Finch.
15.
A week has passed, which inevitably leaves us all with thirty seven days until the wedding. Really, just over a month. I keep thinking about what the whole scene will look like and it isn’t very nice.
All I can think of is my sister walking down the isle while I drip with salt and Eleanor remains motionless in her seat. And the preacher will say “Does anyone object?” and although inside I will scream yes I will remain silent. And we will both remain silent as we let fate run its course. It is not my place nor yours. I have to keep taking up my own advice. It’s terrifying. It’s so hard to believe one’s own words.
“Little brother, aren’t you hungry?” Norah is asking. I rub my eyes and take a bite of my eggs.
“Only a little,” I respond, feeling despondent.
“Eat more, you’re as thin as anything,” she says, then kisses Matthew’s cheek. Her Matthew.
“Mattie, Mattie, little Mattie.”
Eleanor sits across the table, eating a peach with a fork. She keeps her eyes down on the table, careful not to watch anyone. The way the sun is coming through the window and hitting her face is perfect. I can see each blond eyelash on her lid. I smile weakly.
“Ellie, deary, you sure you don’t want anything else?” I really think Norah loves to play the accommodating hostess. I stifle a laugh.
“No, I’m not hungry, thank you,” Birdie replies, quickly and quietly, still stabbing at her fruit. Matthew looks up from the paper, stares at her. I want to be sick, but I am not.
“Hey, Nick, could you come here?” William calls from the living room.
I nod and stand, walk over to him as he sits on the green couch.
“What is it?” I ask.
He puts a hand in my hair, and I think he will kiss me but he doesn’t.
“Stop worrying. Everything is fine.”
“I’d like to believe you, I would. But I can’t.”
“Can you really see him hurting her?” William is whispering now in my ear and I look over to the both of them at the kitchen table. It doesn’t look like it, but Matthew Fletcher never seemed to look like the type to hurt anyway.
“I suppose not. That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Look at it this way. Do you see the way Matthew looks at your sister?” William continues.
“Yes.”
“Can you see that he loves her?”
I don’t know how to respond. I want to say no, but I respond with the truth.
“I think so.”
“If he is capable of loving her, he is not capable of hurting something she loves.”
“If you believe so,” I answer.
For there is a difference to me.
“I do believe so. Can you trust me Nicholas?”
No.
All I can think of is my sister walking down the isle while I drip with salt and Eleanor remains motionless in her seat. And the preacher will say “Does anyone object?” and although inside I will scream yes I will remain silent. And we will both remain silent as we let fate run its course. It is not my place nor yours. I have to keep taking up my own advice. It’s terrifying. It’s so hard to believe one’s own words.
“Little brother, aren’t you hungry?” Norah is asking. I rub my eyes and take a bite of my eggs.
“Only a little,” I respond, feeling despondent.
“Eat more, you’re as thin as anything,” she says, then kisses Matthew’s cheek. Her Matthew.
“Mattie, Mattie, little Mattie.”
Eleanor sits across the table, eating a peach with a fork. She keeps her eyes down on the table, careful not to watch anyone. The way the sun is coming through the window and hitting her face is perfect. I can see each blond eyelash on her lid. I smile weakly.
“Ellie, deary, you sure you don’t want anything else?” I really think Norah loves to play the accommodating hostess. I stifle a laugh.
“No, I’m not hungry, thank you,” Birdie replies, quickly and quietly, still stabbing at her fruit. Matthew looks up from the paper, stares at her. I want to be sick, but I am not.
“Hey, Nick, could you come here?” William calls from the living room.
I nod and stand, walk over to him as he sits on the green couch.
“What is it?” I ask.
He puts a hand in my hair, and I think he will kiss me but he doesn’t.
“Stop worrying. Everything is fine.”
“I’d like to believe you, I would. But I can’t.”
“Can you really see him hurting her?” William is whispering now in my ear and I look over to the both of them at the kitchen table. It doesn’t look like it, but Matthew Fletcher never seemed to look like the type to hurt anyway.
“I suppose not. That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Look at it this way. Do you see the way Matthew looks at your sister?” William continues.
“Yes.”
“Can you see that he loves her?”
I don’t know how to respond. I want to say no, but I respond with the truth.
“I think so.”
“If he is capable of loving her, he is not capable of hurting something she loves.”
“If you believe so,” I answer.
For there is a difference to me.
“I do believe so. Can you trust me Nicholas?”
No.