DAY TWO of a very van der Waals Christmas
After our walk, we retire to the van der Waals library. Wolf reclines against a worn leather sofa, his feet resting on top of a velvet pillow. His feet, clothed in beige socks, shake every once in a while as he flips the pages of his novel. The rapid, fan-shaped arc of his foot reminds me of a dog wagging his tail.
The library, two floors tall and lined with books from wall to wall, was a present from Wolf's great-great grandfather to his first wife. Her portrait still hangs in one of the hallways, or so Wolf tells me. She was a voracious reader, devouring books with an appetite that rendered her an outcast amongst the other women in the village. Her eyes grew strained before her time and when she died in childbirth at the age of thirty-five, she was almost blind.
The bookcases in the library are ornate, carved by someone who clearly had a profound love of the written word. Woodland nymphs peek around corners, birds take flight, and leaves and toadstools dot the shelves. The original books are still here, yellowed with age, and more fragile than butterfly wings.
For some reason, I find this story both romantic and morbid. Wolf draws me from my macabre thoughts by snapping his book shut and giving me an unreadable look.
I admit, I've been ogling my phone instead of looking at a book, but catching up on the latest Buzzfeed article is basically reading, right?
"What's up?" I ask, pressing a button to turn the screen black.
"I thought of something." Wolf furrows his brow.
I nibble my lower lip. "And you want me to...guess?"
He snorts in amusement. "No, I'm just not sure I should say it."
Now it's my turn to snort. Mine is considerably louder and with a ton more attitude. "It's never stopped you before," I point out, voice dry.
"All this time we've spent apart," he says, beginning hesitantly, not quite meeting my eyes. "All this time, have you..."
I run the pad of my thumb over the screen, waiting for him to continue. When he doesn't, I suck my cheeks in and say, "Just ask."
"Have you gotten over me?"
I quirk my eyebrow at him. "That would imply I was under you at some point," I say, keeping a deadpan expression on my face, even though my lips are coaxed into a grin when he winks at me. It wasn't so long ago, after all, that I was under him. In the literal sense.
I exhale. "No. I know what you mean." I do. I really, really do. A phone conversation comes to mind, of careless (honest) words that were spoken when I was feeling particularly crushed. The exact words escape me, but I remember that Wolf had come in the room, had seemed to look at me like he'd overheard. I remember feeling a flash of guilt and then the satisfying lurch of victory, happy to have dealt him the same deathblow he dealt me in the Netherlands. Guess both of us overheard things we weren't supposed to.
Struck by this thought, I squint my eyes at him. His foot shakes harder. I want to ask him, but the words feel stuck in my throat like taffy. "Did you"âI clear my throatâ"hear me on the phone that one day? That day we were supposed to cook Xander and Graeme's celebratory dinner? Erm, well, the day you volunteered to host it and roped me into helping?"
Wolf doesn't say anything at first. His smile is small. Then, "Yeah," he says on a loud, breathy exhale. "I didn't want to say anything. You looked like you'd been caught with your hand in the cookie jar. I didn't want to make things awkward between us."
"More awkward than they already were, you mean." I tuck my legs under me, letting the leather armchair cocoon me. The leather squeaks and creaks as my weight shifts. I curl my fingers into the thick, woolen blanket across my legs.
"Are things still awkward between us?"
My laugh bubbles out of my chest. "You're seriously asking me that after we spent the night together? I think it's safe to say there's no more barriers of awkward around us, Wolf."
His smile this time is genuine. "Good," he says, cheeks puffing as his muscles pull and tighten. The crows feet around his eyes crinkle and I wonder how on earth I could have ever thought his granite irises were cold and hard and untouchable.
"Good," I echo. My stomach tingles and I remember the line "Release the kraken!" from one of my favorite pirate movies, only this time, it's "Release the butterflies!" I snort, and belatedly realize I haven't shared my inside joke.
"What's funny?" Wolf asks.
Covering, I say, "You, me. Here." I wiggle my eyebrows in a pathetic attempt at seduction. "Alone."
He doesn't fall for it. Ugh, I really hate it when guys are intent on having a conversation that I don't want to have.
"So the whole time we were apart, there wasn't anyone else? If you were still under me, I mean." His cheeks pink. "You know what I mean," he mutters.
"Um." I press my lips together. "There were guys." I let that float for a minute, not sure how much detail he wants, not sure how much I plan to give him, not sure if any of it even matters anymore.
"Guys." Wolf swallows. "Okay." I can tell he's analyzing my sentence to death by the way his eyes dart to the floor.
"Not like, guys plural in a slutty way," I hasten to add. "Like, two guys. One was a guy in the building when I lived in France. Another was my photographer. He got the wrong idea when we were out at dinner a couple months ago in Venice."
He nods. "But it wasn't serious?"
I shake my head. "No. It's easy to think you're falling for someone when the circumstances are right. Good food, good music. Sometimes at the end of a good day it was easy to just...go with it. I guess as human beings we're programmed to want one more good thing, you know? Even after a perfect day, when everything has gone your way, you're still greedy for more. And it ends up souring the day, after all."
He nods. "I'm glad you...I'm glad you moved on."
I leave my blanket and phone on the chair, cross to his sofa, and crouch near his head. "Wolf, I didn't move on. Weren't you hearing me?" Incredulous, I reach out and brush his golden bangs off his forehead. "Boys," I mumble under my breath, just loud enough for him to hear me.
The truth was, ever since I first met him, I've been holding every man to this impregnable measuring stick that, if I'm being honest, is basically saying I'm comparing everyone to Wolf. And even though I love him, I'm not an idiot. I know there are men more handsome, men more rich, men more nice. And it used to matter to me that he wasn't the guy I would have picked for myself if I had the choice.
But time apart has made me realize something: I do have the choice. I've always had the choice. And even when it was the crappiest decision in the world, I chose him. I've always chosen him. And the thing is, I'd rather fight with him than with anyone else. I could spend the rest of my life fighting him. As long as we always made up and never went to bed angry.
"Wolf," I say softly, "What fucks us up the most in life is having a picture in our heads about how things are supposed to be, how we're supposed to be. I don't regret walking away from you, because I think I needed to figure that out for myself. But the way I feel about you can't be forgotten because of a kiss under the Eiffel Tower or a dinner where both participants were wine-soaked. So hear me when I say this, Wolf. I don't love you because you're rich. I don't love you because you have cute man-bangs that make hearts jump out of my eyes. I don't love you because you know my favorite donut or because you're such a wonderful, protective big brother to Graeme. And I definitely don't love you because you're nice, because you're quite honestly the most prickliest of all the hedgehogs I've ever metâ"
"You're ruining it," Wolf says with a laugh, kissing the tip of my nose.
"âWait! Let me finish!" I say, not bothering to hide my grouchy frown.
He groans, cups the sides of my face with his large palms and brings his nose against mine in a sweet Eskimo kiss. "Go on," he whispers, his breath hot against my lips.
Even though he's kind of squishing my cheeks together in what I'm sure is in unattractive fashion, I keep going. "I love you," I say again, "because of you being you. Just you."
And that's the honest truth. Time apart helped me see that I wasn't romanticizing the myth of the bad boy or waxing nostalgic for moments in the past that held so much promise, but were now hazy with memory, and maybe, just maybe, lost somewhere in my phone's Camera Roll.
His face has softened, and he looks impossibly young and boyish. His hands go slack and I wriggle free. He looks stunned and his eyes cloudy with emotion, like everything has added up and is two seconds away from brimming over.
"Am I still ruining it?" I ask cheekily.
Wolf laughs. "Come here, Mrs. Hedgehog," he says and scoops me into his arms. We fall against the armrest of the sofa. My back hits the cushion he'd been propping his feet on. His hair falls into his eyes again.
"Mrs. Hedgehog?" I raise one eyebrow at this.
"Mhm." His eyes twinkle. "One day. If you want to be."
One corner of my mouth goes up. I won't answer that question right now, but my heart has its answers already. "Merry Christmas, Wolf," I say instead, and for now, that's enough.
He smiles back. "I love you, Charlotte. Merry Christmas."
(And somewhere in the van der Waals house, the portrait of his ancestor smiles.)
part two is up! yahoo! I know it sounds totally weird to have Christmas chapters in the beginning of October but I just couldn't resist! I'm totally feeling Christmas spirit right now! And it doesn't help that all the stores have their displays and trees and stuff out so early, haha. anyway, hope you guys liked this chapter, and if you have any special requests, please drop them here, along with your feedback! :)