Cleo Onyx's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

The healer left before dark. Cleo lay on the patchwork couch by the tall front windows, wrapped in blankets. Pope sat on the floor beside her. He had not left her side since he ran for help. He held her hand and watched her breathe. She had lied to him once, and the lie sat in her chest like a stone. She had to move it. "Pope," she said. Her voice cracked. "I need to tell you something." He leaned close. "Don't talk if it hurts." "It's not twelve weeks." She made herself look at him. "I said twelve. I only just found out. It's early, Pope. Way earlier than that." His hand went still in hers. She braced for the anger. She had counted on the number to comfort him, to make the sickness feel almost over. Twelve weeks sounded like the end of a hard road. The truth was they stood at the start of it. "Why?" he asked. It came out soft, not sharp. "Because you were scared." Tears slid down into her hair. "You kept dropping the cloth. Your hands shook. I thought if you believed it would stop soon, you could get through it. I didn't want to scare you more." Pope was quiet. She waited for him to pull his hand back. He didn't. He looked at her cracked lips and her thin gray face, and something in him settled. "You lied so I'd be less afraid," he said. "You were the sick one, and you were trying to protect me." "Yes." He pressed her hand to his mouth. "I'm not mad." His voice was steady now. "You feel terrible. I saw it. I don't need a number. I'm not going anywhere." She cried harder, and it hurt her sore stomach, but the stone in her chest was gone. "It'll be long," she whispered. "Months. The healer comes every day. I can't be alone." "Then you won't be." He wiped her face with the cloth, and this time his hands did not shake. "I'll stay here. In this house. Every day." Cleo watched him say it and knew he meant it. The lie was over. So was the pretending that this would be quick. They both saw the whole road now, and Pope had chosen to walk it with her. But choosing was not the same as being able. Pope was a teenage boy. He had no money of his own, no way to feed them both for months, no plan for how a boy stays put while the world expects him somewhere else. He held her hand in the dark house, brave and certain, and Cleo felt the next hard question rise. Staying meant he needed a way to stay. Neither of them had one yet.