The part of her job that Rose hated most was shelving books. It was tedious, and reading sideways gave her a headache. Yet, that day, she found herself preferring it to sitting at the checkout desk for hours with nothing to do but let her mind wander. Checking out books and answering the various questions directed at her offered little in the way of distraction. It had been almost a decade since the need to be mentally present had presented itself during her workday. Unfortunately, her skill was such that she soon found herself out of books and sitting back behind the desk with nothing to do but think. Which was the last thing she wanted to do.
For weeks, she had avoided letting her mind linger too long on her relationship with Cal. The possibility that her feelings for him might go deeper than the tenuous friendship they had created was not something she wanted to entertain. In fact, just the thought of it terrified her.
Fall, 1920
It seemed like he'd finally figured out the secret of living the life of a simple wanderer, but what he hadn't anticipated were the flashbacks. They'd started a few weeks after his great escape—as he liked to think of it—and gradually built in intensity. At first, they came in the form of brief flashes, but by the time he arrived in L.A., he was experiencing full scale visual and auditory hallucinations that came sometimes with warning, but all too often without. Usually something would act as a trigger, but as much as he tried to predict them, not once was he ever able to correctly guess what would bring on a flashback and what wouldn't. He was desperately ashamed of the outbursts that would accompany each one. For a man who had spent the entirety of his adult life obsessed with having complete control over everything and everyone he possibly could, the sudden loss of control over his own body and mind was almost too much to bear.
When he decided to take a walk to acclimate himself to the city before deciding what to do next, he had no inkling of what was in store...
*****
Rose's daydream was shattered by the sound of men yelling. Through the library's glass doors, she could see two men engaged in a scuffle. A dark-haired man in travel-worn clothes was on the losing end. Suddenly, the doors flew open and he fell onto the floor in front of Rose. He was covering his face with his arms and screaming hysterically, his words a stream of incoherence. She didn't realize she was moving until she after she had already reached him, and later when she tried to figure out why she had rushed to his side so quickly she was forced to admit it was because he'd reminded her of Jack. Something about his uncombed, longish hair and his obvious status as a traveler...
Summer, 1923
"Miss?"
"Huh—what?"
The older woman who had spoken pursed her lips. "I asked if you knew where the natural history section is."
"Oh." Rose's cheeks burned slightly. See where thinking gets you? "It's right back there on the left," she said, pointing to the desired section. The woman walked away without another word. Rose took a deep breath. I am going to stay alert. I am not going to let myself do that again.
Cal, on the other hand, almost never stopped himself from thinking. No matter how many changes for the better he had gone through in the years since he'd dropped out of the world, refusing himself an indulgence was not something he had learned to do. Nor did he want to. Why should he? He'd given up everything else—well, almost everything. He still had access to most of his money, though there was a lot his father had made sure he couldn't touch—and he felt he was entitled to his thoughts. However ill-advised and—he kept reminding himself—delusional they might be.
But what's so delusional about it? he wondered. Who does she spend most of her time with?
Did you ever think that maybe she feels bad for you? The Emperor has no sanity? I mean, come on. Your first day together, she talked you out of a hallucination and then she fed you and let you take a nap in her apartment because you didn't have anywhere else to go.
Doesn't mean she feels bad for me now. It's been three years, after all.
Fall, 1920
He stood awkwardly just outside Rose's kitchen. "Um...I'm sorry about—"
"Sorry? About what?" she asked, as if nothing had happened.
He stared at her. I thought I was the crazy one. "You know, the—"
She handed him a cup of tea. "I don't know what you're talking about." He didn't know how or why she did it. It was as if she knew how much trouble he was having dealing with his new, fragile state and was saving him from having to explain it. "Sit," she commanded. He sat. "Drink." He did. The tea tasted like—he wasn't sure what, but he liked it.
And so it had begun.
Sipping tea with him that night, it never occurred to either of them that they would eventually form a close bond. Rose just knew she couldn't send him away—not yet, at least. She didn't trust him, but she didn't fear him, either. He was clearly lost, and she couldn't bring herself to pretend she didn't see it.