✫✫✫
"THAT SMILE—IT'S FAKE."
Rory had just finished giving her signature shit-eating grin to the nurses off-duty in the cafeteria. She whipped around towards Paris.
Disbelief surged through her like electricity.
There was no way she could tell.
Nobody had ever been able to tell which of her smiles were real. Nobody had ever been able to tell the difference.
As Rory led Paris through the corridor, pushing the wheels of her chair towards the elevator, there was something hot in her chest. A kind of . . . vulnerability. Nobody—not even Declan—had known which of her smiles was real.
Her hands shook a little as she asked, "How?"
She chanced a glance at Paris. Who was watching her with a soft, mystified look in her eyes.
Like . . . like Rory was a painting.
As though she could spend hours staring. Trying to figure out the meaning between every shade of colour and each stroke of the brush against the canvas.
Rory was an abstract masterpiece, and Paris was contemplating the meaning of life.
"The dimples in your smile," breathed Paris. "When it's fake . . . there's only one. In the right cheek. But when you smile for real, I see both."
Rory hadn't even known—hadn't realized.
"How often do you see my fake smile?" she asked.
"I don't know," Paris said quietly. "Whenever you're around me, it's always real."
Thinking about it now, Rory realized it was true. Whenever she was around Paris, she was happier. The laughter came easily. The smiling came naturally. What was it about Paris that made Rory feel happy?
And why, why, had Rory ever been foolish enough to let her go in the first place?
Because you were afraid, whispered a voice inside of her.
You were afraid, and you didn't want her to be right.
You didn't want to believe her.
Rory shoved the thought away and grinned at Paris. There was a warmth inside of her that made the world around her seem hotter. Brighter. Clearer.
"Come on," she said. "The treasure chest is waiting."
And this time, though Paris was blushing deeply enough to shame a dahlia flower, for once in her life Rory decided not to tease her.
Because if Paris's cheeks were pink, then Rory knew she was as red as a rose.
✫✫✫
PARIS BLINKED. AND GLARED AT RORY.
"The treasure chest . . . is the hospital basement?"
Rory only rolled her chair through the cluttering of objects, navigating the maze of lost-and-found items.
"I was helping out Dhonielle and Gloria and Cat earlier," she began.
"You were what?"
Rory pretended not to hear that. "We found the bubble-wrap down here and while we were looking, I . . . well, I found these."
From the pile of dusted clothing and old shoe laces, Rory produced two pairs of ice skates.
"You found shoes," said Paris, unimpressed.
"No, no," Rory said, grinning. "Skates."
"Skates," Paris repeated.
"Skates—and do you know what that means?"
"It'd be nice if you could tell me."
Rory wheeled her chair back towards Paris, dangling the skates by their greyed laces. "It means we can go skating."
Paris took a step back.
"You know I can't skate," she said.
"And didn't I say I would teach you?"
"Oh, why didn't I think of that? Maybe it was the broken leg."
Rory felt it, then—both of her dimples piercing her cheeks. Paris was right. Her smile was real only where there were two dimples.
Damn it.
In the dim basement shadow, with cold light cutting against the room, the particles of dust glowed like silver flecks of the moon. As though someone had taken it upon themselves to unwind the stars and spin them into silver thread.
With soft, liquid light, Paris seemed almost ethereal.
She was too beautiful to be real.
"Trust me," Rory said, looking away. "Tonight, you'll be a pro."
"Tonight? We can't—"
"You're going to meet me outside at midnight," Rory said. "And we're going to go skating on the lake right outside."
"That's—"
"Insane? Crazy?" challenged Rory. "I know. You don't have to come. Maybe you won't. But I'll be waiting for you at midnight."
"And what about your leg? You can't even walk, let alone skate."
Rory flashed her a charming grin. "Leave that to me."
"And . . . what is this? A date?"
"If you want it to be," Rory said easily. "But think of it as a lesson. I'm going to be your teacher, and by the end of the night, I promise you'll know how to skate."
✫✫✫
IT WAS DANGEROUS, AND PROBABLY INCREDIBLY STUPID.
But Rory had once went cliff diving at La Quebrada. She had tried cage-diving in Shark Alley. And she had even once went sandboarding down an active volcano.
The thrill of danger sang in her bones.
That wild, desperate need to feel alive called to her blood.
And her heart? It never stopped aching for a constant rush, for the ever-present numbing of adrenaline . . . or liquor.
No partying or drinking, Simon had said.
These past two weeks had been hard. Too hard.
It was either alcohol or a life-threatening situation. And tonight, Rory wanted the exhilaration of doing something incredibly dangerous and monumentally stupid.
But it would be fun.
"Dhonielle!" Rory whispered into the room next door.
"Your Majesty!" said Cat, peeking up from next to Dhonielle.
"Aren't you supposed to be sleeping?" Rory asked. "It's almost midnight."
She had learned about Cat's schizophrenic mother in the mental illness ward. She liked the little girl—although her and Dhonielle put together were something to be reckoned with. With unmatched energy and a penchant for mischief, Rory was hoping she would never end up on the other end of their pranking.
She did like helping, though.
Hopefully that was enough to stay in their good graces.
Dhonielle waved. "Scheming takes an extraordinary amount of work. Our magnificent reputation requires work, and as the future queen of Valeria, I am fully prepared to handle it."
Cat poked her. "You never told me you were a future queen!"
Rory wheeled away before they could scheme up another will for her to sign. But just as she was angling her chair down the corridor, she heard the sound of music coming from down the corridor.
Piano. The chords of a soft, melodious song.
It was Tasha.
Carefully, Rory knocked on the door frame to the entertainment room. The piano music stopped, and the girl looked up.
"What are you doing here?" Tasha said flatly.
Rory hesitated. "I'm . . . going for a midnight stroll."
Even now, with her hospital nightgown, Tasha was still wearing her knitted pink beanie. Rory didn't know exactly the details of Tasha's mother, but from what Paris had said, she was homophobic enough to make Amy Coney Barrett proud.
"What's up?" Rory asked. "How come you're still awake?"
She was really, really hoping the bag of skates tied to the back of her wheelchair wasn't noticeable.
"I couldn't sleep," Tasha responded.
No emotion. No inflection.
She sounded . . . empty.
And—there was something about that. That nothingness. Because as much as Rory made herself the passionate, fearless—and slightly outrageous—playboy princess, sometimes it felt like there was something missing inside of her.
Something broken.
Ever since her mother had abandoned her on her seventh birthday. Ever since Declan had died on her nineteenth birthday.
She wasn't entirely whole.
But Paris made her want to be.
"Nightmares?" Rory tried softly, and Tasha looked up from the piano again—her eyes glimmering with the palest whisper of life.
Rory knew that feeling.
When someone cared enough to ask.
"Sometimes," Tasha admitted quietly.
In the dim light of the back-up generators, with the hum of the heater all around them and the faint chatter of nurses on night-duty somewhere in the distance, time paused.
"What are they about?"
"Being homeless," Tasha said, looking down. "Unloved. Forgotten. Not beautiful. Girls are supposed to be beautiful for their husbands." Her eyes trailed up to Rory, and there was something raw in her voice. "I don't want a husband."
Rory pushed her wheelchair closer.
"You're already beautiful," she said.
"But not without my hair," Tasha choked out, and there was red streaking her face now. "My mom says I'll never be loved. Who would love me if I'm not beautiful?"
"Your hair isn't what makes you beautiful," Rory said quietly, and she reached out. Laying her fingertips on Tasha's chest, right against her heart. "Right there—that's what people love."
In the light of the cold moon, the outline of a tear slipped down Tasha's cheek.
Sometimes, it was better—to pretend she didn't see the crying.
Weakness was vulnerable. Weakness was raw.
Rory knew that better than anyone, and when Tasha gave her a quiet smile, something passed between them. Understanding.
Tasha's fingers drifted over the piano again, starting with a sad song.
"Have you heard this one?" Rory asked, moving her chair until she was right next to Tasha. She pressed down on one high chord.
Tasha's hands stilled.
"It's called The Most Wonderful Time of the Year," said Rory. "Here, let me show you."
She played the first five notes. The chorus.
Slowly, Tasha's fingers settled in the bass clef. Repeating the tune.
"There you go," Rory said. "That was good. That was really good."
In unison, slowly and carefully, they played the chorus together.
"Like that?" Tasha asked.
"Like that," Rory agreed, and she showed her the rest of the song.
Playing together in the silence of midnight, stretching into the quiet hours of the morning, was so easy Rory lost herself in it.
It's the hap-happiest season of all
With those holiday greetings and gay happy meetings
When friends come to call
It's the hap-happiest season of all!
For the first time that night, Tasha let out a sound like a laugh.
No, it was a laugh.
Rory hadn't even realized she had been singing until Tasha snorted, "You're awful."
"Hey! I think my singing is marvelous, thank you."
"Yeah, maybe if I was tone-deaf."
Rory's mouth dropped open. A sense of humour—the girl had a sense of humour. Although her eyes were bleary and exhaustion was setting in, Rory managed to squeeze her shoulder.
"I'd like to hear you singing sometime, then," said Rory.
Tasha's laughter had faded, but the happy, soft smile was still there.
A start—it was a start.
It was progress from the sad, empty-eyed girl earlier.
And in what must have been the light of dawn by now, after playing Christmas music for hours, that jagged edge—that brokenness—inside of Rory felt . . . dulled.
Healing.
"I think it's time to sleep now," Rory said, yawning.
It was late—she hadn't realized how late.
Being needed—it had been hypnotic. And helping someone who needed her? It had taken long, but Rory didn't regret one moment.
Filling that emptiness . . . making someone else whole . . . it had taken the edge off of Rory's intensity tonight.
"Goodnight, Your Majesty."
"Oh, God. What do I look like? Queen Elizabeth? Just Rory is fine, please."
"Fine, Rory. Goodnight."
Rory crossed her arms, leaning into the piano as Tasha drifted to the doorway. Just for a moment. She would rest here for just one second, and then she would go back to her room. There was something she was forgetting, but it lingered on the edge of her mind. Too far away.
"Goodnight, Tasha," Rory called out, as the girl slipped out of the room.
Then Rory's head fell against the piano, striking an unharmonious tune, and sleep claimed her.
✫✫✫
This chapter is a little bit of a turning point. You'll see.
Also, how cool is it that Christmas is only days away?
From the moon and back,
Sarai