."

              "But what?"

              "I'm going to ask Declan first. What to do."

              "Is he going to be happy?" Paris asked. "About being a father?"

              London tried to smile, and failed. She wiped the tears from her upper lip. "No, probably not," she said in a weak voice. "But he is the father."

              "When are you going to tell him?"

              "Tonight," London whispered. "Wish me luck, Paris?"

              "Of course," Paris said, and she hugged her sister fiercely.

              When London walked out the door of their dormroom that afternoon, Paris hadn't known then that when she returned the next morning, it would be with a tattered dress, an empty tube of lipstick, and the words SLUT written on her stomach.

✺✺✺

               PARIS HAD HEARD THE RUMOURS ABOUT DECLAN.

               They had all heard the rumours about Declan.

                But even though, at sixteen, she had argued for the side of Billie―the first victim who had spoken up―when her sister started dating him, it all changed.

                Paris didn't stop believing the girls, but she did try and support her sister. London seemed happy. Maybe Declan wasn't so bad―maybe that's all it was, rumours. 

                And then London came home that morning.

                London came home, with the word SLUT written on her stomach.

                "I told him I was pregnant," she said, and the tears streamed down her face. Choking her. "I told him I was pregnant, and he didn't want her."

                "Her?"

                "The baby," said London. "He didn't want her."

                "What . . . what happened?"

                And then London told her the way he had pushed her against the wall. Growling about how she was a liar. A cheater. "It's not my baby," he had said. And then he tore her dress, and he reached between her legs, and he said, "This is how you make a baby."

                "A rape kit," Paris had gasped. "You need to report this to the―"

                "Who would believe me?" London said. "Who? I didn't believe the other girls. I didn't believe Billie Larson, when she came up to me and warned me."

                "We'll make them," Paris said viciously. "This is proof. This lipstick, this―"

                But London said, "No."

                "I don't understand."

                "They'll think I'm a whore," London whispered. "And Declan might be an asshole, but . . . what if he decides he wants the baby? Who will the courts pick? Me or a prince?"

                "You," Paris said forcefully.

                "Not with my history of drug abuse and alcohol," said London, smiling weakly even as the tears streamed down. "I have to protect her."

✺✺✺

                PARIS WAS KNEELING IN FRONT OF THE ALTAR IN AN EMPTY CHURCH.

                The golden mosaic of the saints was lit up, cutting warm ribbons of sunlight across her face as she looked up.

                 Paris wasn't religious.

                 But she prayed, that day―she prayed for London, who was religious.

                 Please, God.

                 Please.

                 Help my sister. 

                  Behind her, the doors were thrown open. A clang that drew the attention of Paris, and she turned with a half-smile on her face.

                  Rory, sauntering down the aisle.

                  At eighteen, she was every bit the cocky heartbreaker Declan was.

                  Her sleek auburn hair was coiled in a low bun. The hard angles of her face were softened by the luscious curve of her grinning mouth.

                  "Paris," she said.

                  And her name―her name on Rory's tongue―sounded like pure blasphemy.

                  The word echoed through the empty church.

                  "I have to tell you something," Paris said.

                  Rory sank to one knee next to her. "What's wrong?"

                  She had always been able to tell when something was bothering Paris.

                  "My sister," Paris said, and she couldn't―she couldn't breathe.

                  This was it.

                  This was the truth.

                  In the eight months since it had happened, London had refused to tell anyone the truth about her baby's father.

                  Rory had assumed the break-up between Paris's sister and her brother was because of a scandal. Something natural.

                 But now . . . it was time.

                 Except the words wouldn't come out.

                 The words wouldn't come out. 

                 "Priscilla said she saw you making out with Hannah in the locker room today," Paris blurted out. And it was true―Priscilla had told her that.

                 "That's not true. I'd never make out with Hannah."

                 "The other day, Priscilla said she saw you kissing Jane."

                 Rory frowned. "I was tipsy. It doesn't count."

                 Paris had only been buying time. She hadn't really believed what Priscilla had told her. Earlier that day, her and Rory had been sitting on the balcony, and Paris had whispered, I love you. 

                "Wait." Paris jumped to her feet. "It's true?" 

                "No!" Rory said. "Well, yes. But it doesn't matter. You are the only girl I want."

                "Then why are you kissing other people?"

                 "Paris, you know I want you, and only you." 

                 And then Rory had shown Paris exactly how much she wanted her.

✺✺✺

                 PARIS WAS FLUSHED BY THE TIME THEY WERE DONE.

                 Flushed―flushed and trembling.

                 Not only with sex, but with what had to come next.

                 "Declan raped London," Paris said.

                  Rory's eyes snapped to her. "Jesus, Paris."

                 "Declan raped London, and she's pregnant with his child."

                 Rory swore and leaped to her feet. "You're telling me that―"

                 "He's the father of her baby," said Paris.

                 "We have to tell him!" Rory said. "You told me your sister is at the hospital right now. Isn't she in labour? Declan will want to be there."

                Softly, Paris said, "He knows."

                 "What do you mean, he knows?" 

                 "She told him eight months ago, and he didn't want to be a father."

                 Rory shook her head vehemently. "I know my brother―he's not like that. He must not have heard right. He must not know. We have to tell him so he can―"

                 Quietly, Paris said, "He raped her."

                 "They were dating, why would he―?"

                 "When she told him she was pregnant, he raped her," Paris continued.

                 Crying―she was crying.

                 Rory was shaking her head. Pacing up and down the aisle.

                 "No, that can't be true," she said. "I know my brother."

                 "So did my sister," Paris said. "And he. Raped. Her."

                  "I thought we agreed the rumours weren't―"

                  Now Paris was standing. "No, Rory. You said the rumours weren't true. I wanted to believe it when my sister started dating Declan, and maybe that makes me worse, because I still had doubts, but I believe those girls now."

                  "Those six girls are―"

                  "It's seven," Paris said forcefully. "My sister counts."

                  "Your sister cheated on Declan."

                  Paris barked out a laugh, rolling her eyes skyward. "Is that what he told you? Is that the excuse he made? London didn't cheat. He hurt her. She was pregnant with his baby."

                  Rory threw her hands up in the air. The golden light, slanting through the mosaic's tiles, deepened the colour of her burnt-sienna eyes. Turning her hair the colour of caramel foam.

                 She was so beautiful, and so, so infuriating. 

                 Paris had expected Rory to believe her.

                 They had been together for two years, but it felt like longer. It felt like forever, with every single touch and every single kiss and every single first they had shared together.

                 "No," Rory was saying. "No, I don't . . ."

                 "Don't you believe me?"

                  Rory was shaking her head. "You know I want to, Paris, but I . . ."

                 "If you don't trust me, then how does this work?" Paris said, but her voice voice was quiet. Calm, even as everything inside of her began to shatter.

                 "It doesn't," Rory said, staring at the altar of the church. Her eyes slid to Paris, and she repeated, "It doesn't work."

                "Fuck this," Paris said, and there were tears in her eyes.

                She probably shouldn't have sworn in a church.

                But her life―it was crumbling right in front of her eyes.

                The girl she loved . . . the girl she loved . . .

                Rory didn't trust her. 

                Rory was supposed to believe her, even when nobody else did. It was supposed to be Paris and Rory, against the world.

               You were supposed to believe me. 

✺✺✺

               LONDON YOUNG DIED IN CHILDBIRTH.

               She didn't even have time to name her daughter, a beautiful baby girl.

               Neither of them survived.

✺✺✺

This chapter got kind of emotional for me. But you guys finally know what happened between Paris and Rory.

Do you think this is forgivable?

From the moon and back,
Sarai