The Truths We Make (House of Poe #1)

30. Tattered Ends

Tattered Ends

Sunday, Present

I don’t see Oliver again, and in the morning, the day I’m scheduled to fly back home, I decide to seek him out. My insides are so scrambled, empty and numb and destroyed, that I don’t know whose screaming is louder, my reason or my heart. I decide to ignore them both. I embrace the truth that I’m simply an accompaniment for misery, and there’s no one I’d rather sit with through this than Oliver.

Besides that, I was leaving. Come hell or high water, I would be walking out of Dellbrook today, and although I knew better than to say it would be my last, I wasn’t na?ve enough to believe I would be coming back for anything less than tragedy. I owed us all the goodbye we never got. After seeing what happens when you let infection set in firsthand, I owed myself the opportunity to heal. Something I’ve never done.

Before I can make it to Oliver’s room, I’m stopped by Alexander, beckoning me into his office. He sits at his desk, papers strewn and the pale-yellow glow from his lamp lighting just the center of his face as he rests his cheek in his hand, staring at the picture before him. His eyes flutter up to catch me.

“Eve, thank you for coming in to say goodbye,” he says. I don’t remind him he called me in here or tell him I was seeking out his son. Instead, I just nod.

“Of course. I know you wanted to say goodbye,” I say .

It’s hard to keep my voice even. I don’t want to blame Alexander, but a part of me can’t help it. If he and Madeline had only been more open and kinder to their firstborn, everything could have been different. I suck down my thoughts, knowing I could never say them and see Alexander’s face crumble at my words. Especially when I knew I was just passing blame.

“That I did,” he says, smiling. “I know this week has been difficult. On all of us. But on you most of all. Love is never easy, and I’m sad to say that it’s made even more difficult by loving one of us.” He takes a sharp inhale through his nose before continuing. “Eve, I want you to know you’re always welcome here. This is your home. You’ve stayed away and I understand why, but now I think it’s time we heal. As a family.”

My gut clenches at the word. I know I should just smile and nod. Tell him the things he wants to hear so that I can leave and never look back. After everything, though, I know I can’t. I cannot allow myself to hide anymore.

“I’m sorry Alexander. But we’re not family. I love you all, but I think it’s time I stop hoping to be a Poe.” The words twist and shred my guts and my heart. They take with them the final courage I’ve had at living a life I’ve always dreamed of. Telling Alexander Poe this simple fact makes it bleed into my skin like a stain. But it also makes way for something new. Something real.

I look up to find him pensive, a look of worry as if he’s about to tell a child Santa isn’t real.

“Evangeline. Just because you are not a Poe doesn’t mean you are not family,” he says. His voice is solid, with little room for contradiction. Still, I cannot stop it.

“You know that isn’t true,” I whisper. “Madeline has made sure…”

“Madeline?” he sighs, coming around the desk to stand beside me, looking down as he does. His arm reaches out to rest on my shoulder. “Madeline loves you like a daughter. She has dreamed of your wedding, bragged about your accomplishments at NYU, and hung your portrait among the boys in our parlor. She is tough, like a thorn sometimes, but she has always thought of you as ours.”

The confession sets off a thousand bees through my veins, stinging and flapping their papery wings beneath my skin. But it still doesn’t change what I know.

“Alexander, I know you love her, but she made sure I wasn’t part of this family.” I say with finality. He has to see the wreckage she caused. With the boys. With me .

Instead, he grabs a stack of books sitting on top of a stool in the corner and sets them to the floor. He drags it over to me and sits so we’re at eye level.

“Did you know that the first day you got here, Madeline told me fate had gifted us our own Helen of Troy? I had laughed it off, told her it was nonsense that the boys were young. You were young. But she swore to me they would both come to love you, and I’ll be damned if she wasn’t right.”

He taps the arm of my chair as the silence bubbles with expectation. I’m trapped by the story he’s weaving, entranced by a tale I didn’t realize I was part of.

“You were her greatest fear. And her biggest blessing. You see, Madeline isn’t a Poe by blood. She was given the name, and she knows firsthand the sacrifice and burden it is to carry. All she could see was the boys ripping each other apart, and, in turn, ripping you apart. And that was unacceptable. Losing any of you was unacceptable.”

I roll his words in my head, finding the cracks and excuses for behaviors and words that don’t feel like love. Still, while prodding, I find empathy and understanding, too. In the end, all I’m left with is the harsh reality.

“But we did anyway,” I say, holding Alexander’s gaze.

He nods. “No one is saying her plans worked. Obviously, nothing went the way she expected. You see, Madeline loves consumingly. If she thinks someone she cares about is sinking, she jumps in the deep end. Even if that means they’ll both drown. She doesn’t believe in sidelines or guidance or regrets. Only action. Only intention. And sometimes, she loves so hard it feels like a punishment.”

“I wish she would love less,” I say, both in all earnestness and to chase away the clouds that are taking over our goodbye. I don’t want the last conversation I have with Alexander to be all about Madeline.

He cracks the thinnest smile. “That’s why I’m stepping in. I’ve already lost one son because he didn’t feel like he belonged. I’m unwilling to lose anyone else. You, Evangeline Owen Pierce, belong with us. You don’t have to be a Poe, or live at Dellbrook, or be in a relationship with my son. As far as I’m concerned, you’re ours and we’re yours, infinitely. Regardless of your blood or name. Neither of those is a choice, so how could they ever hold such weight?”

His words spin hope where only pain has been living, and I feel more certain than I ever have with his proclamation. I lean over and squeeze him tight, a few tears leaking out. He returns my hug, its warm comfort causing my head to spin. I slowly extract myself from his arms, knowing time is slipping away and there’s one last goodbye on my list.

“Thank you. For everything,” I tell him.

“I should have told you sooner,” he says, nodding. He watches me go from his stool, eyes misty in the dim light. When I reach the door, I hear him stand.

“Eve,” he says, and I turn. “All is not lost.”

I make my way to Oliver’s room, and with every step, the somberness of what’s occurred takes over any love I feel at Alexander’s words. The revelation of Paxton’s death, his suicide, eats away at my core again, leaving me raw and replaying all my choices to get here. What if Madeline was right, and we all had a part to play? Regardless of her intention, Paxton is still dead. The repetition of fault terrorizes my dreams and now leaves me, heavy as stone, at Oliver’s door.

Déjà vu breaks in, reminding me of the last time I did this. Instead of going in, I fled to New York. Never called him. Never wrote. Of course, I had the occasional internet stalking, but very little was ever to be found besides some poorly taken pap photo or a professional headshot in an article about his next book. It was never enough, and yet I did not bend. Alexander’s words float back to me. It’s time to heal as a family.

But today, today I would break.

I decide not to knock and instead just try the door. Astonishingly, it’s unlocked. Oliver must believe his presence enough to keep unwanted guests out. Or he wants to let you in . I dash the thought away. None of it matters. Not now.

Inside is dim. The fire burnt down to embers, and a few lamps turned on. His bed is unmade, the scattering of papers still left on the floor amongst the kicked over books and torn pages. Oliver is hunched over his desk, staring at a blank canvas pen in his hand.

“Oliver,” I whisper, not wanting to startle him if he hasn’t already registered that I’m here.

When he doesn’t answer, I move further in, shutting the door behind me. I dance my way around the mess until I’m directly behind his shoulders. My hand reaches to his back and I struggle not to feel my own pain at touching him and the memories it evokes.

“I wanted to say goodbye,” I try .

Oliver sighs deep, leaning into my hand. I move it up to his nape so as not to get crushed in his chair and rub small circles unwittingly.

“ And into this bizarrerie, as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving myself up to his wild whims with a perfect abandon, ” Oliver chokes out the Edgar quote. “Eve, he knew. He knew I would follow the path, that I would put each piece back in the puzzle. No matter the cost. He pulled up every painful moment in our life, every single one that has caused me to feel unruly, and, at times, insane. Things I have buried for years, I dug up. For him.”

His words are kinetic, nerves ticking up with the pitch of his voice. He’s struggling to hold it all together under the weight of his resolve. I turn his chair so he’s facing me, shove my palms to his cheeks.

“You know what he left us?” he asks me. I shake my head, tears lining my eyes just from the shock of emotional chaos I see in Oliver’s.

“Each other,” he laughs, melodic in its sadness. “And a promise I made to him when I wasn’t even old enough to understand what it meant. What am I supposed to do, Eve? What do I do?”

I look at Oliver, see the conflict amongst the devastation. He’s unsteadied and unsure. I want to curl him into my arms, give him comfort and my own promises. Tell him that Paxton loved him. That I love him. The Eve from our past wouldn’t hesitate. She would shield him from everything she could. She would take the broken pieces that were left and try to make them whole.

But I’m not the same girl I was when I left. Nor the one from the first day I returned. It took every day I’ve been here to find a path forward, and it wasn’t because Oliver led me there. So, I know I can’t lead him now. He has to find his own way forward.

“The only thing we can do. Live. Remember. Heal. Find help for the things we cannot shoulder alone. Try not to regret or make any more of our lives regrettable,” I say to myself as much as to Oliver.

“Regrettable,” he scoffs. “What you’re asking is impossible. No matter what I do, I lose. If I keep my word, I’m right back here, trying to forget. If I don’t…”

He eyes me, longing breaking through the despair. We both know where that road leads. The ghost of Paxton will haunt every moment we’re together as long as Oliver holds each of us apart. I know I need to take away the option, to let his heart settle so he can find home again. Even if that means he feels alone.

“Oliver, I’m not ready to forgive,” I say, forcing the words. My heart is in my throat, knowing that I’m putting everything at risk.

“I know. And… I don’t think I’m ready to be forgiven,” he responds, sinking lower into himself. He closes his eyes, then lazily kisses my palms, before removing my hands from him entirely.

“Are you going to be okay?” I ask.

“Someday. But for now, I’m going to accept that I’m not. And I think… I think it’s time I got myself together.”

Worry laces his tone for all the things he isn’t saying. Like Paxton never did for himself, but always wanted for me. I know Oliver is punishing his nature and questioning every road he did not take. Asking himself, would he still be alive if it were all different? Nothing I can say will ease that guilt. Not when I’m fighting so much of my own.

Oliver turns and jots down something on paper. He then folds and stuffs it in my hand.

“Darkness, I want you to have this. No matter what happens, this was always my gift to you. I was just too stubborn to give it. Everything will be set up when you arrive. Just tell the doorman your name. And tell Isabel that I’m sorry.” The ghost of a smile graces his lips as he says this, making me itch to see what he’s written.

I fight the urge and instead pocket the note for later, knowing whatever it is, I don’t need to quarrel with him on it now. There’s an ease to this goodbye that I never thought I’d feel. Of course, it’s doused in sadness, in the realization of our faults. And yet, it’s the most truthful I’ve felt in so long. The most solid my feet have been on the path laid before me. It doesn’t feel like the world is collapsing in this room, but that something tender is in bloom.

I’m not worrying that I’ll never be a Poe, or if Oliver believes I’m worthy or not. I feel grounded in the fact that I am a Pierce. That I am a woman who has loved and lost. That I have stretched my heart across galaxies and found myself loved by the dark and the stars. I am broken and scattered and tormented, which is why I think this goodbye doesn’t feel like the end.

The mournful romance of this moment has me leaning into Oliver, leaving the briefest kiss upon his mouth. My heart pounds at the softness. At the possibility, with or without him. That there’s even a choice. He opens his eyes to stare into me, and I replay the Edgar quote that has felt inevitable since the moment Paxton used it .

“Even in the grave, all is not lost,” I say out loud, readying us both for the next chapter of our lives.

And what a glorious story it will be.