"En Canot" by Jean Metzinger (1913), confiscated by Nazis around 1936 from the National Gallery, displayed in the Degenerate Art Exhibition in 1937, missing ever since - value $2.4 million

Chapter Forty-One

When February came, Simon's time at Whitehill came to an end.

I still hadn't gone back. I spent my time doing anything else. I supported my sister, went to lunches with Lena, and attempted to lure August away from those haunted grounds. I tried my hand at crocheting, sourdough starters, and even began to tackle the pile of books on my nightstand. I wanted to see what could bloom outside of those walls, away from the paint fumes and stench of suspicion. I wanted to see who Eleanor was. Who I was, if anyone, when allowed to be something else—when allowed to be someone else.

I am not a Whitehill.

To August's dismay, there were no more coffee runs, or rescues from awful meetings, or time spent together at the museum. Not anymore. I had coffee at my place, an unchecked ex-work email, and no desire to set foot on Whitehill grounds. To my own dismay, I noticed August seemed to think I would change my mind. He appeared deep rooted in beliefs I'd flip as soon as the investigation officially ended, or if the museum apologized, or if given the chance. I didn't have the heart to tell him any different. In that same coward's heart, I knew my only plan was continued avoidance.

I had to.

Everything was different. I was different. I was perfectly happy in my bubble, waist-deep in abandoned hobbies and a blossoming relationship. I didn't spend as much time with my friends as I used to, but I was trying my best, and I'd found new sides to myself in my free time.

I wouldn't go back. Not ever. Not even for a visit.

I repeated that every dawn, every day, and every night. It was a reminder, even to myself, on days I found myself taking wrong turns on familiar roads, solely by memory of heart. It was a reminder I etched in my mirror, my bedposts, and my psyche. I wasn't going back. I wasn't. Even as the FBI unofficially-officially petered out their investigation into me, I refused. The fundraiser had been enough. Besides, I was fed enough information from those around me to sate my curiosity. I didn't have to wonder how the museum was faring, or wonder about its revival.

No, my feelings about Whitehill were complicated now—both the museum and the family.

Especially because I'd seen Simon's dedication to the museum while he was there. I'd witnessed the early mornings, the late nights, the hollowness in his eyes. There'd been times he'd run himself ragged, becoming a skeleton of sharply burned angles of bone, all so his team didn't have to, so he could help Whitehill. There'd been mornings he'd rubbed his neck while standing from my bed, having hardly slept enough to call it a nap, let alone rest. I'd seen what he'd given to the museum. I'd seen what he'd cut from himself to fill its holes, what he'd wrenched from his reserves to keep going.

I despised what it'd done to him.

More than anything else, I despised the part I'd played in it. It never should've gotten to this point. Whenever I thought too hard on it, the anger lifted its head, and I had to wrangle it back down. So I focused on other things instead. For example, there were few things more attractive than a good leader. It was no surprise Simon wore the title he didn't want with a skill he didn't acknowledge, and that was hot; it was a sexy silver lining of a brutal situation. I'd cement myself a liar if I claimed not to think so. But everything else he'd had to go through?

It pissed me off. By the time it was over, he'd given so much to that cursed building.

So have I.

With the museum's contract now at an end, things changed for Simon. Him and his team returned to their home base, and his days looked different. Though, it wasn't long before half of the company was sent to another case, albeit a much smaller one. The other half stayed on their toes, waiting, preparing, training—and Simon was in charge of it all. When he left my apartment in the mornings, he wasn't going to the scene of the crime anymore; he was going to his office, taking conference calls and warding off bad omens in emails. I'd hoped it would be a little easier for him to breathe now that he had at least one success notched in his company belt.

Truthfully, I wasn't sure I'd be able to tell even if it was.

To my mixed feelings, the intensity for his work never dimmed. Regardless of whether he was leading from the top of the tower or the bottom of the trenches, Simon was just as dedicated and viciously thorough as ever. In fact, I'd realized the men of Riverwide didn't do things halfway. Maybe they couldn't afford the risk because of what they were recovering from; they were finally running again after losing their legs. Maybe it was the company motto. Whatever the reason, they filled spaces completely with their presence and enveloped others in protection until fully covered. They investigated until their nails scraped the bottom of the barrel. Simon himself was the true example, he didn't do anything halfway; he threw himself so wholly into his job, his role, and his responsibilities. He gave all of himself to be whatever they needed.

I didn't know how, but he gave everything to me, too.

Sometimes I saw reminders of who I used to be in him. I recognized the sacrifices he was making, the symptoms, the innate passion underlying everything he did. How he was faithful even when it was rugged and exhausting; how much it was taking from him. And, silently, I was afraid for him because of it. I was terrified of what his work was doing to him, what it could do, what it could take, what it could cost. There were days Simon ran himself so far up the creek, I was worried he'd drown. Days when his stare became so desolate and dull, it hurt to watch. Days when all I wanted was to wrap him in my arms, and refuse to let go, because I wasn't sure how much of him would come back if I did.

Was it necessary for him to be that way forever? Did he have to be that person? How was it fair he was paying for other's mistakes? His predecessor had been the one to punch a hole in the bottom of the boat, so why did Simon have to be the one to fill it? Why did he have to go under, so others didn't have to?

How much more must be sacrificed to make right what others made wrong?

My heart hurt for the man I slept beside. For the bright-eyed man who hid so much of that brightness away, who locked it in vaults for fear it'd be snuffed. The man who'd swallowed his last match so deeply down it threatened to suffocate in its hiding place—choked by the same darkness it used as a shield. I worried the same place he stashed it would become its warden, its killer, its destroyer, so I spent my nights luring out his light so he wouldn't flicker and fade. Refilling his cup so he wouldn't empty, bucket after bucket, so he wouldn't run out from pouring too much of himself and his soul into his job.

Deep down, I knew so much had gone towards rebuilding Whitehill, and even more went towards keeping others safe, but I resented the damage. I hated how it just kept going, like he was a bottomless cup and not a man.

We weren't meant to exist this way. We were meant to live—not just survive. We were meant to create, to enjoy things. To read, to paint, to write. To fill days with theatre, dancing, and music. This isn't what life is supposed to be. Jobs are necessary, but they aren't meant to be sacrifices.

I watched Simon. I watched the news. I watched my friends, family, loved ones. I watched it all from the comfort of my apartment.

It took a while to stop feeling like I was waiting. Waiting for something to change, for the other shoe to drop, for what I rebuilt to implode. It always felt like I was waiting. And for longer than I'd liked to admit, I feared Simon's departure from Whitehill meant the end of us. I'd given so much up for that museum and its people, so much for art and for family—but I couldn't give up Simon. Not yet. I couldn't lose something else because the museum had lost it first. They'd let him go, not me. Why would I have to lose him because of it?

I waited. I wanted to cling as tightly as I could to what we had, shrieking if loosened, but it wasn't my choice. It wasn't only my decision; our tango took two and our direction took agreement.

So I waited. I waited for him to fade from view, leaving me and Whitehill behind as a package deal. I waited for him to move to the next job, the next woman, the next broken ruins. I waited for our time to end. I waited and waited and waited and—

And I broke down.

Then I waited some more.

Eventually, I realized I didn't have to worry about his job being the fatal blow. He was around less, sure, but Simon still courted me like a lovesick pauper. He flirted, and strutted, and reminded me I was on his mind with 'just because' gestures. Even on his busiest days, when he could hardly breathe let alone see me, he communicated. I never asked him for it—but I didn't have to.

And I knew for as long as he was willing to show up, as long as he was on my doorstep, I would always let him in.

Eventually, Simon and I fell into a routine of change and adaptation. It kept me on my toes, in the best possible way. There were times he was too swamped by work to stop by, but the times he was with me were entirely ours. We went on dates, explored the beaches and windy cliffs of the coast, and traveled to farmer's markets for flowers for his nieces. I met his sister, a beautiful woman who was as kind as her brother. I was even covered in glitter, wore paint smeared by tiny fingers, and joyfully enjoyed every moment as I met his nieces, too. My heart always swelled seeing Simon with his family. He'd been shaped from his loved ones like I was, but the hands that'd made him had been gentle, mindful. He was the type of man who carried family so close to his heart, so deep in his soul, that creating jealousy in others was inevitable.

I was envious of what he had, but I was so happy for him to have it. If anyone deserved a family like that, it was Simon.

Weeks blurred together. Nights were spent at my place, or his, or exploring cities. Dinners were sometimes take-out in the middle of the night, while he fought through paperwork, or snacks and wine, because we'd burnt something again, or fancy restaurants, because I wanted him to try foods he'd never heard of. Breakfasts were thrown apples as he jogged out the door, or granola bars I snuck in his gym bag, or afternoon brunches because we'd stayed in bed too long.

We talked about life, and histories, and what we loved. We talked about our favorites, our lists of things to try, our predictions and frustrations. I was given so much, and I took every bit, then I demanded more.

I could never have enough.

Nor could I take it.

Truthfully, I'd never dated someone that wanted me by his side as much as Simon did. He never made me feel like a trophy he'd won, or a check on a list. I wasn't an objective, or a one-and-done achievement he could boast of—I was a person he was proud of. I'd never had that before.

Hell, I'd never realized there was a difference before.

Winter was turning vapid. The world was desperate for sun, for warmth, for change, for the turn of the seasons. Not me. I didn't care. I was content to hide in my apartment, buried away with Simon, and learn everything I could about him. I could stay hidden with him forever. So when Simon asked me to attend a work-related cocktail party as his plus-one, I balked. I especially wavered at the idea of an event not too dissimilar from the ones I used to attend, before my riches turned to rags.

I was hesitant to return to my roots. I was hesitant to expose myself again; I'd become a homebody nervous of the world beyond my front door.

Simon knew that. To my relief, he'd never judged me for it. To my surprise, he'd never pressured me to change. Even when he proposed the outing, he still didn't. Instead, he assured me he understood if I didn't want to go, and respected if I needed more time to heal my wounds. He said it was simply a party, and that he'd understand if I didn't want to attend, but if I did, I had nothing to fear if I chose to stand by his side. Either way, he promised, he'd be happy with my answer.

Is this what it's like to date someone who cares?

If asked, I'd say it was that unyielding understanding of his and my own insatiable curiosity that caused me to cave. I knew my dreams of forever weren't possible; I couldn't avoid the world forever. Though Simon had promised he'd never rush me, I knew he'd eventually get worried. The world would come knocking, sooner or later. I could either greet it on my own terms or wait for it to ambush me—and I didn't like the latter. So I dragged my feet and wobbled on a tightrope of doubt, but I listened to the voice in my ear. Do this for Simon, it said. Do it for him.

Anything.

I dressed up like I hadn't done since the fundraiser. I donned a midnight blue gown that flirted with the traces of green in my eyes, but kept the look minimal, because it wasn't the time for flaunting. This wasn't the fundraiser; I could keep things simple, and wear jewels I didn't have to venture into the safe in my closet for.

It was several months after the end of my empire. It was several months after it'd all gone wrong. It still wasn't long enough, but I was re-entering the world—hand in hand with Simon, my heart on my sleeve and my secrets in my heart.

The sky lounge the party was held in overlooked the darkening horizon, encompassing both the distant hills and the urban skyline. It was a marvelous view speckled with the brilliant lights of the city surrounding us; the lounge designed for an expensive time, overlooking the same empire its patrons ran. I'd been to the spot a couple of times—but I wasn't quite sure what to expect from this particular event. It wasn't art critics, or my parent's friends, or the usual socialites I was accustomed to. Instead, it was a heady mix of military officers, government officials, and powerful contractors.

To my amusement, the party wasn't all that different. The martinis were extra dirty, the whiskey was especially neat, and the gossip sounded exceptionally similar. Topics of conversation varied, but human nature did not.

The night was young. We were swept up almost immediately, chatting and making our way around the room. I felt myself slipping into who I used to be, and as we got deeper into the fray, I realized something was different about Simon, too. The Simon beside me wasn't the same Simon who'd eaten beignets in bed with me late the night before. Who'd moped and groaned over his loss to Reed in online scrabble all morning. This Simon was stiff, and blank, and nothing like the Simon I called mine.

I could see it. He was dimming his light again because his job demanded it. I recognized it, because I'd once done the same thing, when Whitehill had demanded it.

For a moment, even though he'd assured me we had nothing to hide, fear seized my heart. I didn't know how much we should actually reveal. Was he second-guessing it, too? I didn't want to look like a rigid accessory by his side, but neither did I want to cross lines I wasn't sure about. Was this a terrible idea? He was here to impress his network with his skills and control, not wave around his red flag of a partner.

Then I realized I was being an idiot.

This was his terrain. I couldn't make decisions for him, but I didn't have to; he'd already told me his decision. Besides, I was an expert at this. I'd done it my entire life. I didn't have to share any more than I wanted to. In a moment of weakness, I'd let my anxieties consume me, but this was child's play compared to the parties I used to navigate. The Vaycker name had a legacy I could utilize. It was a side of me I didn't always like, but she shined her brightest in situations like this. I took the lead, and followed his, and we found a balance that worked.

We made small talk, sipped drinks, and checked names off Simon's list. It was tiring, and fake, and everything I used to be good at. Although, unlike the fundraiser, if anyone questioned why I was there, or had snide remarks, they didn't have the guts to say it to our faces. They surely wouldn't say it to Simon, who stood beside me with impressive authority and leadership. His hand unapologetically rested on my lower back, or wrapped around my waist, or tangled in mine. Eventually, he began to relax a little, too. He would squeeze my hand every so often, as if to reassure me, or maybe seeking to reassure himself. I felt his silent questions of 'are you okay?' throughout the night, and would always smile, just as silently promising I was.

Of course I was okay. I was a Vaycker.

"Eleanor!"

I turned, immediately spotting Gabby making a beeline for us, her fiancé in tow. I beamed, quickly moving to greet her. "Gabby, you look beautiful!"

"Thank you! So do you!"

Gabby pulled me into a hug as our small group exchanged greetings. Both Simon and I relaxed even more as we chatted with the familiar couple. Unfortunately, it wasn't long until Gabby disappeared for drink refills, and Simon was pulled away by a stern looking man to another group. I let him go, promising it was okay when I saw the etched apologies in his dark eyes. I wished him luck with a kiss on the cheek. He seemed to need it; he didn't look particularly thrilled to be sucked into conversation with that party guest.

With them gone, it was only Beck and I. Beck was just as warm and go-lucky as I remembered him being.

Even when I wished he wasn't.

For a few minutes, we talked like old friends. I asked him about the new assignments at Riverwide, if he missed Whitehill, and how the wedding planning was going. It was going well. I felt myself brush off the last of the stiffness.

"Oh, Eleanor, I forgot to mention," Beck said, snapping his fingers as he remembered. "I met your parents at the fundraiser! They seemed nice. It's cool that your sister looks like your mom, but you look like your dad. Best of both worlds, huh? In my family, all of us kids look exactly like my mom."

I forced a nod, feeling like my parent's traits were a bad mix of liquor in my body rather than an interesting occurrence. I glanced around the room, looking for a distraction to introduce. "Sure."

Beck paused. I glanced back, my stomach plummeting when I saw his expression was still thoughtful. "Although, after talking with them, I'd say you take after your mother more. I see tiny, shared mannerisms here and there."

Something in me snapped at that, something fragile and dark and angry. It ripped my smile off and slapped on a scowl; an expression that bent Beck's demeanor and introduced confusion when my eyes sliced back to his.

"I'm nothing like my parents," I fumed, voice low. Beck's mouth dropped open; he floundered for a moment before rushing to soothe whatever unknown injuries he'd caused.

"Oh, I didn't mean it negatively, I—"

"There's nothing good about being like my parents," I bitterly snapped. I didn't know what'd come over me, but he'd typed in the perfect combination to explode a dormant bomb, and I was lashing out. I felt embarrassment stir beneath the anger, but I couldn't stop. "Nothing. They're greedy, and self-serving, and they taught me to be a puppet. Why would I want to be anything like them?"

Beck considered me for a moment, shocked. Then, something changed. I hated how knowing his expression became, how cautious it seemed, how much I'd just lost control. What the hell was wrong with me?

I forced a deep breath and reached for an apology. Before I could offer it, Beck spoke again.

"They also made you you," Beck pointed out quietly. He tipped a shoulder in a tired shrug. "I think everyone's like their parents."

I felt myself fill to the brim with anger again. The apology shriveled under the heat. Beck must've seen it, whether in the snarl of my lip or the burning of my eyes; he implored me to wait. "Hear me out," he requested, hands raised. "Please, Eleanor. I know that wasn't what you wanted to hear, and I don't know the details of you and your parents—but I want you to understand what I meant."

I didn't like how much I recognized the look in his eyes. I didn't like that the color of his words were extremely familiar. I didn't like that he was speaking not from ignorance, but from similarity. I didn't like that I'd just acted like that, and that I couldn't take it back. I didn't like any of this.

Beck took a deep breath, rubbing his neck and glancing around the room. When he met my eyes, they were guarded as he admitted, "My dad was stubborn. God, he was an overall ass."

For a moment, his own words tripped into the same bitterness I held, and his eyes flashed with disgust. There was something resigned, too—a tiredness of a child that was done trying.

"I used to say I was nothing like him, just like you," Beck confessed. "But, well... I am stubborn. Gabby says it all the time; I never give up a case. I give it all I have, even when others walk away. I can't say I don't have my dad's stubbornness."

"Good for you."

"The difference, Eleanor, is how it's used. My dad wielded his stubbornness as a weapon, because he was afraid of admitting he was wrong. I use my stubbornness as a way to help people. I never give up. I'm not the only one; look at Gabby. She's another example. Gabby's mom likes to nitpick. Hard. Perfection isn't possible, but damn, her mom will expect it, and try to push others towards it. It's infuriating, and damaging to everyone around her, even the people she loves. She uses it to find the worst in people. For Gabby, though, it's a skill. Gabby is the best editor I've ever seen. She can find the little things others don't notice at first, but she does it productively. She does it with kindness."

I stopped and listened, my anger still trying to unfurl, but my flag turning white.

"We are our parents," Beck said gently. "Most of the time, we're given the same deck of cards—but how we play the hands we receive does not have to be the same."

I didn't feel so good.

"I'm sorry," I apologized, throat thick. My emotions were choppy and jagged from the knife that'd cut deep. I was a bitch; I'd never acted so irrationally. Especially not to people I hardly knew, or in public. What the hell was wrong with me?

"Don't be," he reassured.

Beck offered a small smile. I forced myself to look at him, and for a moment, we recognized ourselves in each other. Our battles weren't the same, but our losses were. He raised his glass, a toast to the other side, and clinked it with mine. "We're not our parents, Eleanor—even when we are."

"Even when we are," I murmured, still choking on my shame. I raised my glass again and downed my drink.

The night continued, impatient to return to its brisk pace after our slow moment. I tucked his words away to unravel them later, and apologized again for my outburst. Our partners returned, and the nonplussed night trudged on.

Hours later, I was in the corner, staring at the city beneath me. Cars still snaked through urban veins, though the hours had crept to morning. There were other signs of life too, stubborn pulses here and there, but the city had mostly lost the lusty glow of party-filled hours. Now, most people across the city were sleeping. The ones still out were washed in the orange of lonely streetlights or huddled in dark corners. Regret throbbed at these hours. The night was stale and full of woe.

And yet, it was also incredibly full of Simon, and the comfort he offered. I felt his presence even before his hand found my back.

"Are you ready to go?" he mumbled in my ear.

Simon Gastapolous was my truth, my lies, and my unfulfilled oaths. Simon was painted lips and stolen kisses; he was midnights, and dawns, and blue afternoons. He was something without labels, or limits, or reason. I couldn't put words between us we weren't ready for—but I was bold enough to recognize it in myself. To recognize it in his eyes. How could I not?

I think my soul recognized something in yours and asked it to stay.

I wished with every fiber of my being I could show the world the love he gave me, because otherwise I didn't think anyone would believe it. It was a love seen memorialized in oil and marble, in words and pages, in photos and film. His love made me chant prayers to whoever I could grasp from the cosmos.

Who was I, if not a heartbroken poet stuck between the kisses of sunlight and the beckoning of the moon? Who was I, if not a liar who promised the world? Who was I, if not a thief who'd stolen what fate wasn't supposed to give me?

But what if I'd done it, and what if I actually got away with it, right under her nose?

What if I loved him? And what if that was enough?

When Simon's chin settled on my shoulder, I felt complete. When his arms wrapped me in his embrace, bringing my broken edges together long enough to remember what they once were, I realized we both knew exactly what we yearned for. What we'd sinned for.

What we loved for.

"I'm ready," I whispered.

But when I turned, intertwining my fingers with his, I realized how cold he suddenly seemed. How dull his eyes had become; how empty his gaze was, fixated beyond my shoulder. I looked, curious, but there was nothing to see but the beckons of night. I reached up to guide his face towards mine. His arms had become slack; he seemed distracted. I frowned, looking at the expression on his face. It felt wrong. I felt a lurch in my stomach, a panic in my heart, a fear gasping its babbles, wondering if I'd infected him with my grief. "Simon?"

At his name, Simon's eyes met mine.

In science, black is absence. It is the lack of light and color; it feeds and grows until it removes everything around it. White and black are not colors themselves, but opposing ends of light spectrums.

In art, while granted the label of a color, black is known as the most unforgiving. The hardest to remove. The most difficult to take back. The easiest to regret. Yet, that darkest color is so very common, heavily utilized and standard of the palette. Black is symbolic, necessary, beautiful. In art, the color black is loved just as much as dashing oranges, blushing blues, or flustered purples. It is recognized as a tool, a shield, a symbol.

But all around, darkness was a calling. A tug to explore and discover what lied in unreadable depths. In his eyes, black was a sea I was willing to drown in.

"Simon," I said again. He looked sad. Sad, and woeful, and so mournfully determined.

"I forgot." His voice was so gravelly it skinned my heart to hear it. I didn't know what he was talking about.

"Forgot what?"

"I forgot what day it was tomorrow." Then he corrected himself, "Today. It's morning, now, so it's today."

"What's today?"

He met my eyes, and I saw shards of something broken in him. It startled me. I waited with bated breath, but Simon was never one for spectacle.

"Let's go home," he suggested instead. He took a deep breath and offered a watery smile, but it did nothing to ease the anxiety in my heart. He pressed a kiss to my lips. When he pulled away, his voice was as wan as his expression. "I think... I think I'm ready to tell you about that sabbatical."

It was a strange, molasses-choking time warp after that. I didn't remember agreeing, or our goodbyes to the straggling party-goers, or the drive home. I only remembered how quiet Simon was—and how it wasn't the type of quiet he usually resided in.

At my place, I brewed him tea and led him to my coziest couch. I parked him under poppies and buried him under blankets. He hardly spoke, and it made me more anxious, so I piled more blankets like I was burying gold. I hadn't realized how much I'd grown to depend on his sturdiness. His vulnerability shocked me.

But it also made me feel...

Honored.

I'd earned his trust. I was eager to hold it, and him, and hear what was causing such pain to the man I loved. To begin the journey down his paths, because he was already so far down mine, and I wasn't sure how much further I'd let him keep going. Maybe I was desperate to turn my focus to him. Desperate to take his hand and lead him away. Maybe I was impatient to learn more about him, because it meant I meant enough to have them. Maybe it was selfish—but not all of it was. So much of it came from the depths of emotion I held for him, from the love I held for him. I needed to hold him. To comfort him, to ease the ache in whatever way he'd let me. I wanted to give him the same comfort he'd given me and then some. It was what he deserved.

When I finally sat on the couch beside him, trying to still my body, he reached over to wrap his hands under me. He pulled me into him, gently tugging until I was so close, I swore I could hear his pulse thrumming in his throat. I heard its too-rapid beat, its too unsteady march. His eyes were stuck on something unseen here, too. I waited, goosebumps rising from his thumb absentmindedly tracing art on my legs.

When he finally spoke, his voice was throaty and painful. It vibrated against me. "One year ago today, I... I lost my mom."

The knot in my stomach shattered. I was choking on glass in my surprise, drowning in the rush of empathy. "Oh, Simon," I whispered.

Panic swelled; I didn't know how to help. I didn't know what to say, what to do, or how to ease that pain. There was nothing I could do to heal that wound; no one could. I didn't even know how to help him bear the burden. It was clearly not something he talked about often—it must've meant a lot for him to tell me.

He jerkily shook his head. "No, I'm okay. I just... I forgot it was today, and I—" he broke off, throat bobbing as he choked down his shattered heart.

I reached for him, reaching for words, but there weren't any. I didn't have experience in this, or the right tools to patch the holes. Floundering, I provided the first thing I could.

"What happened?"

His eyes were firmly latched to the ceiling now, but they closed for four heartbeats before he answered.

"It was, uh, a very rapid deterioration," he answered hoarsely. "She'd been sick for a while. Weird symptoms here and there. When they finally listened enough to run some tests, it'd already spread."

My eyes closed, too.

I only opened them when my heart had bled too much, forced to stop throwing itself against my rib cage, tired and slumped from its scarlet loss.

"They didn't believe her, Eleanor," he croaked. "And it got real, so damn fast, but she—she told us not to worry. She didn't tell us how serious it was. I don't know if she didn't believe it herself, or if she didn't want us to watch, but s-she didn't tell me."

He sucked in a tattered breath. "If I-I'd known..."

I pressed myself closer, like a hand putting pressure on a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding. "I'm here, Simon," I murmured.

"It was fast," he repeated. His eyes glistened, bright with emotion, yet so horrendously dull under the onslaught. "When she finally told us, I told her I was coming home. My mom didn't want me to. She told me to finish the job first. It was a vacationing politician with his family overseas. They wanted a team of security while they island-hopped, y'know?"

I nodded.

"I told her they didn't need me as much as she did." He shook his head, a breathy laugh turning ragged as it puffed out. His smile was small, but it held so much grief, I couldn't breathe.

"Then she told me she was my mother, and I wasn't coming home, because my mother was telling me to finish the job. She said I wasn't a quitter."

For a few beats of our aching hearts, it was silent.

"So I stayed," he rasped. "Because I believed her. I believed her when she said she'd be there when I got home."

My eyes burned. It was a child's worst nightmare. No goodbye, no final 'I love you', no chance for gratitude. Only a little boy running home to his mother's arms—and learning she wasn't there for him anymore.

My hands reached for his cheeks. He leaned against them, air rattling in his lungs as his eyes closed again. His eyelids squeezed tight, like they could throttle the tears on his lash line into submission. His voice was shakier than I'd ever heard it. "For a long time, I was so angry. At the world, at work. At my m-mom. I threw myself into work, but I-I made a mistake."

At the final word, his chest shuddered, and his mouth opened in a wet gasp to flood his lungs with air. It wasn't enough. His chin dropped as he spasmed, and his walls came down in a way mine never could.

I held Simon. I held him tight to me as he buried his head in the crook of my neck, rocking him when he hiccupped his grief, and soothed him when he shared tales of his mother's love for her family. I held him as he shared with me her beautiful life. I held him as tears soaked his cheeks and his hair, the streams spilling down both of our cheeks.

I held Dimitra Gastapolous's beautiful son and knew she'd been just as beautiful of a soul. I held Simon, and realized I might've been just as much of a distraction to him as he was to me.

I held him, and I loved him, and I wished it was enough.

People can ignore the cracks all they want—but they will only keep growing. Is Eleanor cracking, or is she healing? Is there always a difference?

Sometimes I make choices as an author and wonder if it actually seems like I'm making a choice. Or if it just seems like I'm skating over things, rushing things, or not giving moments their due. Maybe it's both... and maybe it's for a reason.

- H