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“It looks like a gingerbread house assembled by a thoroughly mad child,” Page said. He took a puff from his cigarette and stepped a few paces to the side as if to survey the house from a different angle. “I love it.”
And so Leo went into the night, wrapped in a wool muffler that smelled of antiseptic soap and slow caresses by a rare wood fire, a reminder of an honest man who still wanted to keep him warm.
He thought, though, that he now understood the grinding, never ending cycle of trauma that could make death seem like the only option.
“I don’t think I can handle kindness,” Leo whispered, and James’s hand went still. “I’m not sure I can be unkind to you,” James said.
