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And it smells fucking disgusting.
A glance up at Cillian and I notice he’s not repulsed by the smell at all. He’s staring at the flower, eyes brimming with a mix of fascination and pride.
“The Corpse Flower,” he murmurs, letting go of my hand and resting it on the glass. “Only one hundred of them left in the world. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, if I didn’t have a nose.”
“Yes, the smell isn’t pleasant,” he admits, “But that’s why it’s called the Corpse. It smells exactly like a dead body. One that’s been left out in the sun for three weeks.”
Despite the horrific stench, I’m in no rush to leave the room. The flower is interesting, but how Cillian is acting is even more so. I’m sucked in by his boy-like wonder.
Silence flows between us.
“You like plants more than you like people,” I whisper. It’s not a question, but an observation.
He slashes a glance in my direction. Swallows.
“Plants are straightforward. If you cater to their environment and water them correctly, they’ll flourish. It’s humans that are complicated,” he stoops closer to the glass casing, squinting at the veins of the leaves. “You can feed, water, and tend to them all you want. They can still turn out to be assholes. Did you ever readThe Secret Garden?”
“Um, the movie rings a bell.”
“It’s about a little girl who was born in British India to parents that didn’t love her. She’s raised by servants and eventually is sent to England to live with her uncle. Truth be told, she was a bitter little bitch,” he laughs, humorlessly, shaking his head, “But when she and her disabled cousin find an abandoned garden on the grounds of the estate, strange things start to happen. She becomes kind, and her cousin learns how to walk.” He meets my gaze, wary. “It was the one special place where miracles grow.”
“Sounds like a good book,” I say softly. “You read it as a kid?”
“My mom would read it to me. Every night.”
“And it sparked a love of gardening?”
His face darkens. “No. The book was an escape from real life.The Secret Gardenwas the place I’d go to in my mind after she killed herself and my father…” He trails off, the rest of his sentence disappearing into thin air. Then he shakes his head, narrowing his eyes at me. “Maybe you will make a good therapist, angel.”
After she killed herself…
My heart is thumping against my chest, but I force a smile and say, “And why’s that?”
“Because you have a way of getting people to talk.”
“Or maybe you just enjoy talking to me,” I tease.
He raises an eyebrow, the drawbridge well-and-truly pulled back up to his iron-clad castle. “Nowhere near as much as I enjoy fucking you,” he deadpans back.
The tension crackles between us, and for a moment, I forget about the stench of death swirling around the room. It’s interrupted with a vibrating sound. Cillian tugs his cell out of his pocket and mutters, “I have to take this.”
Without another word, he ushers me out of the room and locks the door behind him, then crosses the bridge in the direction of his study.
My mind is reeling from his revelation, whether it meant for it to slip out from under his hard shell or not. My heart breaks for him—losing a parent is easy, I should know. But losing them from suicide…
Despite the humidity, I shudder. I can’t imagine what brokenness lies below that steel-clad exterior.
I wander around the garden for a little while, lost in my own thoughts. When I pass Cillian’s office and see him still on his phone, it reminds me that I should probably check my own. It’s been in the bedside drawer since I arrived, and I’ve used it so little that I haven’t had to charge it once. It’s not like anyone calls me. All of my friends from before college have moved on. They’ve probably graduated and started families… it’d be weird for me to suddenly pop back into their lives.“Hey guys, remember me? Sorry I disappeared for four years without a trace, oh—and by the way, I have a new name now!”
The only person I’ve been expecting a call or text from is Billie. I left her a note on the fridge, telling her I had to move out unexpectedly, and when she didn’t reply, I followed up with a text. Nothing. Lingering somewhere in the back of my mind is the worry that she’s mad at me for leaving her with the rent. Every time it crops up I dismiss it pretty quickly. Let’s be honest, she’s a nice girl but she was a shitty roommate with a shitty boyfriend. I’ll be glad to not have to listen to her and Hendrix arguing, fucking—or both—ever again.
The cool air of the hut is refreshing, and I roll onto my bed and open my bedside drawer. To my surprise, I have over ten missed calls, all from Billie.
Unease creeps over me, and with trembling fingers, I hit the return call button.
She answers on the second ring.
