Waiting for the Flood (Spires, #2)

by Alexis Hall

You don’t really fall in love with a house. You fall in love with the life you could have in it.

Something strange happens to me sometimes behind my kitchen window. It’s as if my body forgets itself, and tries to make jokes without me.

I think I also like secret. The way it hinges on its central c, like a box opening. Or pod, enclosing itself always.

Whatever was going on had not precisely drawn a crowd—that wasn’t the sort of thing English people did—but various individuals had found occasion to wander in that direction on some coincidental business of their own.

We were good at building things out of sand.

Life is so full of rough edges—small tasks and expectations that scratch you bloody and remind you that you’re naked and alone.

“Thank you,” I said bravely, dropping the syllables cleanly, like marbles, and secretly full of the most pathetic pride imaginable. I had spoken to strangers.

But when he spoke, there was only warmth, deep as his eyes, and the velvet-rough edge of laughter. The sort of laughter I like best, laugher that isn’t really at anyone. Laughter that’s just there, for its own sake, like the touch of a friend, or a lover.

I stared at him. This man who would make a rational choice not to be annoyed with his colleagues, where I would simply marinate in bitter quiet and sip my inadequately brewed tea.

People don’t want to hurt each other; it’s just sometimes they forget. That’s what community is. It reminds us we’re all connected. You take a spoon for yourself because you know there’s never any spoons. But then you only have to think for a second about everybody else, and you put it right back.”

One of his colleagues shook his head. “What you are, mate, is an arsehole whisperer.”

“Here,” said Adam, “step where I step.” So I did, picking my way carefully after him, my footsteps cradled by his, somewhere beneath the flood.

“Oh, I don’t know anymore. I don’t know where love ends and habit begins.” “Who does?” She reached out and patted my arm. “But Edwin, you need to let someone fall in love with who you are now.”

The truth is, the English live for mildly extreme weather conditions. We are, after all, a nation who will call an inch of snow a snowpocalypse. And no matter how much you love what you do, there’s something irresistible about stolen days.

“Yes, it does. He destroyed everything with a single secret.” Actually, I hated that word. The c was a nail, driven jagged into a wall, waiting to catch at you and tear you skinless.

“You know, Edwin,” said Mrs. Chankseliani, “family is really just whoever sticks around.”