I ran my hand up his side, settling it over his heart. I never thought I’d touch him again, but here I was, pressing my flesh to his, pretending away the disaster I’d made of things since I’d left him.
However, Patrick was glaring at me, whipping me back to reality. “I know you hate me for what I did to him, but if I told you why I did it—the entire truth start to finish—you’d probably hate me more. So please, just give me some time alone with him?”
He scoffed the carpet with the toe of his shoe. “Let’s just hope you can’t break the same heart twice.”
Taking this as his round-about concession to let me stay where I was, I didn’t follow him when he left the room.
Heaven couldn’t have been this divine. Laying curled in the crux of William’s arm, my body running the length of his, feeling the heat of his body pass through our clothing, passing time with the rise and fall of his chest. Even when I’d brainwashed myself into believing I’d get to spend my life with him, I’d never taken any time with him for granted, but now, after coming to terms with the fact that I’d never see him again—let alone touch him with any kind of intimacy—this was utopia in the purest sense of the word. I didn’t let myself acknowledge that this would all be over, sooner probably rather than later; I simply couldn’t. I was certain if I would have let the realization that I would have to say goodbye to him again—in the most final kind of way—it would have sent me into a sickness there would be no coming back from.
So I’d emptied my mind of nothing but our reunion and willed the seconds to pass like hours and somewhere along the way, it had actually worked. I barely knew which way was up and down, let alone what time or day it was. An eternity could have passed as easily as an hour had. Bittersweet moments like this had a special kind of way of screwing with time . . . not to mention your heart.
A soft trio of knocks was the first outside stimuli to shake me from my feverish case of William hypnosis.
“Knock, knock.” Patrick’s voice emitted through the closed door. “You in there, Bryn?”
I considered not answering, hoping he’d leave, but Patrick wasn’t the kind of guy who ever left—especially if you wanted him to. “Yeah,” I whispered, as if William was sleeping and I could wake him. “You can come in.”
The door swung open, followed by Patrick’s head peeking past it. “I’ve got some of Mrs. Heinrich’s cherry danishes and some watered down coffee from the convenience store in town.” He shook a brown paper bag dotted with dark spots of butter leaking through. “You want some?”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I said, reluctantly sitting up in bed. My body ached from the separation. “What day is it?”
Patrick raised his brows, handing me a cardboard cup of coffee. “Two days later than it was when you first entered this room. Have you left his side to check on your boyfriend down the hall? Your boyfriend who I was really happy was a Mortal because I knew he would someday die—if I didn’t kill him first.”
I shook my head, popping the mouthpiece of the cup back, taking a drink—it was worse than I’d anticipated, but still good. For me, coffee was kind of like pizza—even when you got a bad piece, it was still pretty good. I looked back at William, his face peaceful, gorgeous as usual, and slowly coming back to its normal color and texture.
Patrick leaned against the windowsill across from me, dropping the danishes on the nightstand. “Okay, so I’m just going to say this, get it out of my system, so I don’t have to talk about it anymore.” Whenever Patrick’s face was wrinkled as it was now, I knew things were going to get serious. I’d had a lot of experience with this expression as of late. “I’m not going to pretend to understand this sudden fixation you have with William again. I’m not sure if you like playing nursemaid or are doing this out of guilt or are just plain crazy, and I don’t care.” He ran his hands through his hair, looking like he was searching for the right words. “That’s not true, I do care, actually. But I guess my point is that it’s not really any of my business, as much as I’d like to make it so.”
“Beating around the bush doesn’t become you,” I interrupted, getting a bit of pleasure from experiencing him scrambling for the right words.
He manufactured a smile. “Fine—point blank—here’s what I’m trying to say. Do you still care for him?”
“Of course I do,” I answered, before immediately experiencing one of those deer-in-the-headlights moments.
I felt his eyes penetrating me, trying to figure something out. I preoccupied myself by fishing a gooey tyrof from the bag.
“And vagueness doesn’t become you, sweetheart,” he said finally, still searching me, going deep to unearth my secret. “You know what I mean. Do you still care for him?”
I took a bite, chewing slowly. This answer was as impossible to answer unemotionally as it was for me to feel unemotional about it. “That’s none of your business,” I said, looking down.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said, crossing his arms. “It’s just nice to know we’re on the same page.”
“We’re never on the same page,” I mumbled into my cup.
“So, I don’t have the first clue why you’re acting this way and, quite frankly, I don’t want to have one,” he said, before launching into a tyrof, annihilating half of it with one bite. “You’re the kind of mystery that drives men to insanity trying to figure out.” His words were muffled from the gob of dough and cherry turning over in his mouth. “Alright, so I’m taking off my protective brother hat and putting on my instructor one.” He tossed aside the non-existent ball-cap on his head, replacing it with what I imagined to be a top hat from the way he mimed running his fingers around the bill.
“Super.” I didn’t hide my lack of enthusiasm as I nibbled off another bite.
“So you said you can feel something before your gift manifests . . . when did you figure this out?” he asked evenly.
“Given my lack of social outlet as of late, I’ve had plenty of time for thinking,” I began, setting my tyrof and coffee down—neither could win the battle for my attention with the man lying beside me. “I’ve been racking my brain, trying to come up with similarities or differences or anything that could help us figure this cursed thing out.” I ran my hands down the length of my body. “And then a few days ago, I got that tingling-numb feeling—just barely a hint of it—but it was enough. It sparked my memory enough to know I’d felt the same thing, at about a hundred times the wattage”—I squinted from the word choicem the w@“those two times before.”
“What were you doing,” he asked, setting his coffee aside, “when you felt the tingling touch of death?” He smiled darkly at me before popping the remaining half of the pastry in his cavernous mouth.
“I wasn’t really doing anything,” I said, drawing William’s upturned hand into my lap. His skin felt warmer than the last time I’d touched it, more alive. He’d be waking soon . . . and then he’d be gone again. I’d never wanted to see his eyes stay shut more. “I was just thinking.”
Endless time to think; enough time to even think about thinking.
“What were you thinking about?” he asked, swallowing.
“Everything,” I answered, scrolling my fingers over the backside of William’s hand.
“You’re going to have to be more specific. Just a bit,” he said humorlessly.
I heaved a sigh. “I was thinking about everything from why rainbows don’t last to which team’s going to win the Superbowl this year.” I was being difficult and I knew it, but a woman’s thoughts were meant to be kept private, especially not to be divulged to a man like Patrick who had the emotional height of a thimble.
“So it’s going to be one of those days,” he said, clearly not amused. “One where your deference is only outdone by your sarcasm.”
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. “Okay, so right before I felt . . . it, I was thinking about Paul dying. How unfair it all was and how I was utterly, positively useless when it came to stopping it. How the Council was taking
their sweet time to make their decision. How everyone around me winds up hurt or . . . worse,” I whispered, biting my lip.
“Hmmmmm,” he mused to himself, tapping his fingers over his crossed arms. “Okay, so first time, Council was killing you, second time, badly-dressed thugs were attempting to kill me, third time, you were thinking about Pauly-Dearest dying . . .” He walked to other side of the room, pacing back, looking perplexed.
“I’ve got nothing,” he said finally. “I can’t see any relationship between those three encounters. None whatsoever. What have you got?”
“Nothing,” I said, exasperated. “None of it makes sense to me, either. I know,” I said preemptively, anticipating his expression. “Big surprise.”
He snorted. “You and I might have the most destructive constructive relationship in known existence. We’re the original dynamic duo.”
He managed to get a laugh out of me. “Yeah, well, I’m not being your green-cape wearing sidekick.”
“Well, green isn’t my color,” he said solemnly, collecting the empty tyrof ba g and coffee cups. “You know that. It makes my skin look washed-out.”
“To the bat cave,” I said, lowering my voice a couple octaves.
He chuckled, heading for the door. “He’ll be waking soon, probably a few hours at most,”—his voice took on the serious quality that had dominated Patrick and my conversations lately—“so stay if you like, but remember what we agreed to. When he wakes up, you leave him alone and let him get back to his life. He isn’t a toy you get to pull out and play with whenever you so desire. You got that?”
“I understand,” I said, turning my gaze to William’s face, cherishing the fleeting moment. “I only wanted happiness for him.”
“Well, you should be thrilled you got your wish,” Patrick plucked an envelope from his back pocket and sailed it towards me. “He’s happy in a way he never could have been with you.” He passed through the doorway, nodding back at the envelope in my fingertips. “Could you make sure he gets that when he wakes up? Something tells me he’s going to want to read that right away. You know, it’s from someone special.” He winked, pulling the door closed behind him.
The envelope took on a unique chill, likely due to knowing who the letter was from and what was written on the tri-folded piece of paper. I propped it up against the lamp of the nightstand, my hands shaking the entire way in their journey.
Patrick was right, I should have been the very picture of happy: William was going to be alright, Paul was saved from an untimely death, and William had found someone to fill in the holes I’d punched in his life. Happiness should have been my steady-state for the next decade at the very least.
So I didn’t understand how I felt nothing but an ache that seemed to sink into the marrow of my bones.
CHAPTER TWENTY
GOODBYE
Patrick was right. Again.
It wasn’t more than an hour—a heartbeat—before William’s muscles twitched to life, his arms contracting around me with such strength I could almost feel the shattered pieces of my life coming back together.
“Mmmm,”—he nestled his face into my hair—“I’m dead, aren’t I?” he asked, his voice hoarse from the extended sleep.
I shook my head, burying it deeper into his chest. His arms responded by pulling me tighter. “Surely this is Heaven.”
I couldn’t disagree with him, but I knew his lack of lucidity had him confused as to who was lounging in his arms.
“You’re not dead,” I said. “Open your eyes and that will become pretty clear.” I could only hope he wouldn’t jump to the likely conclusion he’d ended up in hell given the present company.
His eyelids lifted, revealing a set of eyes that were still able to reflect my coveted future. A future I’d chased off, but I could still see it regardless.
A smiled pulled up his mouth, one that was equal parts shy and sweet. “Dreaming then?” he asked, melting my cheek with the warmth coming from his hand.
Again, I couldn’t disagree with him, this was the best kind of dream, but I couldn’t waste any more time helping him ascertain reality. I knew Patrick would be busting through the door soon, prying me away from his brother if need be.
As predicted, a rapping sounded at the door. “You awake in there, brother?” Patrick hollered, not pausing for an answer. “You’ve done enough, Bryn. Come on out and leave William alone.” Patrick had a talent for making you understand just what he meant without actually saying it.
“I’m coming,” I fired back, irritated by the reminder, but planning on holding up my end of our bargain. Patrick had given me more time than I was entitled to with William the past couple of days; I wouldn’t show my gratitude by going back on my promise to leave when William woke up.
“You’ve got one minute,” he warned.
“Got it,” I hollered back, turning my attention back to William.
“Have you changed so much that you concede to Patrick without battling a few hundred rounds?” he smiled, but his eyes were sad.
“Change is the one thing we can count on,” I said, putting on my brave face. “The only thing we can be sure of will be with us to the end.”
He didn’t respond, he just studied me, searching for something. “Why are you sad?” he asked, his honey-thick voice breaking through at last.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I said, not intending for the words to be verbalized.
“Perhaps because the man you love is alive, will always be alive,” he said, his face and voice guarded.
I felt a bout of panic, assuming he was talking about himself and I’d failed to keep an indifferent front with him, but then he glanced at the door, where Paul waited two rooms down. His face twisted infinitesimally, but it was enough to give away that the damage I’d done to him hadn’t fully healed.
“I don’t know why I’m sad,” I said, letting my hands support my heavy head.
“Yes, you do,” he said softly. “You’ve got something weighing on you so heavily, you can’t even look at me right now. Let it go, Bryn.”
“You don’t want to know. Trust me.” I closed my eyes, refusing to let any tears fall.
“Trust me, I do,” he said, propping up on an elbow. “But how about I start? I’ve got something I need to tell you—”
“I know,” I interrupted, sure my mission of keeping the tears at bay would go up in flames if I had to hear about . . . her—thinking it felt like a dirty word. “Patrick already told me everything.”
William’s face lined. “He did?”
“Mm-hmm,” I replied flippantly.
He looked down, opening his mouth, and then closed it. He ran his fingers through his hair, still looking confused. “And what did you think about everything?”
I inhaled, wishing I could come up with a better way to stall. If I’d been trapped in purgatory living without William, I’d now digressed to the inner circle of hell having to talk about him being with someone else. “I just want you to be happy,” I said, barreling through the grapefruit sized lump in my throat. “I’m happy where I am and now you can be, too. I know there was a time when we thought we’d be with each other forever”—the grapefruit was warping into a melon—“but, like I said, things change. We’ve got to change with them if we want to survive.”
His head fell back into the stack of pillows. “Wow. That’s not how I thought that would go,” he blew out an exaggerated sigh. “I really am an idiot.”
“How did you expect it would go?” I asked, feeling the seconds we had left together ticking away.
“Not like this,” he answered, covering his eyes with his hands. “It’s your turn now—I’m finished. What’s weighing on you?”
I cleared my throat, preparing to deliver my answer as evenly as crushed-girl possible.
“If you ever loved me,” he said before I opened my mouth, “don’t say ‘it’s nothing.’”
My back shook from the sobs I kept locked inside. I couldn’t tell him the truth, he’d moved
on, but a lie wouldn’t form on my lips. It was the truth or silence, and it turns out, silence isn’t always golden.
“It’s alright,” he soothed. “Everything will be alright.”
It was his sweet voice that broke through my resolve to not look at him. I should have known, but of course the first thing my eyes found were his and they were drowning with concern.
“No, it won’t. Nothing will be alright,” I whispered, realizing I was traversing a road I couldn’t turn back from.
“What is it?” he asked, sitting up. His hand wound around the back of my neck, pulling me closer. “Tell me.”
“I can’t,” I said with no conviction, letting him close the distance between us. I was incapable of putting up a fight.
“You can—you know you can. There was a time when you trusted me with your life. Trust me again,” he whispered, gazing at my lips, inching closer. If I was able to find a smidgen of willpower deep within, it was all over when his eyes came back to mine. They drew me to him like water pulled from a well—there as no escape, it was inevitable.
Instead of being a victim to his enticement, I became an active participant. Our mouths connected, all save for the thin strip of air separating them, when I stopped . . . momentarily. I couldn’t kiss him until he knew how I felt, until he knew this wasn’t just a weak lapse in judgment, but coming from the depths of my core. “William, I—”
“Time’s up!” A materialized Patrick fog-horned right outside my ear.
“Damn it, Patrick,” William growled through closed teeth, keeping his hands and eyes locked on me.
Patrick’s presence brought me back to my senses, back to reality. Willpower was something I was incapable of with William. I scooted down to the edge of the bed, still not able to free myself of his magnetic pull.
I stood up, moving to the opposite corner of the room. His eyes didn’t leave me and he wasn’t hiding the disappointment in them, but it wasn’t the kind of disappointment I hoped it was—the kind that came from regretting we’d let the moment pass us by. The disappointment came from my weakness, my inability to stay away from him, despite knowing he was with someone else. I’d just about become the “other woman.”