We pulled into Corvallis a little past one-thirty, and had no trouble finding the diner. I’d selected this location because it was public enough Paul couldn’t attempt anything crazy, and I knew by 2pm the diner would be nearly empty; the lunch diners long gone, and it too early for the senior citizens (who adhered to an absurdly early eating schedule) to arrive for dinner. He parked into a diagonal parking space a block down from the diner. He looked nervous, and I felt nervous, but I tried not to show it.
“William.” I removed my seatbelt so I could look at him straight on. “I need you to stay here and wait for me.” Before he could object, I grabbed his hands in mine and continued, “Paul will recognize you and he isn’t particularly”—I bit my lip and searched for the right word—“fond of you.”
William’s face blazed. “I’ll bet he isn’t, but I’m not letting you go in there alone.” His jaw clenched and the words came out muffled. “Something could happen to you before I could get to you. I won’t allow it.”
I shot him a challenging look. “You won’t allow it?”
His face softened minutely when he spared me an apologetic smile. “I don’t want to sound like a dictator, but you have to be reasonable. There’s no telling what this Paul character”—his voice grew fiercer, while I concentrated on not smiling—“will do when he sees you after believing you were either dead or missing this past week, and there’s no way he’s going to let you out of there once you’re done telling your story of lies to him. No man could ever do that with the woman he loved.”
“Wait!” I held my hand up, my eyes bugging out. “You think Paul loves me?” Now this was too much—the smile burst through.
William glared as harshly as one could at the object of their affection. “I know he does,” he seethed, and from his intensity, I almost believed him. “Why do you think he’s gone to such extremes to find you?”
I contemplated that for a moment, thinking as well of the extremes William had gone through to find me, and while Paul’s efforts didn’t even register next to William’s centuries of devotions, they were still significant.
When I remained contemplative, William broke through, his tone flat. “He’s inside—in the far back booth beside the window facing the street.”
I’d expected the jealousy to return in his voice when he saw Paul, but I couldn’t detect any. He pulled me into a tight embrace before leaning back and grabbing my face between his hands. “You promise me, Bryn, that if I let you go in there alone,” he said, anxiety dancing across his eyes. “You will be out in less than thirty minutes.”
I nodded my head in agreement, surprised by how quickly he’d relented. Probably, because he knew I was right. Paul was not a fan of William’s, and his presence would only exacerbate a situation that was nearly impossible already.
“I’m not finished yet,” he informed me sharply when I reached back to open the door. “Can you swear to me that Paul Lowe will not hurt you—that he’ll not place a hand on you?” His voice was fierce, matching the emotion in his eyes.
I hesitated before I replied, not wanting to answer so quickly he thought I was merely appeasing him, but I was positive Paul would never hurt me intentionally. He was a good person after all; such a good person he’d assembled search parties to look for me when he’d not been convinced of my feigned death. Why would William feel so uneasy that Paul could hurt me in any way?
“I promise you.” I smiled at him reassuringly. “And I’ll be in and out in less than thirty minutes.”
“Go, then. I’ll be close by.” He grabbed me strongly to him again and embraced me, and then he let me go, just as sharply. His face was expressionless as I reached for the handle and swung the door open.
“Thirty minutes,” he reminded with one last fleeting look, and then his eyes charged ahead to where I could make out Paul in the window seat William identified.
I shut the door without another word and walked towards the diner. I was relieved when I pushed through the shiny chrome door and found the black and white tiled café— known for its one hundred different flavors of malts and half pound cheese-burgers—nearly empty.
My eyes searched through the diner, pretending I had no idea where the person I was meeting sat. My eyes moved nonchalantly to the string of booths along the window, making their way to the last one where I found Paul staring back at me.
His normally tanned complexion was ashen white, his eyes were wide with shock, and his hands were pressed flat into the laminate table. I shot him a quick smile, and before the hostess could greet me, I walked towards him as fast as I thought prudent. I’d been remiss in factoring in his likely state of surprise, and prayed he wouldn’t faint, scream, convulse, or any one of the other reactions appropriate given the situation.
“Bryn,” he mouthed, looking bewildered. He slid out from the shiny red booth as I approached. There were sweat marks where his hands had been planted over the laminate table.
“Is it really you?” he asked with astonishment once I was standing in front of him. Slivers of his tan complexion were starting to show through the whiteness now, and his face was forming into showings of elation.
I smiled shrewdly. “It’s me.”
“I knew it!” Paul exclaimed. He threw his arms around me, drawing me into a hug that nearly took my breath away. I patted his back, unable to fully join in his excitement of the reunion. His hold didn’t feel like it would come to an end anytime soon.
“Need . . . oxygen . . . Paul.” I tapped at his shoulder, attempting to sound as out of breath as my Immortal body was able.
“Oh, sorry.” He released me after one more tight squeeze. “Have a seat.” He motioned to the bench seat across from his.
I resisted the temptation to take a look at the occupant in the vintage Bronco a block down. I convinced myself that I’d only find a seething face glaring at Paul from the extra long embrace he’d just forced on me. I wished Paul would have picked a table in the back where William wouldn’t be tortured having to watch every play-by-play of our meeting.
Paul slid into his seat swiftly. The confident smile normally gracing his lips was replaced by one of pure exhilaration. “Wow, you look great,” he complimented. “Different, somehow, but still great.” His eyes scrutinized my face, as if trying to identify the change.
I’d been careless by not factoring in the impressive eye color change. “I got contacts,” I lied, sliding my eyes to the side so he couldn’t see the lie within them.
“Oh yeah, I like them. That’s not it though,” he continued, his eyes narrowing even more on my face. His head tilted to the side. “It’s something else . . . you’re glowing.” He settled on.
A flush was added to whatever glow Paul was referring to—the temptation to look back at the man a block down became impossible to reign in, knowing he was the reason for the glow. To preoccupy my eyes, I glanced needlessly at the neon-lit clock in the back above the jukebox. I already knew how much time I had left; twenty-five minutes and counting.
“What happened?” he asked, as he crossed his arms over the table and leaned forward. The stiff orange leather sleeves of his letterman’s jacket rustled in the process.
I’d practiced my speech and replayed it in my head several times this morning, so I was prepared. I was just opening my mouth to begin my oration when a waitress approached our table, her eyes barely glancing at us.
“What can I get you?” she asked huskily, and with an edge that suggested she resented the thousands of times she’s already had to ask this question in her life.
“Ladies first.” Paul gestured to me, with an expression on his face that led me to believe he thought himself quite chivalrous all the sudden.
“I’ll have a lemonade please.”
“I’ll have a chocolate toffee malt and”—he glanced over the laminated menu—“Would you share some chili-cheese fries with me?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, knowing my time limit would probably be up by the time they arr
ived.
The waitress scratched down our orders and left without another word. Two minutes had gone by.
Paul lifted his eyebrows in expectation, so I commenced, “I trust you, Paul. Do you know that?”
His eyes sparkled at my confession. He nodded.
“I came to see you today so I could tell you the truth, but I don’t want anyone else to know.” I fixed my face into a stone of graveness. “You cannot tell anyone I’m still alive.”
His nose wrinkled in confusion. “Why? I don’t understand. Your friends, the university, the community . . . everyone thinks you’re dead. They’re in pain, they’re mourning for you, and here you sit.” He threw his arms in accusation my direction. “Why would you put them through this? Why do you want to continue to put them through this?”
I interrupted before the frenzy in his voice continued its escalation. I was sure the hostess was already straining to listen in on our heated conversation as she stood behind the counter, feigning focus on rolling silverware into white dinner napkins.
“Shhhhhh!” I hissed at him. “Control yourself or I’m walking out that door right now,” I threatened through my teeth.
He took a couple deep breaths and the ruddiness in his cheeks—that had screamed its alarm as fast as an expensive car—started to dim. “Okay, I’m under control now.” He cracked his neck. “But please, explain.”
Content he wouldn’t pop a vein in his neck (at least immediately), I began.
“Everything just became too much—my past, school, life in general. I wasn’t who I wanted to be, or living the life I wanted to live.”
A twinge of hurt played at the corner of his mouth.
“I know it’s extreme, to say the least, but I needed a full break from everything and everyone. Changing schools, or taking up a hobby, or even intense counseling”—I said, mixing in a laugh to lighten the mood—“wouldn’t have been enough. I needed the opportunity to start a new life.”
“But you’re here with me,” Paul said quickly, leaning forward.
“And?” My eyebrows creased in confusion.
“You just said you needed a complete break from everyone and everything, but you’re here with me now.” His eyes were twirling with ribbons of hope.
I internally cursed at myself for not foreseeing this rebuttal from him. Leave it to Paul to find the silver lining.
“Why?” he urged, still eager.
Saving your life— is that reason enough for you? I thought acridly.
I couldn’t tell him the truth though, so I’d have to let him believe whatever he wanted. “I care about you, Paul.”
The look on his face broke my heart, because I knew I’d never be able to reciprocate that look. William had been more right about Paul’s feelings for me than I had. “I saw in the paper about all the search parties you had looking for me. I didn’t want you wasting your life looking for someone who doesn’t want to be found.” I had to look away from his face as the reason for my meeting registered—I was not here for the reason he’d hoped for.
I continued, with fifteen minutes left. “I respect you enough to tell you the truth. I owe you that.” He cringed and turned his head to stare out the window.
I was thankful for the interruption of the waitress returning. She placed a tall glass of lemonade in front of me and Paul’s malt in front of him. She padded away as quickly and silently as she’d arrived.
I took a long sip from the straw, stalling for a few more seconds before I could brave continuing, “This is the last time we’ll ever see each other. I came to say goodbye.” A knot was forming in my throat, making my words come out all ragged sounding. I hadn’t expected this to be so difficult, but I’d bet on the fact that Paul was nothing more than a friend . . . perhaps a friend with a crush. But as I saw a very human tear materialize in the corner of his eye, I knew how far off I’d been.
“You have to disband the search parties and stop looking for me. You’ve succeeded in your mission having found me alive as you suspected, so there’s really no need to continue.” The smile I tried to reassure him with felt ridiculous.
He brushed his hand quickly over his eyes before turning his head back to me.
“Succeeded?” His eyes narrowed in disbelief. “You call this a success?” His voice was magnifying with every syllable. “Sure, here you are—still kicking and breathing—but I will never see you again, and you’re telling me I can’t ever tell anyone the truth. Do I have this all right?” His head was shaking, and his hands were balled into trembling fists. He reminded me of the way Dr. Jekyll would look before convulsing into Mr. Hyde.
“You do,” I whispered, hoping to influence his volume with mine.
“Well . . . crap, Bryn!” His fists beat down on the table. The hostess’s eyes jumped to us. “I don’t know if wondering if you were decomposing at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, or believing this BS you’re feeding me now is worse.”
The harsh words he spoke were less furious, but more desperate, as if he was trying to hold onto something that could not be held.
“Paul, please,” I begged, eyeing the overly-curious spectators.
Our waitress appeared again—oblivious, or not caring about our explosive conversation—and set down a couple of appetizer plates and a steaming platter of chili-cheese fries.
Paul had a moment to gather a breath and decompress before the waitress left.
“What are you going to do?” he finally whispered, sounding defeated. Concern now colored his face.
For the first time since our meeting, I smiled with genuineness. Paul’s concern for my future, despite my crushing blow, touched me.
“Anything I want.” I smiled wistfully, knowing already what I wanted. “A fresh start.”
My momentary lapse into dreaminess alerted Paul. “Does this have anything to do with him?” The hints of a revelation were showing on his face. “Did he make you do this?” he asked, seething through clenched teeth.
“Who?” I questioned, keeping a level innocence in my tone.
He smirked at me. “You know who. I told you he was after you, Bryn—that he was a real creep,” he was shouting again, his voice breaking over every few words. “Why didn’t you listen to me?”
Now that he’d come to the conclusion for my rejection of him, he was not going to let it go. He was so certain there could be no other reason than William, as to why I would go through such extremes in my quest for a new life. It made me furious, and I almost questioned why I was going through such great efforts to protect this jealous, immature boy in front of me.
“You’re being ridiculous—I’m leaving.” I glared at him through the glassiness that had formed over my eyes.
“Leave then!” He fumed, thrusting his arms in the direction of the door.
At that moment, the waitress magically reappeared, a tall glass pitcher of lemonade in one hand. Oblivious to me exiting the booth, she reached the pitcher over the table to fill my empty glass. I continued to slide out and just as I turned to stand up, Paul lashed his arm across the table, grabbing my wrist.
“No, don’t go.” His arm also hit the waitress’s arm, sending the glass pitcher falling from her hands.
“Let me go!” I screamed at him, at the same time the pitcher came in contact with the table and shattered into hundreds of jagged pieces, spewing lemonade everywhere.
Neither Paul nor I were hardly aware of what was going on around us; we were only focused on glaring intently in each other’s eyes and not letting the other have their way.
“I mean it, Paul,” I warned, remembering my new strength. I wondered if it would stand its own against a man known for benching nearly three hundred pounds.
“Let me go,” I repeated. I pulled my wrist away from his hand with force this time, and to my surprise, it came out far easier than I’d expected. The downward pressure I employed when pulling against him sent my arm careening into the glass shards covering the table with unequivocal fo
rce. The table groaned its protest and I heard the splintering sound of particle board when my arm crashed into it.
“Ouch,” I whined, more as a knee-jerk reaction than actually due to any pain it had caused. I’d felt a quick shot of pain—what reminded me of when I was Mortal and when a nerve would suddenly make itself known through a quick, single shot of pain—noticeable, and not exactly pleasant, but certainly not anything to get worked up about.
I was busy shooting a final glare at Paul while launching myself out of the booth, when Paul’s eyes fell on my newly freed arm. He gasped. “Your arm . . . I’m sorry.” He turned his head to the shock-faced waitress. “Go grab a towel or something!”
I followed his petrified stare to my arm. There was blood—quite a bit of blood, actually—flowing from my arm. Wasn’t I an Immortal now? Didn’t this come with freedom from cuts, bruises, scraped knees, and BLOOD?
My arm began shaking as I carefully lifted it off the table, attempting to rotate it so I could examine the damage.
From out of nowhere, he was there.
“Bryn,” he said with controlled alarm.
His voice was all the healing my body would ever need; my oozing arm was instantly forgotten. William reached for my arm gently and pulled it to him. His button down shirt was already removed and was being skillfully wrapped around several deep gashes that were oozing crimson blood. “Are you alright?” he asked, trying to hide the worry in his voice. He finished wrapping my arm, and then raised his hands to my face. “Bryn?” His eyes were drowning in their worry.
“I’m alright,” my voice quivered. “It was an accident.”
As if being reminded of something, he spun around, keeping me behind him. “What the hell were you thinking?” The hateful venom carried to every corner of the café, and now all the employees and few remaining diners were staring at us with interest.
“William, please.” I grabbed his shoulder with my good arm, trying to turn him around so we could leave. But there was no moving the rock of muscle and anger standing guard in front of me.
Paul’s eyes released the shock that had clouded them as he moved his fixed stare from the lemonade and blood mixture to William. His eyes filled with a twisted pleasure, as if consoled in having been right about William being the reason for my extreme lifestyle change.
“So you are involved?” he accused, his eyes taunting. “Look what you’ve done to her.” He thrust his hands towards me, as if in explanation. “Isolated her from her friends and family, allowing everyone to believe she drowned—”
William jumped in, signaling towards the blood swimming over the table. “Look what you’ve done to her!” he shouted, his anger close to spilling over.
Paul’s eyes looked apologetically into mine. “I’m really sorry about that, Bryn. Really, I mean it.”
He turned his fierce eyes back to William before I could repeat that it had been an accident. “What you’ve done to her is far worse than anything I could ever—”
The pent-up anger boiled over, and William lunged at Paul, pushing him against the back wall. A few diners shot up in their seats, and I saw one of the bigger cooks from the kitchen make his way towards us. “That’s enough you guys, take it outside,” he threatened. “Or I’m calling the cops.”
Neither of them was listening. Thankfully, William had not pushed Paul harder than any other Mortal-strength shove, but the second Paul rebounded off the wall, he was charging towards William.
I lunged with my Immortal speed between the two, managing to stop Paul’s incoming force with my good arm and placing my bound up arm against William— knowing he would not advance.
Paul’s face covered in surprise—trying to process the speed or the strength, I wasn’t sure—but his eyes met mine with questioning bewilderment. William reached his arm protectively around me again, trying to adjust me out of Paul’s grasp.
“Wait . . . please, William.” I turned to him, reassuring him with a smile. He stopped trying to pull me behind him, though he kept his arm securely wrapped around my waist, ready to move me from harm’s way in an instant.
I looked into Paul’s face with renewed conviction, knowing with certainty if I was not successful in my mission today, he would be dead tomorrow. I couldn’t allow it. I had to convince him, against all odds now that he’d seen William.
I could almost feel his Mortal life slipping between my fingers.
“Paul,”—the arm that had stopped his charge moved to grab one of his hands—“Do you care for me?” I knew this was a low blow but I had no choice; I was grasping at anything to keep him alive.
His eyebrows hardened on William before he met my eyes. “You know I do,” he whispered, sounding ashamed.
I squeezed his hand. “Then will you swear to me you will do what I asked of you earlier?”
His eyes shot to the side and he started to shake his head violently. “No . . . no, I can’t do that, Bryn.”
I released his hand and reached for his face, turning it back to look into mine. I could feel William’s grip tightening around me even more. “Please,” I begged into Paul’s glassy eyes. I saw their resolve weaken before me, and celebrated an early victory. “Please—swear to me, Paul.”
He exhaled harshly and his shoulders slumped forward in defeat, but his eyes did not leave mine. “I swear to you, Bryn. I will not do anything to hurt you.” While his eyes remained fixed to mine, the last part he’d clearly intended for William’s ears.
“Thank you,” I whispered, as a wave of relief slipped over me. I’d saved Paul, and while I realized he would never fully comprehend what I’d done, it did not diminish my joy.
“Come on. It’s time to go,” William said urgently, pulling me with him as he moved towards the door.
I twisted my head around to Paul. “Take care.”
His face was blank, revealing none of the emotions that so commonly played across it. I’d hurt him—I was sure of that—but the hurt would melt away soon enough and he could go on living his life, and I found solace knowing this.
As William pulled open the door and led me through, carefully cradling my wounded arm in his, I heard a final, “Goodbye, Bryn.”
I flinched when the words hit my ears. They sounded lifeless.
Once we were on the sidewalk, William picked me up into his arms. “How’s your arm?” he asked, eyeing anxiously over my forearm wrapped in his make-shift bandage.
“Fine.” I lifted the arm, turning it over to examine it for myself. “Actually, better than fine. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.” I was surprised to see there wasn’t any blood soaking through the layers of William’s shirt. His skillful, tourniquet-like wrap had been extremely effective.
He opened the passenger side door with one hand, continuing to hold me in his other, and lifted me onto the bench seat of his Bronco. I took one final look at the hunched-over figure in the last window booth, and then William was in the driver’s seat beside me. The engine roared and we accelerated over the road; leaving behind one problem and heading in the direction of a far greater one. Of this, we were both certain.