Zachary
argue at the party.
Even though it’s a hazy spring afternoon and the air is calm and fragrant and full of the splash of water and the sound of music and laughter. Even Evan and Sophie are in a good mood, having traded their warring for playful flirtation. Luca sits at the edge of the lake, uncharacteristically pensive and taciturn, while Iakov lounges in the grass, tapping a cigarette lazily against his phone.
In the distance, Sev chases his strange, adorable fiancée through the trees like a mortal chasing an elusive naiad.
There’s a mingled sense of satisfaction and nostalgia that permeates the air. The wind blowing across the lake shifts the fluffy cattails and spiky reeds at the edges.
Everything feels peaceful, almost magical.
But still, we fight.
Theodora wears a summer dress with a pale floral pattern and thick shoulder straps tied into bows. Her short hair floats in the wind, tickling her cheeks and lips. Sometimes, the wind tugs at her skirts, revealing more of her legs.
Theodora looks gorgeous, and once I draw closer, she smells gorgeous too, and her eyes, in the hazy golden sunlight, are a dreamy blue. And all of this gorgeousness makes it impossible to be gentle as a lamb.
“What was the point of self-sabotage?” I ask, drawing her into the treeline for some privacy. “I didn’t want you to hand me the win.”
“And yet you wanted to hand it to me.”
“That’s different and you know it.”
“And how?” she asks.
“Because I didn’t need the win.”
“Neither did I.”
I clench my fists and take a deep breath, to still myself. “Let me rephrase. I didn’t deserve the win.”
“How could you possibly know? We only found out today I was the front-runner.”
“Mr Ambrose had already told me.”
Her eyes go wide. “He did not.”
“When you left. He told me.”
“Then why did you self-sabotage? Why didn’t you just hand in your essay?”
“Because you were gone for so long, and if I won just because of what happened—because of what you had to go through—that’s not the kind of victory I wanted.”
“So you thought you would simply hand me the trophy?”
I shrug. “You tried to hand it to me.”
She gives me a haughty look. “Make no mistake, Blackwood—I demand a rematch. You and I, in the arena of the greatest academic institution of the country.”
I give her a solemn nod. “I’m for it. Oxford, three years, one rematch. A fair one, this time. No self-sabotage, no sacrifice of love or show of devotion.”
“It’s agreed.” We shake hands. “Just try not to submit any blank pages this time.”
“At least I would never submit a chapter from a salacious pirate romance.”
Her lips quirk. “How could you possibly know whether or not it’s salacious?”
“Because it’s a book about pirates—and we all know how you feel about those.”
She smirks and steps closer, hands behind her back. “Still jealous over a fictional character, Zachary Blackwood? It’s a bad look.”
“Still in love with a villainous pirate from a children’s book, Theodora Dorokhova? That’s a bad look.” I stretch out my open palm towards her. “And I want my copy of Peter Pan back.”
She bats my hand away. “You’re not getting it back. Ever.” Her smile widens. “And to answer your question, I don’t see myself in James Hook—and I don’t like him because he’s like you.”
“I never asked you that—I would never ask such a nonsensical question.”
“You asked it black on white in your annotations.”
I clench my hands into fists. “Theodora. Those were my private annotations.”
“Yes, and I’m answering you privately. I don’t like him because he’s like you. I like you because you’re like him.”
“What—cadaverous and blackavised?”
“A man of indomitable courage.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Because it took me so much courage to hand in a blank piece of paper for my assignment?”
“Because it took you so much courage to love me when I was so difficult to love.”
I take a step closer and capture her gaze with mine, daring her to look away. Our height difference is significant enough now that she has to tilt her head back to look at me.
“Listen to me, Theodora Dorokhova, and listen well. You are not difficult to love—you have never been difficult to love. Whatever happened in your life to make you believe you might be is a tragedy and a betrayal, a crime against truth. Whoever told you or made you believe you’re difficult to love is a liar. You’re not difficult to love. You are so easy to love that I fell in love with you without even meaning to, I fell in love with you even when you wouldn’t let me, and I keep falling in love with you every day. I don’t even think I’ll ever stop falling in love with you. In fact, I fell in love with you earlier, when I saw you in that summer dress, and I fell in love with you five minutes ago when you were talking about James Hook. And I believe I shall fall in love with you in a few minutes when I take your hand and take you into the tree to kiss you where nobody can see us and get on my knees to worship you the way I know best. And I’ll fall in love with you this summer, when we go swimming in the lake and take road trips to Oxford, and I’ll fall in love with you every night when I take you to my bed or when you decide to be stubborn and take me to your bed instead. And I’ll fall in love with you when you finish that damnable pirate romance book, and I’ll fall in love with you when we’re in university and you’ll be angry at me for looking down my nose because I’m studying philosophy and you’re not. I’ll keep falling in love with every part of you because every part of you is perfectly, utterly lovable.”
Tears blossom in her eyes. Deep inside my chest, my heart aches because I know that a part of her needed to hear that.
Theodora has probably always believed she wasn’t easy to love—and I suspect part of her will always believe that insidious, foul little lie.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll attack that lie every single day, I’ll fight it tooth and claw until it’s completely gone, until Theodora has forgotten it ever even existed.
“Maybe you should become the writer,” she says in a small voice, smiling through her tears.
“I’m going to throw my life away on academia and education—remember? Besides.” I swipe away her tears with a thumb and take her hand, drawing her deeper into the treeline. “I don’t need to become a writer—I already have a writer girlfriend.”
“A writer girlfriend?” she asks, following me. “Since when?”
“Since forever. Since Christmas. Since today.” The wind blows her hair across her face, and I push it away with a laugh. “She’s a little elusive, this girlfriend of mine.”
“But I think she loves you very much.” Theodora holds my arm in hers and stands on her tiptoes to whisper in my ear. “I think she loves you and has wanted to be your girlfriend for a long time.”
“She loves me?” I ask in a casual tone.
“Oh, she’s ridiculously in love with you.”
I whisper back. “Do you think she would like to be seduced amongst the trees?”
“Yes. Often.”
“Then I must begin at once.”
I catch her in my arms like a princess in a fairy tale, and she throws her arms around my neck with a surprised yelp.
“I can walk, you know!”
I kiss her lips. “But why would you when I can carry you?”
She laughs and kicks her legs, throwing back her head. “Now I really feel like an innocent maiden being captured by a handsome pirate.”
“Who would have thought my girlfriend would have such frivolous fantasies?”
She taps her finger over my lips. “Less judging, more ravishing.”
“Yes, my beautiful darling.”
“Thank you, my handsome love.”
I stop, and we stare at each other for a second.
“Too much?” she asks.
“No. Never.”
She laughs, and I kiss her laughing mouth, and my heart is full of that perfect, luminous sound—the sound of Theodora Dorokhova laughing.
