The King
Page 30
“What do you want?” Kingsley’s eyes fluttered open again. He saw Søren waist-deep in the water. Søren grabbed Kingsley by the shirt and backed against the edge of the pool.
“I want you to live.”
“That makes one of us.” Kingsley tried to pass out again, but Søren shook him awake once more.
“Are you hearing anything I’m saying?”
“I hear you.” Finally Kingsley had the strength to open his eyes and keep them open. He saw Søren again, saw his face. He looked angry and scared, almost human. He had his clerics on again, his white collar. “Why are you wearing that?”
“I’m a priest, remember? How many brain cells did you kill tonight?”
“Not enough of them.”
A wave of nausea passed through him. He coughed again, and Søren hauled him up and over the edge of the pool. Into a large white towel, Kingsley threw up.
“Get it all out,” Søren said calmly. Kingsley felt a hand on his back, rubbing the heaving muscles. He wasn’t drunk enough to be sick from the alcohol. The dream had done it to him.
Kingsley’s body complied with the order. For what felt like eternity, he threw up again and again. Søren held his hair back, rubbed his shoulders, offered encouragements that Kingsley could barely hear over the sound of his own wrenching sickness.
Finally Kingsley stopped. He knew better than to move, lest he get sick again. He shivered and took shallow breaths.
“You threw me in the pool?” Kingsley asked when the nausea finally passed.
“You were screaming and thrashing. I couldn’t get you to wake up.”
“Bad dream,” Kingsley whispered. “I have them sometimes.”
Kingsley pulled away from Søren and sat on the steps that led into the pool. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the water that surrounded him. Water. Only water. It wouldn’t hurt him. Nothing here would hurt him. Not even Søren. Not anymore.
“Why were you drinking tonight?” Søren asked, standing in front of him. He didn’t seem to mind that he was fully dressed in his clerics and soaked to the skin. If Kingsley passed out and fell forward, Søren’s chest would break his fall.
“Same reason I drink every night.”
“Which is?”
“It helps me sleep.”
“A sleeping pill would help you sleep. Tell me the truth.”
Kingsley raked his fingers through his wet hair, slicking it back. He breathed into his hands before looking at Søren with a half smile.
“You don’t want to know.” He shook his head. “You think you do, but you don’t.”
“I know I don’t want to know,” Søren said. “But you need to tell me.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because I care.”
“That’s a tautology. You like the word? I remember philosophy class at St. Ignatius.” Kingsley released a weary, mirthless laugh.
“I care about you, because I care about you is a fact.”
“You don’t give a shit about me. I took her back to France alone.”
“I offered to go with you, and you said no. You didn’t want me with you.”
“You let me go, and you forgot all about me.”
“I never forgot about you.”
“You did. You let me go to France and you forgot—”
“I never forgot you.” Søren shouted the words. They echoed off the tile floor, off the walls, and slammed into Kingsley like a fist, sobering him up instantly. He’d never heard Søren raise his voice like that. Ever.
Kingsley smiled tiredly.
“Now you are yelling at me.”
“You want me to yell at you? Fine. I will yell at you, Kingsley. Maybe if I yell, you’ll finally hear me. I never left you. And when you went back to France, I tried to find you.”
“You tried to find me?” Kingsley’s eyes slowly focused on Søren’s face. “When?”
“I waited for you to come back to school. When you didn’t, I went to find you. I left two days after the semester ended. I didn’t even tell my own sisters I was leaving the country. I packed, ran one very important errand and left for Europe. I went to Paris, Lyon, Marseilles—every city you ever told me you’d visited in France. I went to your old neighborhood. I found your father’s former business partner. I hunted down every single fucking Boissonneault in France.”
Kingsley blinked. Søren said “fucking”? He must be furious.
“You looked for me?” Kingsley repeated, not quite able to believe Søren’s words.
“I looked everywhere for you. I looked for you before I even looked for my own mother whom I hadn’t seen since I was five years old.”
“You looked for me,” Kingsley said again. This time it wasn’t a question.
“And I didn’t find you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you looked for me?” Kingsley asked.
“What does it matter?” Søren was quiet now, but his voice still resonated. “I didn’t find you.”
“It doesn’t matter that you didn’t find me.” Kingsley shook his head. “It matters that you looked.”
“After six weeks of searching in five different countries, I gave up,” Søren said. “I assumed you were hiding because you’d didn’t want me to find you. I took it as a sign from God that I was supposed to become a priest like I’d dreamed of since I was fourteen. My last and final prayer to God the night before I entered seminary in Rome was, ‘God, if this is not your will for me to become a priest, then let me find him tonight.’ I didn’t find you. I became a priest. And you...”
“I want you to live.”
“That makes one of us.” Kingsley tried to pass out again, but Søren shook him awake once more.
“Are you hearing anything I’m saying?”
“I hear you.” Finally Kingsley had the strength to open his eyes and keep them open. He saw Søren again, saw his face. He looked angry and scared, almost human. He had his clerics on again, his white collar. “Why are you wearing that?”
“I’m a priest, remember? How many brain cells did you kill tonight?”
“Not enough of them.”
A wave of nausea passed through him. He coughed again, and Søren hauled him up and over the edge of the pool. Into a large white towel, Kingsley threw up.
“Get it all out,” Søren said calmly. Kingsley felt a hand on his back, rubbing the heaving muscles. He wasn’t drunk enough to be sick from the alcohol. The dream had done it to him.
Kingsley’s body complied with the order. For what felt like eternity, he threw up again and again. Søren held his hair back, rubbed his shoulders, offered encouragements that Kingsley could barely hear over the sound of his own wrenching sickness.
Finally Kingsley stopped. He knew better than to move, lest he get sick again. He shivered and took shallow breaths.
“You threw me in the pool?” Kingsley asked when the nausea finally passed.
“You were screaming and thrashing. I couldn’t get you to wake up.”
“Bad dream,” Kingsley whispered. “I have them sometimes.”
Kingsley pulled away from Søren and sat on the steps that led into the pool. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the water that surrounded him. Water. Only water. It wouldn’t hurt him. Nothing here would hurt him. Not even Søren. Not anymore.
“Why were you drinking tonight?” Søren asked, standing in front of him. He didn’t seem to mind that he was fully dressed in his clerics and soaked to the skin. If Kingsley passed out and fell forward, Søren’s chest would break his fall.
“Same reason I drink every night.”
“Which is?”
“It helps me sleep.”
“A sleeping pill would help you sleep. Tell me the truth.”
Kingsley raked his fingers through his wet hair, slicking it back. He breathed into his hands before looking at Søren with a half smile.
“You don’t want to know.” He shook his head. “You think you do, but you don’t.”
“I know I don’t want to know,” Søren said. “But you need to tell me.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because I care.”
“That’s a tautology. You like the word? I remember philosophy class at St. Ignatius.” Kingsley released a weary, mirthless laugh.
“I care about you, because I care about you is a fact.”
“You don’t give a shit about me. I took her back to France alone.”
“I offered to go with you, and you said no. You didn’t want me with you.”
“You let me go, and you forgot all about me.”
“I never forgot about you.”
“You did. You let me go to France and you forgot—”
“I never forgot you.” Søren shouted the words. They echoed off the tile floor, off the walls, and slammed into Kingsley like a fist, sobering him up instantly. He’d never heard Søren raise his voice like that. Ever.
Kingsley smiled tiredly.
“Now you are yelling at me.”
“You want me to yell at you? Fine. I will yell at you, Kingsley. Maybe if I yell, you’ll finally hear me. I never left you. And when you went back to France, I tried to find you.”
“You tried to find me?” Kingsley’s eyes slowly focused on Søren’s face. “When?”
“I waited for you to come back to school. When you didn’t, I went to find you. I left two days after the semester ended. I didn’t even tell my own sisters I was leaving the country. I packed, ran one very important errand and left for Europe. I went to Paris, Lyon, Marseilles—every city you ever told me you’d visited in France. I went to your old neighborhood. I found your father’s former business partner. I hunted down every single fucking Boissonneault in France.”
Kingsley blinked. Søren said “fucking”? He must be furious.
“You looked for me?” Kingsley repeated, not quite able to believe Søren’s words.
“I looked everywhere for you. I looked for you before I even looked for my own mother whom I hadn’t seen since I was five years old.”
“You looked for me,” Kingsley said again. This time it wasn’t a question.
“And I didn’t find you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you looked for me?” Kingsley asked.
“What does it matter?” Søren was quiet now, but his voice still resonated. “I didn’t find you.”
“It doesn’t matter that you didn’t find me.” Kingsley shook his head. “It matters that you looked.”
“After six weeks of searching in five different countries, I gave up,” Søren said. “I assumed you were hiding because you’d didn’t want me to find you. I took it as a sign from God that I was supposed to become a priest like I’d dreamed of since I was fourteen. My last and final prayer to God the night before I entered seminary in Rome was, ‘God, if this is not your will for me to become a priest, then let me find him tonight.’ I didn’t find you. I became a priest. And you...”
