Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(93)

My eyes drift to the clock, no matter how hard I will them not to. Two more minutes left. And just like when we wheeled her into this hospital, every second counts.

I press my free hand to her chest, right over her heart. The steady rhythm is imprinted in my flesh, carved all the way to the bone. “Our time is up, Rose,” I say. A tear breaches my lashes and slides down my cheek. “This can’t be some ‘no strings attached, friends-with-benefits’ situation anymore. That’s over now.”

My final hope is that she’ll be so angered by my words that she will wake up, but that snuffs out when she doesn’t even stir. The shots fired over the bow of my ship just land in still water. There’s no volley. No fight to meet me in the fog. She might not be able to see it, but I give her a smile, because even in the dark and silent solitude of unconsciousness, she still sees right through me.

“It’s over because I love you, Rose. I’m sorry I spent so much time and effort trying not to. It was only because I didn’t think it was safe for you. I don’t think I knew how to fit into your wide-open world. But from the very first glance, from the first word, I was caught in your gravity. I wanted to be near you. And I couldn’t bear the thought of hurting you. But, lately, that’s the only thing in our cards, it seems.”

I shift my gaze to the tarot deck resting on her side table. The Lovers card is flipped over and waiting for her.

One minute left.

I know the driver will probably come to find me if I’m late. And I don’t want Leander Mayes or any of his people anywhere near my Rose.

It’s a slash across my heart when I rise from my chair. Another when I lay her hand across her waist. I fear the wound may never heal when I lean down to press a kiss to her lips. Her exhalation warms my skin. I breathe her in, the sweetness of her cinnamon scent marred by the clinical room that surrounds us. She was never meant for a place like this, and yet she keeps coming back to it.

I sweep the hair from her face and try to imprint the image of her into my mind. Then I take a card from the interior pocket of my jacket, glancing over my words, hoping I said enough and not too much.

Dear Rose,

The sparrow is such a simple bird. I always wondered why you chose it, or why it was chosen for you. Because you’re the most exciting, outrageous, intimidating, incredible person I know.

Breaking your heart was undoubtedly the worst thing I’ve ever done. Leaving is the only right thing to do, even though it’s the hardest. I can’t tell you where I’m going or what I’m doing, or when I’ll be back. And I know that’s unfair to you. It might be enough damage done that you can never forgive me, and I understand if that’s true.

So I will love you enough for the both of us. I don’t expect anything in return. I’m so sorry I can’t be with you right now. I promise I’ll be back to tell you I love you in person. I should have told you so many times. Like when we walked home from Sandra’s, and you asked me things no one has ever taken the time to know. Or when I came into the hotel room in Boston and you were standing by the window. I forgot how to even form the words to tell you how stunning you were. Or the time you fell asleep on my chest. I stayed awake so long just to feel your breath on my skin and imagine a life I know now that I could have had, if I had just let my fears go. I’ve loved you all that time, Rose Evans. And I won’t be stopping. Not ever.




Look out for yourself. Don’t cause too much mayhem, if you can help it.

Love,

Fionn

I look up to the clock. I’m out of time.

I leave the card on the side table. I trace the smooth skin of her cheek. And then I lift my hand away.

With one final look at Rose, I turn and leave.





SCRIPT


Rose



I’m sitting in my RV, visualizing every detail of the show to come. The exact turns I need to take. The pitch and whine of the engine. The smell of exhaust. It’s my first performance since I got out of the hospital and came home to Texas. The first off-season show of the year. And it’s the first time I haven’t felt the swell of excitement for the metal cage that’s been my home for the last decade.

Usually, I’m buzzing to perform. The first shows after a few weeks off are always my favorite, because they’re the closest it will ever feel to that fateful day when I rode the Globe of Death for the very first time. I was only sixteen. I remember my hand trembling as I firmed my grip on the handle of my dirt bike and crept forward until I entered the metal cage. I’d been working for the circus for a year by that point, doing all the jobs I could possibly volunteer myself for, no matter how shitty they were or how long they took. I begged José for that chance in the cage. There wasn’t anything to prove I could do it, no credentials other than I knew how to ride a motorcycle. I had nothing to go on but guts. I didn’t actually know if I’d be able to pull that throttle back with enough precision to spin through the globe until I was either upside down without losing control completely or chickening out and falling flat on my face. I just had belief. And as soon as I tried it and experienced the rush of adrenaline, there was no turning back. I chased that high every time I got on my bike and faced the globe. Being in the cage felt like freedom.

But now?

Now, it feels like I’m trying to squeeze myself into a life that doesn’t fit me anymore. It’s as though I’ve taken the two halves of my cast and put them back together and taped them on. Even though I could run and jump and swim and kick, I’m not doing any of those things. I’m just limping along, coping with a broken heart by encasing it in a familiar routine.