Glass Pomegranate: Volume I

Chapter Nineteen: A Matter of Life and Death

Angel paced around the block, going on lap three. He rehearsed what he was going to say to Nyx in his head over and over, but couldn't seem to get the words right.

How hard is it to apologize?

Though if he were being honest with himself, it was not the apology he was having a hard time with.

I don't know what to tell her. I don't want to hurt her, but I can't let her go.

He kicked a pebble as he came around the corner to face Nyx's cabin once again. The red paint peeled away and made the siding patchy. Clumps of clover, daisies and Queen Anne's lace filled the overgrown yard, almost hidden behind the scraggly blackberry bushes on the property line. The front porch sagged into the earth, clinging to life by the mercy of a few solid boards that had managed to avoid the moisture and rot.

This place needs so much work.

It had taken Angel a year to repair the major faults in his own house, and it still wasn't completely finished.

Nyx probably doesn't want my help. She doesn't even need it.

Finally, on the next loop around, he forced himself to approach the cabin and let himself in through the front door. He kicked his shoes off in the porch and went into the empty living room.

Nyx's house was bigger and more open than his own, with no wall separating the living room from the kitchen. The space smelled of floor cleaner and fresh air from the open windows. It had yet to be filled with the busyness of lived-in clutter and knick-knacks.

The bare yellow walls waited for pictures and decorations to be put up. Cigarette butts crammed in the ashtray on the coffee table and the skateboard propped against the wall were the only signs of Nyx.

The rest of the furniture was sparse. A small side table sandwiched between the mismatched armchair and sofa. The circular kitchen table and its ring of dining chairs occupied the corner between the living room and kitchen, marking the barrier between the spaces.

Angel followed the sound of rummaging and movement to the kitchen and was surprised to find Kismet chopping carrots at the counter. Potatoes boiled on the stove behind her. The grey t-shirt she borrowed from Nyx hung to her thighs. Acid wash jeans were cinched to her waist by a black belt and rolled up at the cuffs.

"Hey, you're not Nyx," he said, surprised. "Is she around?"

"Oh, sorry." She placed the knife down on the chopping block. "She went out for cigarettes. I think she'll be back soon though."

"Do you mind if I wait here?" he asked, pulling up a chair at the table.

Kismet shrugged. "It's up to Nyx. Do you think she would mind?"

"That depends. Is she still mad at me?"

"I dunno."

"You didn't read her mind?" he teased. "Even a little?"

Kismet pursed her lips and turned back to the carrots. A thick wave of guilt and shame emanated from her like sticky tar. She started chopping faster. Angel wanted to push the feeling away, but it surrounded him, making him nauseous.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel bad. It's just...I don't know what to do," he sighed and rested his head in his hand. "Did she happen to say anything about it?"

The carrots sizzled in the melted pool of butter. Kismet poked them with a fork making them hiss and spit.

"Can't you talk to her?" she asked.

"That's why I came, but I don't know what to say. I hoped if you read her mind a little you could tell me what she wants to hear."

"Are you serious?" she asked, turning to look at him. It was like being shoved under a microscope.