The City of Crows by Bethany Lovejoy (great books to read .txt) 📕

hair wove its way between my fingers. In that moment, I would try to remember every detail, to bottle the essence that made Leo Leo, so that when he was gone, I could replay those moments over and over, and pretend he’d never left.

“You live, alright?” He begged against my lips just as he allowed the bottom one to escape the gentle graze of his teeth. “You promise me that you’ll live, and you’ll live a long, happy life. You’ll get married, you’ll have children, and you’ll love someone so deeply that you’ll never think of me.”

False promises, words that I couldn’t give him. I nodded into him all the same, if only to make him feel something, an ounce of joy.

“You’ll see your mother more often,” he pleaded, “and write her all those stupid letters she desires,” his mouth was on mine once again, hands falling to my hips, pressing my close against his body. “And you’ll pay attention to Yvie, go out when she wants you too, see your old friends. Don’t work for another shitty bookstore that doesn’t appreciate you,” he said in between hurried kisses, lips pressing deeper and deeper into mine.

“No more shitty bookstores,” I promised. That part of me was done, that foolish desire was spent. I couldn’t be a human, not after this. There were a million reasons sitting right in front of me why I couldn’t anymore, a man who had forced me to accept a part of myself that I’d turned away from in fear. “No more dead flowers either, no more rotten roses. I promise you.”

“You’ll get a nice apartment, one with actual room for you to open your drawers all the way,” he pleaded, earning a snort on my part. I hadn’t realized that my living arrangements had upset him that much. I pushed closer to him, mouth lingering far too long on his, hands grasping the back of his head and forcing him in closer.

“The nicest,” I reassured him as I pulled away, air being hard to come by while the haze of Leo clouded my mind. How a man could be so all consuming, so enticing; how could anyone ever compare to Leo when he was gone?

He pulled away, his hand trailing softly across my cheek, a groan of disappointment escaping his lips. His eyes took in mine, really took them in, the depths of his soft, shining black eyes drank me in deeper and deeper. How was I supposed to move on from that? “Just because I’ll be dead, doesn’t mean that life has to end for you too.”

29

One Last Cup of Tea

The last day came in the blink of an eye. A quick facetime with his mother, who was rather enjoying her clueless vacation in the Bahamas, some short sketches shoved into envelopes along with letters for his aunts, and a long list of movies and media that he regretted never seeing. And then it was there, the end, the last blessed hours on earth with Leo.

What would you do if you had only one day left? If the timer was ticking in the background, and you knew that the next twenty-four hours would be your last? Knowing that when you went to bed it would be for the last time, would you even sleep? Who would you call? Who would you not? Would you say goodbye, even if it was hard? Or would you try, even though it seemed futile, to pretend that it was just another day? Another perfect day.

We’d planned this big feast, a call to every single take out place we’d ever ordered from; but at the last moment, he changed his mind. Dying has a nasty habit of upsetting you, and I’m sure, knowing what would soon come, he could not stomach the food even if he desperately wanted it.

No, we ended up on the northside, just outside of Magictown, in a small tea shop called Martha’s. Despite the potions and his endless optimism, Leo had grown too frail to so much as lift a kettle. Steam and the motion of stirring brought tears to his eyes, though he tried to hide them, and there was really no other option left.

It was the only thing I could give him, the only proper way to send him on his way. His head on my shoulder, every step falling heavier; I practically carried him in.

Martha’s was a small, cluttered tea shop. Pink, floral walls strained to hold up a variety of tea plates, nearly every wall holding a shelf containing a variety of old tea pots. Cartoon characters, political figures, cats, and all sorts of objects sported tea spouts, eyes gleaming out from the shelves. The floor was a simple, white painted wood, flecks of the latex peeling away as foot traffic had steadily worn down the entryway over the years. The seats were overstuffed, plush armchairs, each gathered around a mismatched coffee table, not one of them seeming to adhere to any single theme. A sign at the corner, nearest the front door said, sit down, all are welcome, and we took that invitation seriously.

Scooting a bright pink armchair and a faded blue one close together, I helped Leo into his spot, sitting beside him with my hand in his, my other hand resting atop his knee. He flashed a quiet, thankful smile, lifting our intertwined hands up to his pale lips. If I could have moved closer, I would have.

The scent of tea filled the air, steam rising and pouring in a never-ending stream out of the kitchen. We seemed to be the only ones in the shop, and the only ones to have been there for a while, a variety of spices, herbs, and floral scents greeted our nostrils, seeming to linger endlessly in there. But there was something else too, the hint of yeast, as bread baked in the kitchen ovens. I shot Leo a look, my raised eyebrows seeming to ask if he’d like to