Santi: The Devil's Pioneer

Chapter 52 - Talks of Matrimony

Emily felt the stress and tension pull on her as she listens to Emman constantly talk about getting married. He didn't even have a girlfriend, but he was adamant to have a partner. But at the same time, she felt pity for her twin. How depressing and heartaching it must have been for Santi to leave him. So soon and so far. She almost felt guilty for creating the rock that tore them apart.

Keyword: almost.

She returns to sipping her tea by the windowsill, thinking about the day she weds. She wasn't sure anybody special could exist just for her. She knew she was high maintenance. None of her ex-boyfriends could live up to her expectations of a boyfriend. Much more from a husband.

But that did not mean she was giving up on having her own wedding someday. She dreamed of parading in white, with the birds chirping on her ear, and tears cascading from the crowd. A day where all attention will definitely be on her.

Emman was smiling lazily on his phone when her eyes finally returned to his.

"Found your bride yet?" Emily asks.

"What do you mean," He stuffs his phone to his pocket, embarrassed and slightly abashed. "I plan on looking for her shortly. Any day now, maybe. Why? Do you maybe want to come? Do you have any specific plans in mind?" He turns to her, pressing his fingers against the leather surface of the couch.

Her lips pressed together and his brows furrowed. "A party, naturally. You always have your way with people. Just like our tenth birthday bash. Besides, I always celebrate my spontaneous aging on the twenty-second of March, as if every day in between does not slowly age me in the meanwhile. Nor does the fact that it's a week past our actual birth dates."

Emman rolled his eyes heavenward.

"I never forget anything, my dear sister."

She lifted an eyebrow and once more glanced down at him. He wrinkled his nose at the paper he held in one hand, and folded it closed before tossing it onto the low table beside their shared coffee table.

"Would you prefer we send out invitations now, or closer to the happy date? Perhaps tomorrow would be best. There's quite a bit to plan and I don't want to risk neglecting to invite anyone." Emily mocks causing Emman to flee the room.

"Mock all you want, Em. We're not getting any younger. There's no reason to wait." He shouts back.

Her throat swelled, dreading the time she set for herself. "True."

"Although," He adds, sneaking back to the room, settling back so his head was once more propped on her right thigh, "One would imagine that after this many years, all of my friends and neighbors know they are invited to the annual celebration of my birth."

Her chest felt suddenly hollow.

"Our birth," She corrected. "And once again, true."

She returned her gaze to her book, the title a golden blur against husky brown leather. "It is, after all, the only party we all look forward to every year. No one else has a birthday, or a christening, or a ball. Or a wedding." He made a scoffing noise in the back of his throat and she knew that he had, indeed, forgotten. And her certain course of happiness was in peril.

As she waited for Susan's carriage to properly come to a halt, Emily finally accepted defeat and began to do the house chores herself, seeing her brother as of no help.

While he did mention marriage as a possible option for his future, and he was probably more courteous than usual, he had not linked Emman's remarks. True, there was a time in the gardens when she had purposefully placed her foot where the walkway dipped down, swayed into him, and he had caught her and held her for what she thought was an unnecessary amount of time.

When she had him come up to her room after breakfast one morning to provide his advice on which outfit she should wear to his party, his whiskey eyes had darkened. He had pointed to the dark green gown she had worn for Peter's Christmas party and declared it his favorite, despite her offer to model them.

"It brings out your eyes," he had said, and she had directed her eyes to his in the hopes he would say more about her appearance. Instead, he stated his intention to wear a green waistcoat so they could match.

He had lingered, though. He rested his shoulder against her doorway and watched her put away the three dresses she had laid out, his lips curled at the ends in a fond smile. When she moved to the doorway he did not shift his posture; she had been forced to brush against him to leave her room. His body was surprisingly tight, as if his skin was not quite big enough to hold in his insides. If she had applied more force, he might have burst.