O' LADY MOON, rosalie hale

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It was true Genevieve had been forgetting things from time to time, the void of memories getting progressively bigger than when she was a child and had once caught herself forgetting Sirena Cohen. It happened one late February, three years apart from her disappearance, the incomplete thought tucked next to her in bed, holding itself by her arm as she scribbled down an essay for a class and the fresh tint blurred her flesh and her sweater's sleeve blue and her first instinct was to gasp, to put the notebook aside and feel her nose prickle in demand of her unconscious for being notoriously oblivious and her wrists hurt for writing for hours and the mirror's reflection over the room of the pink fabric a bit too big for her body as her friend liked to be hugged by her clothes in chilly nights so she wouldn't have to be sneezing all day like Genevieve did. And it was true she hadn't immediately lost her mind to it, because if only she knew, nobody in her surroundings would pity her.

The problem started when she could no longer keep her secrets behind her room's door and they slipped from her hands to meet the wooden flooring in a loud crack, like a bone breaking through skin, and a splatter of glass, like little stars that had taken the wrong turn off space for them to have ended at the first steps of the stairs. It was a sudden explosion, a Big Bang occurring inside her house, no one but her would have ever seen it coming.

"You're home." She stepped in the kitchen, body slightly slouched, weighted by her father's fast breathing beginning to calm and the light snores drifting from the room above, ignorant of her throat closing and the ringing in her right ear pushing the last of her buttons, "It's late."

Genevieve couldn't remember what it felt to not feel because she had been drowning herself since she recalled. She couldn't make heads or tails of anything beyond her dad's voice and the empty spot on his finger where a ring should've possessed it the same way his other half was attached to her mother's hand. It was at that point she realized, accidentally catching her tongue between her teeth, Nina Cherry deserved more than that; she had been brushing her hair, washing their laundry, kissing her goodnight, but most importantly not punishing her, or demanding something from her. She did not berate her, leave tears staining her face; she hadn't left her alone a single time in life. And still, as she stood in front of her dad, Genevieve savored the acid reflux of anger, of insolence, of having seen her mother starve her own self and sit quietly in bed at night picking at the skin of her lips instead of dancing or reading poetry or eating ice cream or watching a movie or, simply, living while her husband's message never lighted up her phone screen.

It didn't take her long to convince herself that the best thing was to let the waters flow and, over time, the river would carry away the blood. Somehow, some day. But. That—thing—had been bubbling consistently under the surface of Genevieve's skin for so long that it was only natural that she'd eventually explode with the pressure of it. She hadn't even noticed she was boiling alive, like the proverbial frog in the stewpot over the fire, until it was far too late to save herself. Or her dad, or her sleeping mom, or her silent neighbor and the ghost that followed her around.

"Why do you say it as if I was the only one coming at this hour?" Their eyes met, but she didn't wait for him to refute, to defend himself from the unmistakable, to say anything at all, "What are you doing awake this late? Fucking Sirena's mom?"

Her head pulsated, her hands were going sore inside the pockets of her pants, and something finally clicked in her dad's gaze, was it fear or the cold of night shaking his composure out of his body, she didn't care. She didn't feel like her usual self.

"Excuse me?" Genevieve hadn't noticed she had been so straightforward, so quick to spat venom to their feet, Minwoo couldn't even try to wash away the surprise off his face, mouth agape with incredulity, almost dropping his glass of water from hearing her.

"How old do you think I am?" The floor trembled. No, it wasn't the floor, it was her, she was trembling from head to toes. A sickening thud was coming up her chest, but she couldn't look, she could only keep spitting it all out, like vomit or a preach. "I'm not a child, I know how sex works and what an affair is, and I don't think I'm asking too much of you," a hiccup cut her words so she started again, "I've experienced it all, even a death that wasn't mine, because I had Sirena by my side and then I didn't, I stood alone until the rain erased her footprints and I couldn't speak after screaming and crying and gulping the lagoon's mud uselessly trying to at least grab the little bow she had wore that night because she thought I would like it, and—" Genevieve coughed hard enough she felt the force of it strike across her chest, but she didn't let her father take a step forward, she drew a long breath in that tasted like tears and kept going, "I know it's my fault you're cheating on mom, I brought you two together after all, but for God's sake, put your engagement ring back on before the sun comes out."

Genevieve expected him to deny it all, even if he had never done it before. Yet, sooner than later, he surrendered like he was used to, the same way he did when he argued with her mom over who didn't wash the dishes (it had been his turn and he forgot) or why couldn't they return things where they belonged (he once took a pair of scissors and left none at home). He just gave in as he had always done for the two women he loved the most.

"You knew?" His voice was low, like a whispered apology that wasn't quite that, because it sounded hurt and overcooked, as if it tasted wrong and he had bit into it out of curiosity long after he had fed her with it for months.

"Of course I knew," she huffed, a laugh perhaps, her lips tugged upwards yet her eyes stayed wild, irrecoverable of the need to ask the worst of all questions he could've pronounced, "Everybody knew." She held her fingers out, each of them recovering color as she relaxed her hands, but before she started calling out names she changed her mind, "Jesus, I can't think of a single person in town that doesn't."

Maybe she was half wrong. Maybe they were meant to only see half of each other's life and that was it. Maybe if she was a little bit kinder, the same way his gaze softened the longer he looked at her teary eyes, she would feel how he did and understand what he said in the quietest silence breaks and the loudest sounds he made when he arrived home earlier than the days he was absent to make it up for the two of them, for her mom and herself.

"Did you even tell her you got injured?" She pointed at his abdomen and the shape of a knot that stuck out under his shirt.

"No, because I'm not," he whispered, matching her tone, driving them back to where they had always fitted together, in between jokes and sorry smiles and careful steps towards the other until their shoulders brushed and they were just father and daughter again and nothing else, "I just got the flu."

Genevieve stared at him blankly, wondering if he really didn't know Charlie had sent her a message about the incident he had gotten himself in in the morning.

"I thought you knew how to use a gun."

"I know how to use a gun, who do you think I am? I even know how to hunt someone to the ends of the Earth." He claimed proudly.

"You don't seem like it." Genevieve turned around and reached for the doorknob. Twisting it, she gave him one last look, "'Night, dad."

Two words and they were fine. She forgave him one more time, like she was supposed to do, like a loyal dog would do to the mark of the aching hand of his carer only to not sleep in the cold outside a warm home for a night.