The Truths We Make (House of Poe #1)

31. Epilogue Final Thread

Epilogue: Final Thread

Summer, 8 months later

I let out a string of curse words as the pot boils over. I want Annabel, my therapist, who suggested that I cook tonight, dead . There is never a good enough reason for me to be making more than a microwave dinner. If only she wasn’t doing so much good for my soul.

The days are finally turning from soggy spring into the warming heat of summer in the city. While I dread the peak season that is fast approaching, where tourists will crowd the already crowded streets, right now I am happy with the long holiday weekend that is often found absent of New York’s daily bustle.

The library, while normally my haven, has left me feeling cooped and confined this week. Never have I been so eager to leave its doors behind for several days before, making me question my sanity altogether.

What would Paxton say to see you like this?

The thought comes unbidden but not unwelcome. I have been learning to let him in, to unlock the chains holding the steel door of the crypt to my heart more open where the light could trickle through. Just as everything could change at dusk, so too could they alter in the dawn. I didn’t have to suffer through one. I could love both, in their own ways. I wasn’t great at it, but I was trying.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs outside my door causes me to hurdle across my kitchen to open it.

“Mom—” I start, but the word fades, turning to dust in my mouth.

Oliver stands just on the other side, his expensive black slacks cuffed messily at his boots. Just how he likes it. He’s stripped down to a black tee that’s rolled up his arms from the pull of his jacket, which is now slung along his bag. His dark head of curls is bent, making him a shadow among men. Then he looks up and catches me staring, the ghost of an apologetic smile on his lips.

“Not quite,” his voice quips.

He’s languid and cruel and honest with just his looks. A poet on the precipice of greatness. His presence alone makes me question morality and the things I would do if only to have one more chance to make everything right again. I feel the thick sludge of blood in my veins, my heart trying desperately to keep the rest of me going, but my brain is trying to shut it down. It knows I cannot survive another heartbreak.

“Darkness,” he says in recognition. “You look good. Different, but good.”

My hands bury themselves in my freshly cut hair, the flush in my neck the punishment for my embarrassment. I don’t know what to say, stunned into silence and mind running blank. I’m stuck on a forked road with no logical destination.

“You can’t stay silent forever. Are you going to at least invite me in?” he asks.

I move aside so he can step through the door. I couldn’t legally keep him out if I wanted to. It was his home, after all. Well, our home. The one he’d bought for us, the summer when everything changed. The familiar scent of espresso and maple fills me as he passes, but the distinct wisp of whisky is gone. I look at him closely and notice there is no trace of glassy eyes or rosy cheeks to be found. Oliver Poe is sober. That fact alone causes me to scramble to find words.

“Oliver? I wasn’t expecting you,” I say, trying to be diplomatic and friendly, unsure of why he’s come.

He ignores the subtle question in my voice, noting instead, “I like what you’ve done with the place. Very you. Very us . ”

He rolls the word us around like candy. A sweet delight he’d like to use again and again. I feel his flirty nature through my body, landing at my toes, daring me to curl them into my slippers. I resist, but just barely.

“Oliver,” I say, void of the pleasantries. “Why are you here?”

The sight of him is not unwelcome, just surprising. Still, I’m not interested in games. Not anymore. He tosses his bag down before stretching out his frame, taking all the time to adjust his body just right so I can see the curves of a man who’s put in the work. He sees me staring and prowls towards me, all moody grey and shadows in the falling sunlight. When he finally gets to me, his movements slow, so as not to spook, his thumb coming up to brush at my bottom lip.

“I came here for two reasons,” he says like a secret. “One is for salvation. For redemption. I came here because you are here, Darkness. And I am done living in a time that can only be looked back on in reflection as a nightmare. I am ready for the dream.”

My heart races, as if the finish line is happiness from this journey of challenging existence. I fear having hope from anything he’s said. Fear wanting what he’s offering, only to have it stripped away as it has before. As it will undoubtedly again. I cannot free fall into the chaos of loving Oliver Poe in the whisper of a moment. I cannot yet take a splintered boat to sea. We’re still working on who we need to be.

My lip trembles at his touch and I do the only thing I can.

“And the other thing?” My words are choked and rotten. As if I could care about anything else. As if I should. But I need more time, more space, before I can answer.

Thankfully, Oliver gives it. He steps back on a knowing sigh, not at all deflated by my deflection. Each delicate suck of air goes down a little easier with every step he takes away. I watch as he reaches into the pocket of his jacket to produce an envelope.

“We cleaned everything out, Alexander, Madeline and me. Went through all his things. Put up the stuff we wanted to keep around, dispersed the rest.” He thumbs the folds of the paper before continuing, “I found this. It only felt right to deliver it in person.”

The pressure in my body sinks as Oliver walks back to hand it to me. I carefully unfold what he’s given and see the familiar scratch of my name on the front. I flip it over and notice the dark gold wax seal holding it together, one name on its stamp. Poe .

“Oliver…” I say, tentative, unsure if I should open the pandemonium again. If I’m even ready to.

“It’s ok, Eve. Madeline told me we all got one. My counselor thinks the letters were his goodbye.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “You don’t have to open it now. Or ever. But I thought you should have it.”

I see the curiosity in his eyes, the hope that maybe my letter is different, even if he doesn’t really believe it is. I feel the familiar pull of knowing, of chasing Paxton’s riddles. Come play with us, Paxton! We’d scream. Only if you solve the clues first, he always responded. The memory is both haunting and healing.

“Thank you. I want to open it. I think… I think I need to,” I say to him.

To his credit, he doesn’t pester as I take my time tearing the top of it, woeful to break the actual seal. I want every piece he might have touched to stay as intact as possible. Oliver stays impossibly still, holding dominance over his desperation even as I pull out the paper inside where he cannot see. The first fold flops out and Paxton’s signature assaults me. I can’t help but read the end of the letter first.

Forgive him. Because regardless of the truths we make of our lives, the universal one is that we're all broken. Messy. Morbidly self-conscious and self-sabotaging. But there is so much love. To give. To get. To hold. Even in the obscurity of our connections. Even in the midst of our reflections. And if we don't take even a single moment to recognize that life is going to pass us by in the blink of an eye, and somehow, we’ll miss all of it. I had to learn that the hard way. We all do. But at least this way you’ll be together. Like you were always meant to be. I am nothing if not a man of my promises. Forever yours, Paxton Poe “The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?”—Edgar Allan Poe P.S. Riddles upon riddles. Lives upon lives. We can live in multitudes, Eve. December 13 th —New York

My breath catches in my throat as I choke on the knot.

“Eve?” Oliver asks, eyes wide and pleading. “What does it say?”

I can’t move, can’t speak, wanting to deny the haunting curiosity inside me that’s waking up. In other words, I believed, and still do believe, that truth, is frequently of its own essence, superficial, and that, in many cases, the depth lies more in the abysses where we seek her, than in the actual situations wherein she may be found. Edgar’s quote floats through my head in a cloud of whimsy and suppressed hope that this isn’t the end. Fate has found me once again.

My smile is timid, knowing I have to tell Oliver something and if there’s anything I’ve learned since Paxton left us that first letter, it’s that I cannot lie. Not to Oliver and, least of all, not to myself. I give myself three breaths before I steady my heart once again.

“How about we get a drink? I know a place.”

The End.