Dinner that night was a cozy, suffocating time for me. Auntie Sarah's cooking was phenomenal, a rich savory pot roast, but every gentle question about my classes or my plans for the break was layered with a silent, sorrowful subtext, how is our poor broken bird doing? I tried to be cheerful, but the effort exhausted me.
I retreated to my room early, ostensibly to read Wuthering Heights, a fitting intense choice for my present mood. But the combination of hangover and anxiety made my planned isolation for the night to immediately be compromised.
I lay in the dark, but the silence was not restful. It was loud with the memory of Julian Vance.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to recall the exact wording of a passage from Brote, but all I could only summon was the heat of Julian's body against mine on the cold stone balcony. I remembered the rhythm of the music we danced to, how he had effortlessly navigated the crowded floor, and the weight of his hands on my shoulders when he told me to go home. The memory was immediate, and totally at odds with my commitment to emotional sterility. He had seen me at my worst, and he had still treated me with a respect I had not earned. It was confusing and confusion was dangerous.
Sleep finally came to me, claim me, but it was shallow and dream laced, offering no real escape. The next morning, the house was a flurry of purposeful activity. At breakfast, which was loud, the plans for the day were laid out. "Jordan, your friends are picking you up at nine. Don't be late," Auntie Sarah said to Kenya's younger brother, who was already by the door. He was a sweet high schooler, too busy with video games and basketball to notice the familiar drama going on around me.
"I will be meeting up with Aisha at the gym, then we will head for the mall, for some last minute gift disaster control", Kenya announced, grabbing her keys.
"We will be back around five."
Kenya gave me a quick, pitying hug. "call me if you need rescue from yourself, S. Don't read tragic poetry and cry into the tea".
Uncle David clapped his hands, "your Auntie and I are heading to the office. We will be back by dinner, so… Simone, you will have the house to yourself. Plenty of quiet ".
I know uncle David meant what he said kindly, but "all to yourself sounded like a prison sentence. I smiled tightly. "perfect. I will be buried in my books".
As Kenya headed for the door, Auntie Sarah lingered, placing a hand on my shoulder. She looked at me, her expression soft but firm.
"Simone, honey. Listen to me, locking yourself up is sometimes needed and necessary for a day, but not for a holiday. The world moves, sweet girl. Life is not a chapter in a book that stops when you put the bookmark in."
She leaned in conspiratorially. "sometimes, all that peace and quiet does make your own thoughts louder. Don't refuse yourself the chance to simply exist outside the narrative of heartbreak. Try and get out sometimes, even just to sit on the poem. The fresh air won't bite you, and you might actually see something new, you never know ". She gave my cheek a gentle pat and followed uncle David out the door.
Then, just like that, I was alone. The house settled into a deep, echoing silence. I went back to my room, picked up my copy of Persuasion, and settled into the window seat, determined to follow my self made rules. I read the opening line, Sir Walter Elliot, of kellyrich Hall, in Somerset shire…
But the truth here, the words were just blurry shapes. The reality of the quiet house was too much, the empty space. I couldn't focus on 19th century English.
I stared blindly at the page, frustrated, I was meant to be healing through what I called literary isolation, but my mind had betrayed me, turning Julian into a constant, unwelcome hero in my own tragic story.