You can be the most buoyant person alive, but you will inevitably find yourself overcome by life. It happens to everyone.
“Come on,” I urge. “I’ll walk you to your room.”
“I don’t need an escort,” he grumbles as he stands.
“Oh, my apologies. I meant walk me to my room,” I reply smoothly and slip my arm through his. “This house is so enormous that every time I stay here, I want to request a map for each wing.”
“I could use that map,” he says agreeably as we step into the foyer. It’s dimly lit with a servant standing beside the front door. Typically, Ben holds that position, but since the attack, a servant has been stationed directly beside the front door at all hours. Livingston knew it was for him. Of course, he did. He might grumble remarks under his breath here and there, but I think he relied on the knowledge that if he ever lost his way, someone could lead him back.
“When I walk the halls at night, I almost feel as though I’m walkin’ through a forest. The steps I take out of my room are not guaranteed to be the same ones I take back,” he says.
“Then don’t take the walks,” I reply, my tone quiet. As we walk up the stairs, it feels as though the silence of the home becomes more pronounced. Our voices are defined, and our words echo to the high ceilings, only to fall slowly around us like snowflakes.
“I want to.”
“But you need to sleep more.”
He shrugs as we step onto the second floor and head toward the family quarters. “I don’t need sleep. I’ll sleep when I remember.”
“Livingston, you can’t mean that. You don’t know how long that will be.”
He’s nodding before I can finish my words. “I certainly do.”
“What makes you say that?”
In the middle of the hall, he stops. I come to a halt beside him and watch as he takes a deep breath. “If I stay awake and keep active, then perhaps I can come close enough to my memories to capture them.”
My God. I wasn’t expecting him to say that. My heart tugs at his admission. “I can understand that,” I nearly whisper.
My words are the truth. Livingston and I clash so frequently because we’re too much alike. I know he’s headstrong and tenacious. He’s not staying up all night out of pleasure, but necessity. Nonetheless, his confession is a strike to the gut, and I have to stop myself from stepping forward and giving him a hug.
We stand there in the hallway, silently staring at one another, waiting for the other to speak. I don’t know what else I can say to make this situation better. I look around the hallway and note my room is far closer than I realized.
Clearing my throat, I gesture to the closed door on the left. “My room is here.”
Tucking his hands into his pockets, Livingston looks behind him with a brief nod. “Very well then. Good night, Florence Nightingale.”
I’m not deceived by the nickname. He started saying it after I accidentally spilled a bowl of clam chowder on his bed and nearly scalded his arm. Livingston never missed an opportunity to say it. I almost missed le savauge. But I would take Florence Nightingale because it showed there was still a piece of the old Livingston I knew.
I dip my head in his direction and sigh. “Good night.”
I walk past him, taking notice that he still hasn’t moved. I open my door when he asks, “Why are you always here?”
I think his question over. “Because I’m a close friend of the family’s, and I want to see you get better.”
He nods, seeming to accept my answer. “We argue far too much.”
“Always have.”
“We argue, yet we are close friends?”
“I’m a close friend of the family’s,” I repeat, placing heavy emphasis on the word family.
He nods but doesn’t look convinced. “Are you anxious to leave my presence because your husband is waitin’ for you?”
I’m so surprised by his question that it takes me several seconds to answer. “If I had a husband, chances are I wouldn’t be sleeping here right now.” That’s not true. If I was married, and Livingston truly needed my help, I’d tell my husband to shove off. My friend needed me. “But there is no husband. And I’m not anxious. It’s late.”
Livingston doesn’t appear the least bit put off by the time. “Why are you not married?”
I’m sure people have asked themselves that in private conversation. “Whatever was wrong with that Pleasonton girl? Why couldn’t she find a husband?”
No one had the courage to ask me.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I reply.
“I don’t know why I’m not married.”
When I realize how insensitive my retort was, I cringe. He asked because he truly didn’t know. He wasn’t goading me.
Say you’re sorry, you brat!
Livingston merely smirks, though. “Care to enlighten me why I have no wife?”
“Because you’re a shameless seducer,” I offer with a smile.
Livingston’s nods, his eyes twinkling. “Ah. I sound charmin’.”
“You have a slew of admirers and an abundance of hostile lovers.” There’s no awareness in his eyes. The blankness staring back at me is still jolting to see. I pointedly look away, and pick at invisible lint from my skirt.
“And I am unmarried because I’ve yet to meet someone who can handle …”
“Hostile humor?” he suggests.
I snap my finger and smile. “That’s precisely it.”
He smiles back, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. Seeing him relaxed pulls at me, making my stomach continuously flip until I feel dizzy.
I lean against the wall for support and hold a hand to my heart. “That truly hurts.”
He crosses his arms and slowly approaches. “I met you at the same time like everybody else, but I see you differently …” His brows furrow as he continues to look me over. “I could love you.”
I can’t tell whether that’s a statement or an offer.
“Is that so?” I reply, trying to keep my reply light. My chest tightens at his words.
He’s not himself. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.
Livingston lifts a shoulder, but he boldly keeps his eyes on mine. “You drive me mad. And you don’t behave how a woman should.”
“You flatter me,” I cut in.
He’s closer than before. So close I can smell him. Has he always smelled so good? Yes, he has. When I was a young adolescent with stars in my eyes, I discovered the opposite sex and decided they weren’t pests after all. Anytime Livingston would visit and he would walk past me, I would inhale the crisp, clean scent of him, and I felt as though a thousand butterflies were set free in my chest. I never told a soul. But I finally understood what every girl my age was speaking of when they talked of infatuations they had for boys our age.
I forgot all about that until now.
“You didn’t let me finish,” he says. “I think that’s different and original.”
“Different and original,” I repeat. “Those are two words no one has ever used to describe me.”
“Think you could love me?”
He’s not himself, he’s not himself, he’s not himself.