As he opened his eyes he realized his tears had stopped. His fingers moved over the letters of her name and he whispered to himself.
“You’re right, Clare. As always.”
There was nothing he could do now, nothing that would reverse the chain of motion that led to her death. There was only the here and now, a sunny day that she could not see. He looked down to the bouquet of roses. He had clutched the stems too tightly, and the thorns had pierced his hand. He opened his hand slowly, watching the beads of red appear in the punctures. He was alive, this proved it. The ache that shot through his hand as he flexed it open proved it. He breathed slowly and let the pain ride through his body, his palm throbbing with his heartbeat. Blood smeared the petals of the roses, red on white. They looked beautiful, like the hybrid varieties that bloomed at this time of the year in the gardens of his estate.
She would never come back, and he would have to keep on living.
He stood, and placed the blood-smeared roses on top of the stone carefully, smoothing the petals. He bent down to wipe his hand on the dew of the grass. The blades of grass were wet and cold, and his fingers grew chilly as he wiped his wounds clean. He pressed the tips of his fingers to his lips, then to the stone.
“Goodbye, Clare. I love you always.”
He felt love surge through him, and he was crying again, softly, for he knew that the love would stay with him even though he must leave her there, dead in the ground. He closed the wrought iron gate behind him and turned to leave the cemetery. Looking up, he saw Brynn standing in the path ahead of him, looking back.
The sunlight haloed her hair, tinging it red, and for a moment Eliot thought he would see Clare again. Then he blinked hard and there was only Brynn, nobody else.
“Hello, Eliot,” she said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Thought is only a flash between two long nights, but this flash is everything.” - Poincare
I had gone back to visit my mother every weekend with the small amount of free time I had. I talked with her, told her about the work I was doing. Inevitably I would tell her about Eliot. If he had come to lecture, I would tell her about what he had said, how he had looked at me. If not, I told her about how much I missed him. In this new country, I did not want to find my heart stolen away, but my attraction to Eliot was harmless. He would never love me, so he was safe to love. I told my mother that I would find romance when I returned home in a few weeks.
The sunny morning I visited her, I again left half of my bouquet at Clare’s grave, as I had each week, replacing the wilted flowers from the time before. Here I simply left the bouquet—I had nothing to say to Eliot’s dead wife. When I returned from visiting with my mother, however, I saw someone kneeling inside of the Herceg family plot. I stepped forward, curious despite myself, and Eliot turned to see me standing there. His eyes were red with tears, but his face looked somehow happier, less anguished. He looked like he was glad to see me.
“Hello, Eliot,” I said.
He smiled and stepped forward. I inhaled as he bent to kiss me warmly on the cheek. His chin, unshaven, scratched my cheek slightly, and when his hot lips pressed against my cheek I wanted to throw my arms around him. I thought that I was safe, but his touch set my body aflame in just seconds. He kissed me again on the other cheek, and then pulled back.
“Will you let me buy you a coffee?” Eliot said. “I believe I owe you one.”
He owed me nothing, but I said yes and walked with him to the cafe a few blocks away. We ordered our coffees and took them down to the river to sit on a bench beside the Danube. The ice had cracked apart, and only small chunks of frost still clung to the riverbanks. All the rest had been swept out to sea by the currents of the river.
“How have you been, Brynn?” Eliot spoke kindly, and I felt myself drawn close to his kindness.
“Fine,” I said, meaning a hundred other things. “We figured out another piece of the algorithm yesterday. You told us to try and simplify the projective matrix, but I think that it’s easier to simplify the result after it’s been applied—”
“I didn’t mean the work,” Eliot said. Unspoken words hung in the air between us. My heart wrenched as I watched his eyes track the eddies in the river, and I felt a mixture of anger and longing race through my body.
“Are you and that boy…”
“No.” I spoke too quickly, and Eliot turned toward me with the question still lingering in his eyes. “There’s nothing between us.”
Eliot put his hand on mine. I wanted to cry out with joy, but I also wanted to tear my hand away. Do you know what you’re doing to me? I screamed inside. Don’t make me love you again. My mind raced ahead with images of Eliot kissing me, embracing me, peeling off my clothes slowly.