No, there were no answers outside. He turned his back to the window and looked around. It was a room full of books. That was all. He walked around the three walls, with built-in floor to ceiling shelves, running his fingers across the bumpy leather spines, some embossed with gold, and others dimmed with age. Answers lay within them, he was sure. But he wasn’t of a mind to sit down with the kind of history book full of battles and bravery which had captured his imagination as a child. His fingers stopped when they reached the wooden ladder on runners, which allowed access to the higher shelves.
How the hell was he meant to believe that what he felt for Indra waslove? He hadn’t uttered that word since his grandparents had died. He’d assumed his love had died with them. But was it still there, inside of him, needing to come out? Or was what he felt for Indra simply a combination of lust—that was there for sure—and a need to care for her, as he would anyone else for whom he felt responsible?
He closed his eyes but felt nothing but confusion. What was certain was what he felt for her was all-consuming. But was it love? Could he, hand on heart, tell her he loved her? Because he knew she could detect a lie at a hundred paces.
He glanced at the portrait of his father, which hung opposite the desk, between two windows. When he’d lived there, his mother’s portrait had been placed there. Trust his father to want to lay claim to the space as if it had beenhisfamily who’d lived there for centuries, not his wife’s. Not Sebastian’s mother’s. His father’s intense gaze seemed to look directly at him, accusing him of something.
He took a step towards him, refusing to be bullied by his portrait like the man had bullied him as a child. “What, Father? What would you have me do? You created this mess. To what end, hey?” He took another step, not breaking the stare with his father. But of course there was nothing. No answer, because life wasn’t like that. His eyes ranged over the portrait, from his father’s thick hair, which waved back from his elegant, patrician face, to his sensuous lips. He’d been a handsome man. And, Sebastian thought, a cruel one when it had come to his sons.
None of this helped him with the question of what love was. Did he love? Was he capable of love? Would he recognize it even if hewasin love?
With a frustrated grunt of anger, Sebastian turned and took his frustration out on the ladder, banging it to one side. It shot along the rails, slamming against a book which was projected above the others. The book crashed to the floor.
Sebastian sighed and bent to pick it up. He was about to replace it when something caught his eye. A bookmark poked out of the top. He looked at the cover. Poetry. He very much doubted it had belonged to his father who, like him, had no time for things like poetry and fiction. He put his finger in place of the bookmark and examined it. It was an old Victorian valentine’s card—its delicate lacy surround cut out to reveal a heart. He recognized the names on the inscription from the family bible. He turned it over in his hand. No doubt about it. It seemed some of his ancestors had been in love and didn’t suffer the same doubts as himself.
He sighed, weighing it gently in his hands before placing it back between the pages. He was about to return it to the empty space on the shelf when it occurred to him it must have been poking out to have been knocked off the shelf. Which meant someone must have been reading it recently. Indra? What had she been reading? He looked at the book’s cover once more and frowned. It was a collection of poetry, and not so old that it should contain a Victorian bookmark. He didn’t recognize the author’s name, but then, why would he? The last time he’d heard anything in rhyme would have been when he was a toddler.
He opened the book to the bookmarked page and glanced at the words. Like many modern poetry books, it was all white space and few words, but the words certainly caught his attention. They were visceral, dark, and yet also full of light.
“Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.”
Whoever Zora Heale Hurston was, she sure packed a punch with her words. He re-read the words, and that was his undoing. He didn’t have a romantic bone in his body and was certainly no appreciator of the words of poetry. He placed the book on the table and stepped away. But he couldn’t leave the words behind. They kept repeating like a mantra in his head.
“Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.”
He could feel the poet’s emotions deep in his bones, because it was exactly how he felt. A complex mix of pain and pleasure. He’d thought he’d been engaging with the world, but, in fact, he’d spent a lifetime hiding from it. Wasn’t it about time he stopped? And he knew, in that moment, that he could no longer deny the changes which had taken place in him. Because, whether he liked it or not, his feelings for Indra had transformed him. And he could no longer hide. Love had done that to him.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. He opened it to find Indra standing there. His heart raced, and he shot her a wide grin, unable to hide his newly found happiness.
“Indra!” He opened the door wide for her.
She returned his smile with a tentative smile. “You look happy.”
“Happy to see you.”
She cocked her head to one side as she studied his face. “I meant what I said about figuring out your emotions.”
“I know.”
She hesitated. “Can I come in? I have something I want to show you.”
“Please.”
She walked into the room, had a quick look around as if trying to figure out the source of the change in him and spotted the poetry book on the table.
“You’ve been reading a poetry book?”
“Not the whole book. Just a poem. A few lines from a poem to be precise.”
She nodded.
“So, you wanted to show me something?” he said.
She held out a piece of paper.
“I found a letter,” Indra said. She handed it to him. He looked first at the signature and it was as if his heart stopped. It was from his father.
“What the…?” he said, glancing at the beginning of the letter. He looked up at her with a puzzled frown. “It’s addressed to both of us.”