✫✫✫
"AND YOU KNOW WHAT, RORY? THAT WASN'T EVEN the worst of it."
Slowly, slowly, Rory lifted her eyes up. To Paris's bright, cinnamon eyes. In the dimness of falling night, they gleamed with the shine of her tears.
"What happened next?" Rory whispered.
"When we broke up, Declan tried to touch me, too."
✫✫✫
DECLAN WAS LEANING AGAINST THE BAR.
His curly auburn hair was glossy under the colourful lights of the club. His eyes were narrowed, his long lashes fluttering.
He raised two fingers. "A margarita please."
When Rory slid into the stool next to him, she was already grinning.
"I'm excited for cliff diving tomorrow," she said.
He flashed her a charming grin. Reaching out to ruffle her hair. "Of course. I have to show my sister my tricks. You have to impress people somehow."
"What, my looks aren't enough?" Rory teased.
"Well, you manage."
"You know, it's funny. I'm told we have some resemblance."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Declan had said.
After he had ordered a margarita for her, Rory laugh faded. That wasn't what she had come here to talk about tonight. She was eighteen. Her and Paris had just broken up. The girl she had loved had told her, not two weeks ago, that her brother was a rapist.
"Declan?"
Her brother turned, and he looked so much like the face she saw in the mirror that she froze.
"Rory? What is it?"
"I . . . I wanted to talk to you about my breakup."
"Right. London's sister," Declan said, and he downed his drink in one swallow. "What about her?"
"We broke up because . . . she told me something."
"Yeah? You were too good for her anyway. She was a boring bitch—did you hear she wants to go to med school? Trust me, Rory. You're better off. You don't want a doctor as a wife."
Rory's grip tightened on the glass.
"Don't talk about Paris," Rory said coolly.
But Declan only let out a rich, flowing laugh. "Oh, Rory, come on. You don't want to spend the rest of your life with a girl who's going to be—what was it? A pediatrician."
The glass in Rory's hand broke.
"She told me you raped London," Rory said.
"You're bleeding," Declan told her.
"Answer the fucking question, Declan." She was close to tears and she didn't know why. Maybe she was a little drunk.
"Rory," he said. "She was cheating. I told you that."
"What about Billie Larson?" Rory said. "Was she cheating, too?"
Declan laughed easily. "Come on, Rory. Why are you bringing this up now? You know I—"
Rory didn't feel the sting of the blood on her palms. Or the slice of glass in her palms. Was she shaking? She might have been shaking.
"Answer the question, Declan," she whispered.
"No, Rory, for the love of God, I didn't rape Billie or London or any of the others. I can't believe I even have to tell you that. Jesus."
She didn't believe him.
Why didn't she believe him?
"And about your breakup," Declan continued. "It was about time. You know how much you were missing, being in a committed relationship?"
"You've been in a committed relationship."
Declan's grin was charming, crooked. Drunk. "I'm a bachelor, Rory. You understand what that means? I don't have girlfriends. I have girls I fuck, and girls I fuck on a regular basis."
"London," Rory breathed.
It was like he hadn't even heard.
"I should probably teach that bitch a lesson, you know," Declan said. "Make her pay. No one hurts my little sister."
"Don't touch Paris," Rory snapped.
Declan's smile was swimming around the edges.
"Alright, fine," he said. "I won't. Don't worry, Rory."
She had believed him.
Why had she believed him?
✫✫✫
TWO WEEKS AFTER THEY WENT CLIFF DIVING OFF LA QUEBRADAS, Declan went skydiving alone in Mount Everest, Nepal.
He didn't have a parachute.
They told Rory it was fast. Painless.
The fall produced adrenaline. He didn't feel a thing.
It was over the moment he hit the snow.
✫✫✫
"THREE WEEKS AFTER WE BROKE UP, DECLAN visited me while I was moving into my dorm at med school."
Rory was shivering from the cold—from the story.
The basement was almost black now. Shadow gilded every line of Paris's face, drawing hollows beneath her eyes, below her cheekbones.
"I was bringing my luggage, my suitcases, carrying some boxes."
The sound of Paris's voice in the dark was like a fire. Compelling her. Burning her.
"He offered to help. He said, Need me to carry that for you? I said no. I told him to fuck himself sideways, upside down, and halfway to hell."
Rory's heart kicked in her chest. Pitching against her rib cage. Too fast—the rush of her blood was too fast.
"He grabbed a heavy box and he followed me anyway. "Where's your roommate?" he asked. I lied—I told him, "She'll be home soon." He must have heard it in my voice. He dropped the box. He closed the door. He lunged for me. "This is payback," he sneered, and he grabbed both my wrists."
Paris was crying now. Soft tears that trickled down her cheeks.
As much as Rory wanted to wipe them away, to smudge them off Paris's skin with her thumb, she held herself back.
"He pinned me to the mattress. I remember looking at the window outside. There were a little bluebird on the tree. Such a stupid thing to remember, isn't it? But I focused on that bird. And I thought to myself, I'm not doing this. I kicked him right between the legs, as hard as I could. I bit him. I scratched him. I went as deep as I could go, I drew blood. And then I ran. I ran back to the car, and I waited, I waited for something that didn't happen. He didn't come back. He never came back and then he . . . and then a week later, I heard the news."
The skydiving accident.
Declan hadn't been equipped with a parachute.
Sometimes, Rory wondered if he had known.
If it had been on purpose.
And sometimes, sometimes, deep down . . . she wondered if the relief she felt was because she had known. If, maybe, that made her a monster.
But if she was a monster, then what had her brother been?
"I'm sorry," Rory whispered, and this time she didn't hold back. She slid herself towards Paris until their legs overlapped, and she was close enough to trace the path of silvery tears on Paris's warm brown skin.
"You didn't believe me," Paris said, her voice raw. "You didn't believe me and then he tried . . . he tried . . . I never told anybody."
Rory's hand cupped Paris's jaw.
"I know I can never make it right," said Rory. "I know I was young, and arrogant, and entitled. Declan . . . I idolized him. Do you remember what you said, when I first arrived? 'The earth revolves around the sun, but you'd have a hard time telling her that'?"
Paris gave her a watery laugh. "Yeah. I remember."
"If I was the earth, Declan was the sun. He was the brightest thing in my universe. He was that constant light in my whole life. After my mom left, after my dad got rid of me. You know the reason Declan was even in Switzerland at all was for me? He went to the brother academy of Vega's Boarding School. For me."
The light was quickly fading now, and the dark was heavy as it approached.
And the ground beneath them—it was so cold Paris had started to shiver.
"It doesn't make it right. It doesn't make any of this right. There were six girls before my sister, and I . . . I didn't want to believe them. Declan painted them as crazy, hysterical women who wanted a shot at the power we had. When I confronted him, our conversation ended with him saying, I don't need to force them. Why would anyone refuse me? And I know how horrible this is going to sound, Paris. I was eighteen, and it made sense to me. The way I had grown up in the palace . . . the way I had been taught . . ." Rory shook her head. "You don't deny powerful men what they want. You shut up. You sit down. And you take it, like the prim, proper lady you are. It made sense to me."
"Rory, I . . ."
"Let me finish," Rory insisted. "I may have been a wild child. I may have even been feral, by the ladies' standards. And because I clung to Declan like a shadow, I heard a lot of what men said behind the backs of women. I . . . I internalized it. I've treated every relationship in my life like a fling. And even the most important once I've ever had, I threw away. I threw you away. It was the worst mistake of life, and I don't regret it just because I lost you, but because I didn't see what was right in front of me."
Paris breathed, "What didn't you see?"
"The truth," Rory whispered. "I was used to ignoring corruption. Six girls? It was nothing to the men at the palace. They talked about hundreds. I know I can't change where I grew up, but I've spent the past five years unlearning it. I . . ."
Paris looked up at her. The light was also gone entirely.
"I want to know," Rory said. "I want to know one thing. I fucked up. I know I'm not perfect—I know I'm far from it. But I've forgiven myself, because I know the only way to undo this is to be better than I was. Just tell me one thing, Paris."
Paris waited, lips parted.
"Can you forgive me?" Rory whispered.
"I . . ."
"If you can't, I'll walk away right now," Rory said, and she meant it. "If you can't give me another chance, I understand. My heart will always belong to you, Paris. But if you can't see past the mistakes I made, the things that happened, I . . . I promise I won't bother you. If that's what will make you happy, I'll walk away."
And then she held her breath. And the ocean roared in her ears. And her heart beat so fast and hot and heavy Rory was sure her chest was going to cave in. To collapse.
If she doesn't forgive me, I don't know what I'll do.
But that wasn't true. Rory had found peace in helping Tasha. She could do it again. She could help kids who were broken, like her, and every piece of herself she gave . . . every tattered edge of her soul . . . she could devote it to healing.
She could live without Paris. She had done it before.
But she didn't want to—she didn't want to live in a world where Paris wasn't there next to her with a laugh like bottled sunlight.
With a smile like every single lovely thing in this world.
Rory had once told her, You're so fucking beautiful it hurts.
It didn't even begin to cover this ache. This open wound in her heart.
Paris made Rory feel alive.
But if she couldn't forgive what Rory had done, then Rory had to be willing to walk away. She had to find a way to be okay.
Rory pulled her hand back from Paris's jaw.
But Paris stopped her—folding her fingers over Rory's. Her delicate hand braced against Rory's knuckles, keeping her from withdrawing.
"I think . . ." Paris's voice was Rory's tether in the pitch-black. "I think I've already forgiven you."
"Good," Rory said, even as the embers of relief sparked against her bones. "Because I think I might be falling in love you."
"You might?"
"I am falling for you," Rory corrected. "Hard. And I think you feel the same way."
"Oh, is that so?"
"I know so."
"You always were a cocky bastard."
Rory grinned, though the dark was so complete she couldn't see the hand in front of her. "Is that a rat I hear?"
Paris screamed—and lunged right into Rory's lap.
"Careful," Rory wheezed. "Broken leg and all."
"That wasn't funny," Paris hissed, trying to slip off of Rory's hips.
Rory slid both her hands over Paris's waist. Tucking Paris close against her, until their chests were barely apart.
Until Rory could feel Paris's lips—the warmth of them—only a breath away.
I've already forgiven you, Paris had said.
But did she mean it?
And then, as though Paris had heard the question in Rory's mind, her arms slipped around Rory and she leaned forward.
Sealing her lips against Rory's.
I forgive you.
They were both breathless. Rory's skin hummed with electricity everywhere that Paris was touching her. Her hands roamed down Paris's back, through her curly locks.
It was sensation—sensation and sound guiding them.
In the dark of the basement, Rory couldn't see. But she could hear their panting, the soft echo of their moaning.
"Wait," Rory whispered.
"What is it?" Paris whispered back.
"Will you be my plus-one to the Charity Ball in two weeks?"
"Only if you'll come home with me this weekend to see my mother."
Rory grinned in the dark, though she knew Paris couldn't see. "Deal."
And all thoughts of Amanda and Declan and returning home to the palace disappeared from Rory's mind.
It was just her and Paris.
Skin against skin. Mouth against mouth.
Moving against each other. Generating heat.
Eventually, the touch became softer. Sweeter. Gentler. Rory moved until she was laying on the ground on her side, and she pulled Paris toward her. Slipping her arms under Paris's ribs and over her chest, until her fingers were circling the smooth skin on the underside of Paris's breast.
Heat—they needed heat.
Rory had said, I think I might be falling in love with you.
And as they drifted off to sleep, with the sound of the wind howling outside and the storm rattling the windows, Rory felt it as Paris's breathing eased into a rhythm.
She was sleeping.
I think I might be falling in love with you.
It had been a lie.
Rory whispered, "I've already fallen."
✫✫✫
Dear Readers,
I am really sorry for what I am about to put you through.
From the moon and back,
Sarai