The Goldfinch Multimuse

I wear bespoke suits. I swim twice a week. I socialize with people I can’t stand. I’m relaxed, personable. I don’t indulge in self pity. It’s true what I read, “We’re so accustomed to disguise ourselves to others, that in the end we become disguised to ourselves.”

he knows he does not love kitsey. at least not in the way he knows he should. he knows he does not love pippa either. not truly. he may deny these things until his throat scrapes itself raw, but he himself knows the truth. he always has. even as a little kid tucked away in a new york apartment with parents who did not love one another as they should.

and though he may pretend that he does not know these things about himself, theo has never been stupid

he knows clear as day that the only times he had ever felt at home since the day his mother died was when he was in vegas. home was curled up in his bed that was made for one but always fit two. and theo knows exactly why the only time the nightmares seemed to leave him was when a pair of scrawny were arms wrapped around his waist and a nose was pressed to the back of his neck.

so when kitsey says to him, eyes brimming with tears and hands clasped neatly in her lap, “i don’t expect you to know what it feels like to be in love with the wrong person” he can’t help but let a sad smile break across his face.

because he has known. theo has known that feeling since he was fourteen years old. he’s known since that first night he’d woken with his sheets clinging to his sweaty skin and panic rattling in his chest. the only thing that seemed to drag him back to reality was gentle murmur of “potter” in his ear and the hands pulling him closer to the warmth of the boy behind him. and as he fell asleep theo watched moon through the blinds. bright in the sky and the only light for miles and miles in the empty desert.

« The first time he'd turned in bed and draped an arm over my waist, I lay there half- asleep for a moment, not knowing what to do: staring at my old socks on the floor, empty beer bottles, my paperbacked copy of The Red Badge of Courage.

At last - embarrassed - faked a yawn and tried to roll away, but instead he sighed and pulled me closer, with a sleepy, snuggling motion. Ssh, Potter, he whispered, into the back of my neck. Is only me. It was weird. Was it weird? It was; and it wasn't.

I'd fallen back to sleep shortly after, lulled by his bitter, beery unwashed smell and his breath easy in my ear. I was aware I couldn't explain it without making it sound like more than it was.

On nights when I woke strangled with fear there he was, catching me when I started up terrified from the bed, pulling me back down in the covers beside him, muttering in nonsense Polish, his voice throaty and strange with sleep.

We'd drowse off in each other's arms, listening to music from my iPod (Thelonious Monk, the Velvet Underground, music my mother had liked) and sometimes wake clutching each other like castaways or much younger children. »