For as long as I can remember, a journal has been my escape. Even as a girl, I had a diary, in which I spilled my deepest feelings onto a crisp white sheet of paper. It has become a habit, a ritual almost.
Tonight I feel reservations about writing. The thing I most need to commit to paper, is not mine to tell. Am I breaking a confidence by writing this? I know that no-one will ever read what I write between these pages, but I still feel I don't know.
Nicholas has become important to me, and I think he would be hurt if he knew was writing anything about him. But writing is the way I think, the way I sort out my feelings, my emotions. I need to write. Like I need to breathe.
The room Nick chose is close to mine. I'm not reading anything into that except this - my room is also a long way from Derek's. Coincidence? Not likely.
I've been staring at this page for the longest time. Am I betraying a trust? I'd like to talk to Philip about this, he's such a good sounding board, and he's got the ability to listen, unlike most men. But I promised Nicholas I wouldn't.
I had this dog once, when I was young, gorgeous, brown eyes that made you melt inside. The dog, I mean. My younger brother found him in the road one day and brought him home. He was half starving, whimpering, wouldn't trust anyone. I remember trying to pet him, and he would shy away, any time I even got close to him at first. That look in his eyes
Last night, then. I woke up, desperate for a drink. There's something about big old houses, you either freeze or it's so hot you feel like you can't breathe. No air conditioning. Maybe Philip could help out, I hear he's good with windows. Okay, enough procrastinating. Why am I reluctant to write about what happened? It's not as if I'm making it happen by writing it down, it did happen.
Anyway, I was thirsty. So, I went downstairs. There was a light on in the kitchen, really dim. I walked in, and at first I thought that someone had just forgotten to turn it off. But then I heard a noise. Nicholas sat on the floor, next to the open fridge, a beer in one hand. The light from the fridge illuminated his face. He looked almost dead, his face completely pale. In fact, I would have thought he was dead if not for the act that he lifted his beer up to his mouth and took a long swallow. The whole time, he never blinked. I did notice his hand shaking slightly, though, and that look in his eyes, it was our little dog all over again.
I remember coughing, wanting him to know I was there, feeling uncomfortable with the spying. Suddenly he was on his feet and turning away from me, his pose tense, alert. Yet another side to him I hadn't seen before, the Seal side - quick, ready for action. I said something completely stupid to him, like, I wanted a drink. He nodded, still turned away from me.
I grabbed a can of coke and left quickly. I knew that posture. I knew it well enough
to know that he needed to be alone.
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