Hearts: A Contemporary Fairytale Romance (Heartbooks Book 2)

Acclaim

ACCLAIM FOR HEARTS

"Our hearts are fragile things, just as prone to shatter as they are to swell. Brittany Eden captures that beautiful dichotomy in her aptly named novel, Hearts. It features an art-loving main character who seems to stray between the lines of reality while asking the questions we are often too scared to ask. A creative, fascinating debut for fans of whimsy and wonder."

—AUTUMN KRAUSE, author of A Dress for the Wicked and the forthcoming Before the Devil Knows You're Here

"After her outstanding debut novella Wishes, Hearts has everything I have come to expect from an Eden book. A thoughtful exploration of mental health, darkness and light, and achingly romantic, this lyrical novel is an experience to savor with many pots of tea. Lincoln is a leading man to yearn for and Elizabeth gives us an intriguing mix of fragility and strength while learning a lifelong lesson: Be strong, not bitter."

—AMBER KIRKPATRICK, author of Until The Rising and of the forthcoming Unleashed

"Hearts slowly and surely, like the unfolding of a breathless romance, captured my own heart. Few words could encompass the beauty of this story, but one is this: needed. Our world with its broken pieces and shattered hearts needs these words. And in an unexpected way, this story spoke to places of my heart that needed healing and hope, and I’ve found it—and my heart is on the mend. If you choose to read one book this year, let it be Hearts. Reminiscent of Caroline George and Amanda Dykes’ masterful storytelling, Hearts is not to be missed."

—CAITLIN MILLER, author of The Memories We Painted and Our Yellow Tape Letters: A WWII Novel

"Like any well-crafted novel, Hearts is a story that must be savored like a steaming cup of afternoon tea. Through Elizabeth's artistic eye, we are brought into a world of whimsical wonder with tea parties and swoon-worthy landscapers. But the depth of Hearts is in the details. Through Eden's poetic and lyrical prose, the severity of lies, mental health and isolation take on new life. With beloved fairytale elements intertwined, we are taught in Hearts that dreams and wonder are meant to take root in your mind, life is not meant to be lived alone, and the truth really does set you free."

—V. ROMAS BURTON, award-winning author of the Heartmaker trilogy and Fortified

I was instantly transported into this beautiful world Eden has created. It sparkles with hauntingly gorgeous prose, a deliciously swoony romance, and sheds light on matters of the heart and mind often left bereft in corners unattended. A poignant, timeless tale for the ages.

—AJ SKELLY, bestselling author of The Wolves of Rock Falls series and Magik Prep Academy series

ACCLAIM FOR WISHES

"Charming and inventive, Wishes offers a romance that tiptoes between reality and fairytale. A smart, heartfelt retelling perfect for fans of Kiera Cass and Melanie Dickerson!"

—CAROLINE GEORGE, author of Dearest Josephine

Fans of Nadine Brandes, C.J. Redwine and Sara Ella need look no further than Brittany Eden for their next ultimately poetic and utterly immersive read. True magic! Eden writes with one of the most naturally talented voices I have read in years!

—RACHEL MCMILLAN, author of The Mozart Code and The Castle Keepers

Eden's melodic and vivid prose invites readers into a heartwarming reimagining of one of my favorite fairy tales. She paints pictures with her words, not only with her moving descriptions but with poetic and visual details I've never seen before in fiction. A timely and tender read for fans of Hallmark and fairytale retellings alike!

—TARA K. ROSS, author of Fade to White

"Enchanting and unique, Eden's prose in Wishes is a paintbrush, creating a masterpiece depicting grief and sorrow and how love can overcome them in time. By carefully combining two beloved fairytales—Cinderella and Pinocchio—Eden has written a beautiful novella that will capture the hearts of readers, young and old."

—V. ROMAS BURTON, award-winning, bestselling author of the Heartmaker trilogy and Fortified

"Wishes—this book had my heart from beginning to end. The writing as beautiful as poetry and as stirring as a timeless classic, I couldn't not fall in love with this beautifully moving story. I adored this book and absolutely cannot wait for future releases by the author. It's five glowing stars from me."

—CAITLIN MILLER, author of The Memories We Painted and Our Yellow Tape Letters: A WWII Novel

"Wishes is a beautiful glimpse into the fairytale world Eden is creating with her Heartbooks series. It is filled with such poetic prose and wonderful little hints of the familiar stories from which it drew inspiration. I believe fans of The Selection Series and all things Cinderella will find this an absolutely lovely story of romance, royal intrigue, and overcoming loss."

—TABITHA CAPLINGER, author of The Wolf Queen

Hearts

A Heartbooks Novel

Brittany Eden

Quill & Flame Publishing House

Writing by Brittany Eden

The Heartbooks Series

Wishes

Hearts

Mirrors (forthcoming in June 2024)

Curses (forthcoming in fall 2024)

Poetry and Short Stories in Anthologies

Fool’s Honor

The Heights We’ll Fly To

The Never Tales: Volume One

Masquerade Anthology

The Never Tales: Volume Two (forthcoming in 2023)

Candles in the Dark in Fantasea

Seasons in Equinox & Solstice: Tales Inspired By The Four Seasons

Hearts

Copyright ©2023 by Brittany Eden

Copyright Lettering and Map © 2023 Pamela Vieira

Copyright Illustrations © 2023 Adam McLeod

Cover design by Quill & Flame Publishing House

Published by Quill & Flame Publishing House, an imprint of Book Bash Media, LLC.

www.quillandflame.com

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, digitally, stored, or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used ficticiously. Any similarity to actual people, living or dead, organizations, business establishments, and/or events is purely coincidental.

To my husband—who was my true love when the shadows seemed too dark, and who is still my greatest support.

Contents

Map of Loirehall

Art

1.PART ONE: WONDERLAND

2.PROLOGUE

3.THE TEAPARTY

Untimely Tea

4.THE HATTER

Curious

5.THE QUEEN

Cakes

6.THE CROSSROADS

Adventure

7.THE GARDEN

8.THE TEARS

9.THE FLOWERS

Cup of Tea

10.PART TWO: NEVERLAND

11.THE SHADOW

Bitter

12.THE WINDOW

13.THE BOY

Shadows

14.THE STAR

15.THE DUST

16.THE FLIGHT

Stars

17.THE CAPTAIN

Secrets

18.PART THREE: DREAMLAND

19.THE DREAM

20.THE PARTY

21.THE CURSE

22.THE FAIRY

Treasure

23.THE KISS

Free

24.THE DRAGON

25.THE PRINCE

Heaven

From the Author

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Forgetting

Wishes

Upcoming Titles

PART ONE: WONDERLAND

No, I give it up, Alice replied: what’s the answer?

I haven’t the slightest idea, said the Hatter.

—Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

PROLOGUE

Seven years ago

I WONDER WHAT LIGHT drew me beyond my window and onto the roof.

Maybe it was the moon, a great light shining hope in the night.

Because maybe, stars weren’t enough for a withdrawn girl. But that great night light illuminated my darkness and brought moments of freedom. There, I found someone. I even caught glimpses of myself—my true self—on the moonlit nights.

Mostly though, I think it was the stars that started it.

What do you think heaven is like? my friend asked, hidden in the shadows.

I shivered in my nightgown, which clung in the humid late-night air. You’re asking the wrong question.

I drew my knees up against the late summer chill, feeling hints of freedom from the fog crowding my mind, there in midnight darkness under the wide expanse of the heavens.

Beneath innumerable stars, the city slumbered softly while in the forest beyond the townhouse backyards hummed a nightingale, defying the blare of a passing ambulance siren. It was calm on the rooftop where I spent summer nights keeping vigil against sleeplessness. I could deny the past all I wanted, until I slept. I was too afraid to confront my trauma and desperate to protect myself from what might have been reality or may have been delusions. But there was no hiding in the subconscious, and it didn’t seem possible for my young mind to process.

Night-terrors are scary.

And what would that be? he asked, lounging like he owned the roof of the shed belonging to the townhouse beside mine, which nearly touched the second story roof I sat on.

I bit my lip. Where is heaven? I stared at the crescent moon, glad my unnamed companion shared my affinity for secrecy and mystery. Where can we find it?

Would we know it if we saw it? His words echoed the longing in my heart, because all I ever wanted was to see a glimpse of heaven. Peace, like the settling of night after a long day. Joy, for endings and beginnings. Love.

I took a deep breath of the cooling night air. Heaven is endless light making clouds glow with gold-rimmed fire over an ageless sea beyond the stars. Leaves rustled on nearby trees. Heaven is where hills are split by a happy river whose destination is forever.

You’re just describing the sunset, he scoffed. That’s cheating.

Maybe the sunset is the start of heaven, I huffed, hurt. Maybe sunsets lead the way there every night, and God keeps sending them to remind us to keep looking.

You’re just obsessed with sunsets because you hate summer at home so much you want it to end. Hurt laced his voice as it nailed at sharp angles the thing inside I tried to cover, but I swallowed my own cutting reply because I couldn’t bear to hurt the one person who’d kept me company on this rooftop for each lonely birthday these last hard years.

Was he right? Was my desire to hide wrong? No amount of whimsical questions had led me to reveal my truth to him; no, I hid that memory so deep, it no longer felt real. The past was a dream, and I had relegated it to my nightmares. If it stayed there, it couldn’t haunt me during the day.

But part of me wanted more, to be more than that memory had forced me to become, and all my self-preservation never banished the thought. There is more. Just like the sunset was a daily reminder to remember, and surely all remembering wasn’t monstrous. The sunset, pulling its rays through the clouds and playing its last strains to the sky long after disappearing. Such steadfast resistance to nature, such futility in the face of another tomorrow. And right then on the rooftop, between me and the boy, darkness had already fallen. It all started five summers ago on my seventh birthday, and none of us were the same since.

How could the heart survive?

THE TEAPARTY

Present day, Sunday

STERLING FIGGLESTON PAUSES beside my hovering. I cling to the sketch in my hand, too cowardly to ascend the seven daunting stairs of the gorgeous white paneled, brick-accented townhouse on the Upper Towne street where I used to live.

Time for the song everyone’s been waiting for. My old godfather takes the first step slowly, holding the railing with arthritic fingers, using his umbrella for balance with the other.

I match his pace. First step. Past mismatched pots smelling of green lining the stairs. Second step. Third. Up steps that seem bigger than they should, even though the street seems smaller than my childhood memories.

I pause to look up at the last four steps to an entrance encased in whimsy, and like Eliza Doolittle said—Wouldn’t it be loverly? I hum then stop. I can’t sing.

He grips the handrail tightly as he stops on step six. You don’t have to. With a resonant but gentle voice, he is the epitome of gentlemanly and scholarly all wrapped up in a mischievous, elderly package named Sterling Irwinaeus Figgleston. Your art sings your heart beautifully.

We both look at the leather laptop satchel I’m clutching to my chest, holding the drawing of a heart that might be the key to my future. Sterling had promised me the best way to build my reputation was to be discovered by someone in a select, niche group wishing to be the first of their friends to discover fresh works of art. We’ve been aiming for an opportunity precisely like the one Madame Penelope Garcon might give us: exposure in a high-profile event filled with the curated type of people who collect obscure statues and love mysterious artists.

Sterling exhales on the last step and pauses again before lifting the door knocker. Instead of a ghoulish face, it’s like a star. Or maybe a flower. It’s so intricate it’s impossible to tell, but it’s a tiny bit sad and I instantly adore it.

Your idea is perfect, he assures me. Your art is ready—your aunt made sure of that. And this is the next step, you just have to take it. I helped Melody become Briar Rose, and I promised her you would follow in her footsteps. I won’t fail, and neither will you.

For all his quirks, Sterling seems intent on rescuing me from my fledgling attempts to make it all on my own. Grateful for the stroke of fate—or simply the stubbornness of my aunt—that ensured she and Sterling be my godparents, my heart fills with happy hope. I desperately need his help if I want to be the artist Auntie thought I could be, and this scheme might be perfect. Thank you.

He nods, waiting as I ascend the final stair.

Time to embrace a pen name for my pencils that isn’t my own. Briar Rose. I’m not sure if I’m the right size to fit in the footsteps of my aunt.

Wipe that ridiculous expression off your face and focus, Elizabeth, Sterling chides, adjusting his perfectly straight bowtie. It’s burgundy plaid, which sounds worse than it looks. I can tell when your thoughts are being overdramatic.

Two enormous terra cotta pots overflowing with palms stand like sentinels at the front doors. Before I can decide if they’re good or evil guards, or simply footmen, the door opens with a gratifying flourish of cool air.

Madame Garcon. Removing his taupe hat, Sterling dips his black, bald head.

The scent of burnt sugar flows from behind the tall, stately woman. Stylishly attired, she’s far past middle age, yet moves with the grace of a willow tree on a quiet afternoon. Her silver hair glitters in the sunlight, gliding to just above her shoulders.

She gestures us into her sweet-smelling home. Welcome. Her voice sings the word welcome in a way that makes me absolutely believe her. How lovely to see you, old friend. She air-kisses one of Sterling’s wrinkled cheeks. It’s been a long time.

Too long, he agrees, taking her hand gently.

Sunshine from a gorgeous midsummer’s day in Loirehall makes Madame Garcon’s dainty bracelets glimmer pretty prisms against the silk of her slim-fitting shirt.

I’m sorry for the Beaumont loss. Madame Garcon’s crystalline blue eyes are sincere, laugh-lined and gentle. Melody was always one for unusual requests. Thank you for taking my cake to them. I hope they enjoyed it.

Oh my word, Madame Garcon made the lemon cake for Auntie’s funeral?

I cough at the coincidence. Sterling shakes his head at me as Madame leads us inside. Would she welcome me so graciously if she knew who I truly am?

My chin lowers not just in deference to her regal air and history, but with the heavy memories connected with the name Garcon that harken me back to a time I’d rather not recall. The schism of distaste between our families, to hear my parents speak of bad blood and their associates gossip, has been a long-standing rivalry of politics and family history I never cared to understand. But this—what is the connection between my reclusive aunt and Madame Garcon that she provided the beautiful, bitter lemon cake for Aunt Melody’s funeral? How curious.

Sterling deposits his burgundy umbrella beside another grouping of surprisingly similar umbrellas with intricate, bird-faced handles and mother-of-pearl eyes. Definitely curious.

Madame Garcon guides us through a charming entryway to a bright and airy parlor, where a table is neatly set with exquisite elements for tea.

Reclaimed and whitewashed wood floors match the fine tablecloth, while wide black and white stripes zigzag down the walls like zebra markings. Wrought iron accents weave through the space to hold it together, from the front door to the handrails trailing a narrow black path up the stairs. A cascade of blooming flowers adorns every available surface, each unique and each equally marvelous. In the open floorplan, I count seven windows on five sides of the room, which seems impossible.

Clocks of all kinds cover the few spans of walls that aren’t glass where the light shines through, and they mock my life, my art, and my heart of secrets and shadows.

But then Madame Garcon swings her full attention to me. If real life had stage lights for the heroine, this would be my singular moment in the spotlight. What I wouldn’t give to go somewhere alone and touch up my makeup.

What a lovely dress, the vivacious yet graceful woman says, taking in my outfit, which I must say, for this headline-catching moment, is suitably beautiful. It’s a watercolor waterfall on canvas in dress form, very artistic. I feel my cheeks flush at her admiration, her compliment taking the edge off my nerves. And who might you be? she asks, and my anxiety returns with a tumult.

Sterling saves me. Libby, he clears his throat lightly, hiding my identity, as we’d agreed, by using my childhood nickname, is assisting me with our business today.

Not untrue, but also not fully true. Tricky use of words. Because today I’m Libby, his assistant with a classy laptop bag and eager to serve, not Elizabeth, the girl hiding behind the pen name she just inherited from her dead aunt, hoping for a future with her art.

If the lady of the manor senses my discomfort, she lets it go. Lovely. How do you assist Sterling, Libby?

Oh, I begin awkwardly. I’ve been so busy worrying how she’ll receive my pencil drawing, I haven’t given a single thought to what my role of being assistant actually means.

Ticks from the multitude of clocks patter in the break of silence as Sterling gestures from behind the woman, our secret ear-tug-head-tilt indicating our business shall commence.

She helps the art come alive with her very presence. He tucks his hand behind his red velvet waistcoat peppered with tiny ink-spot buttons. "As we discussed, Penelope, because you’re restarting the auction, it will be the perfect occasion to debut Briar Rose’s newest series, Hearts. The Madame nods. I’m assuming she doesn’t know my aunt was Briar Rose—the most gifted pencil artist of her generation, and surely the most venerated in Loirehall’s recent history. Today we’ll show you the inspiration, The First Heart. If you like it, you can auction the piece while you keep an originally commissioned portrait for your personal collection. Both will draw a crowd, and it will be splendid."

I freeze at Sterling’s brazen grasping of an opportunity—my bald-headed and dapper benefactor-investor-wizardly-godfather never wastes one—and I should be grateful. It’s my career, my art. I’d thought today’s negotiation was just to claim a new portrait commission; clearly Sterling has other ideas, like adding The First Heart to the auction. He won’t meet my gaze as he rambles on while cups sit empty before us—we haven’t even had tea yet.

I fist the fabric of my dress but quickly let go lest anyone see my stress. Unveiling my first, heart wrenching drawing at a soirée filled with socialites and ghosts from my past is the very last thing I want to do. Ever.

Ever, ever, ever. Besides, my parents could very well show up at a society event like this, and that would be a nightmare.

Madame Garcon fluffs her frosted blue skirt—a color not unlike her eyes—into her white wooden chair with some difficulty because it’s so poofy. It has been so long since we’ve seen new art from Briar Rose, it’s almost like she flew away.

I wonder at the look filling her face, eyes drawn inward for a moment, the iceberg with a world beneath the surface.

She continues, Her talent precedes her, though she remains mysterious. To me, And worry not, we’ll have tea and treats shortly. She gestures for me to sit to her right.

My wing-backed chair feels like a throne, with curved armrests carved like streaming branches. I’m at the head of a glass table and I feel just about that fragile. Like everyone might see right through the depths of me, and liable to break at any moment.

Sterling launches into his spiel highlighting Briar Rose’s art—her intuitive knack for capturing the heart of the collector through her bizarre yet beautiful portraits of doors, all in the timeless medium of charcoal. I already heard it earlier when he laid out our plan on our way through Upper Towne.

I school my expression so my face reflects none of the truth of my identity—I’m the assistant, not the artist. I busy myself, considering Sterling and my awe of how he somehow maneuvered events to capture this portrait commission from this family dynasty. This, my good fortune.

This. What an understated pronoun.

This place is wonderful. Impressions are powerful, as certain painters knew, and this home is magic from the moment one walks in. It’s no small wonder that the highly photogenic setting and the gardens I’m glimpsing beyond the largest window will be the central feature for a sensational soirée. An event at which my work might be heavily featured, if this teaparty goes well.

I watch a second tick past on a clock with a black marble face and bronze hour and second hands.

What’s the story behind all the clocks? I wonder aloud, hiding the bitterness clawing for my tone.

I figure that’s a pretty simple question, but sometimes the simplest of questions have complex answers, if they can be answered with any certainty at all. Why can't you answer questions instead of asking them? That’s what my father used to say.

The clocks. Madame Garcon smiles serenely, making a show of taking in the far wall, which is entirely covered from floor to ceiling with every imaginable version of a timepiece. Not a window in sight. The clocks started as a joke that turned into my signature.

I decide I like her smile, but I wonder would she smile like that at me if she knew who I was. So, it wasn’t your idea?

Goodness, no! she repeats, holding herself regally as if to tell us a timeless story. I wonder if she was the star of one, a long time ago. "The only person outside of time is God alone. If I am late, it’s only because I am failing to overthrow the intrinsic property of the space we live in. Time isn’t absolute. My perception of it just doesn’t fit society's unfairly imposed restrictions. And since I am not God, I am mercilessly expected to adhere to arcane ideas of punctuality and timeliness. She ends her tirade with a sigh. The only thing uniformly timely is tea."

Well, I did not expect that lecture on the nature of time and space. I wish for a sip of tea, but the teacups and I are waiting for our teapot companions and dainty sweets.

I just have a thing for clocks, and my late husband had a unique sense of humor, she concludes and Sterling smiles that Cheshire smile, like he’s party to a story I couldn’t even imagine.

But thankfully, Sterling brings our conversation back around to the present.

They descend into a serious tête-à-tête regarding the upcoming event, and I zone out when they start talking about long tables because I’m not sure if they’re metaphorical or not. All this normal talk has made me a bit queasy, if only because it’s wholly unexpected: this welcoming, familiar feeling permeating the house and mannerisms of the sworn enemy of my family—or so I’ve always been told. The reality, sitting here as a young woman almost finally of age, feels quite different.

My nauseated feeling perfectly matches the near-despair I feel when my efforts to readjust the off-center linen napkin in front of me make it much, much worse.

I swirl my fingertips beneath the table, secretly drawing on the seat of the chair beside my crossed legs. My stomach twists in the predictable way it does whenever I venture into the world, encountering everyday terrors of misaligned corners and mismatched knick-knacks. There are even four different sized jars for the same gorgeous tiger lilies scattered around on piles of books on random side tables, all their stems cut to different heights.

They might be beautiful, but all I want to do is take them away somewhere less cluttered. Off the counter and away from the possibility they might get knocked over. Somewhere safe, where they belong. My drawing fingers pause as I take a break from pondering the room and suck in a deep breath to calm the quaking inside.

It’s all equally distracting. Equally fascinating. Equally terrifying.

This is my problem. Does anyone else see the world differently and feel like an outsider to anything bright and beautiful? I quench my secrets and secret behaviors, stifling my impulses until I’m alone, before they turn me into an outcast, where people speak over me as if I’m a piece of furniture or heaven forbid, art, there to be seen and not heard.

How I wish there were things I had neither seen nor heard.

I shake my head out from childhood memories, glancing away from the window-wall to clock-wall, my eyes return to the enormous grandfather clock that caught my eye earlier. Familiar insecurity flares in the too-familiar neighborhood with the too-familiar grandfather clock—and of course, the Old Woods not far off.

It reminds me of when I found myself in a sterile and falsely welcoming office after the events of that fateful birthday, long-ago. They had an oversized clock in the waiting room, and it always scared me when the top of the hour came because a frightful cacophony of noise signaled the start of when strangers with long acronyms after their names asked me questions that made no sense.

Why can't you answer questions instead of asking them?

With my father’s voice in my head, my seven-year-old-self answered in kind.

Why did you wander alone in the woods? Is wondering the same as wandering?

Why haven’t your parents ever seen your friend? Do you think he’s still searching without me?

Why don’t you play this game with other children? Would anyone else want to?

Why did you hide by that tree? Do you think I hid something?

Did you find what you were looking for? Have you?

They wondered what I wanted to do when I grew up. They never asked who I wanted to be.

Seven years ago

THE MOON WATCHED, pale as my inner misery that only lightened during those stolen rooftop moments. My mind filled with ceaseless thoughts, my soul pining with endless longing. If only my longing could pull me out and up by my arms—like the dying rays of sun, like the first appearing light of morning.

You don’t sleep at night like a normal person.

You join me, I accused, thankful for the way he’d found me, years ago.

I’d been terrified the first time he spoke to me out of the dark that fateful night—me, a frightened girl afraid to sleep after the seventh-birthday fiasco when I ran away from my own birthday party and broke my hand from a fall in the forest.

The broken heart hurt worse.

When they finally found me, an ambulance didn’t just arrive to take me to the hospital. There was another for Grandmother, who’d also fallen—a heart attack, or was it a stroke?—but when I left the hospital to come home, she did not.

Later that day, news arrived of a car accident, which left my friend a lost orphan boy.

My birthday was a tragedy.

Because of my injury, my parents—distracted by Grandmother’s shocking death and having long given up on getting me to talk or eat or sleep—thought I would stay put. I spent the rest of that awful afternoon on the roof, but that only got me sunburnt. So then, at sunset, I worked up the courage to return to the Old Woods, alone.

But I wasn’t alone. There was a villain, a shadow, and my bravery was rewarded with more pain—how was I to know what cursed thing I’d find in the woods? How was I to carry the burden of accidental knowledge at what I’d seen buried in that forest? How was I to know that the tragic events that concluded my really-bad seventh birthday would be confirmed as sinister if I returned to the Old Woods?

I told no one. And that’s when the nightmares started.

Awakening near midnight, screaming, sweating, shivering, seven-year-old me awkwardly had crawled through the dormer window onto the roof. Aching, broken hand, my skin on fire, and heartsick, I vowed never to return to the memories of the forest, hoping to be alone to end my cursed birthday, but glad I wasn’t.

Because that’s when I found him, the boy who hid in shadows kept me company during the worst day of my year, on the worse day of his life. He was there that first midnight, at the end of that really-bad-seventh-birthday, and since then, he showed up without fail, every birthday. Suspicion grew into mockery and blossomed into an annual companionship of adolescent angst watered with shared boxes of cookies, years of summer midnights on my birthday shared across separate roofs with this strange, reclusive boy.

Here, on our sixth summer together, while I knew he was fourteen, to twelve-year-old me, he’d