eleven
“What the hell, Ever? You drop out of school and forget to tell me?”
I glance up from the register where I’m busy ringing up a sale, only to find Miles lurking behind my squinty-eyed, not-one-bit-amused customer.
Taking a moment to shoot him my very best not now look, as I charge her credit card and wrap her books and meditation CDs in some purple tissue paper, before I slide them into a matching bag and send her on her way.
“Nice one.” I nod, the words competing with the bell clanking hard against the door as she leaves. “I’m sure we won’t be seeing her again anytime soon.”
Miles waves it away, dismissing the thought with a shrug as he says, “Whatever. Trust me, I’ve got much more important things to discuss than Jude’s bank statement.”
“Yeah? Like what?” I shove the receipt into the purple box where we store them, aware of Miles’s gaze weighing heavily, waiting for me to acknowledge it so he can get on with the real reason for his visit.
“Well, like you, for instance.” He watches me settle onto the stool, crossing my arms before me. Careful to keep my gaze neutral, expressionless, as though I’m not at all anxious or worried, as though I’m just patiently waiting for him to continue. “I mean, for one thing, except for the very first day, I’ve yet to see you at school. Which means you haven’t been going to school, because as it just so happens, I’ve been looking for you. Waiting outside your classes, next to your locker, at the lunch table, but—nothing, niente, you so haven’t been there.”
I shrug, unwilling to confirm or deny—at least not just yet anyway. First I need to see just how strong a case he plans to build against me.
“And even though I’m sure you’ll probably try to claim that you have your reasons, that your extended absence—your super-sized summer if you will—are pretty much none of my business, I just want you to know that you’re wrong. It is my business. In fact, it is very much my business. Because, as your friend, as one of your very best friends, I’m here to tell you that your no-show silent treatment is affecting not just me but all of us. Even the people you don’t consider your friends—believe it or not—it’s affecting them too.”
I shrug. Unsure what to say, but knowing it’s not really time for that anyway. Miles loves nothing more than an extended monologue, and from the signs of it, this one is nowhere near coming to a close.
“You know, people like me—and Damen—and, well, maybe not so much Haven anymore, but still, never mind that, we’ll get to it later. What I’m trying to say is that it’s like you’re just—” He pauses, thumbs hooked in the front tabs of his jeans as he gazes all around, searching for just the right word. Finally returning to me when he says, “It’s like you’re just totally ignoring us. Like you’ve dismissed us. Like you’ve ceased to even care about us—”
“Miles—” I start, pressing my lips together as I try to think of the best way to continue. “Listen, I get what you’re saying. Really I do. And believe me, I totally get why you might see it that way, but trust me, there’s a lot more to it than you might think. Way more than you could ever even begin to imagine. I mean, seriously, if I was to tell you the real truth behind all of this—” I close my eyes and shake my head, knowing that half the time I’m hardly able to believe it myself. “Anyway, I can’t really get into it, but just trust me when I say that if you knew even a fraction of what was really going on, well, you’d definitely be thanking me for keeping you out of it.” I pause, allowing enough time for my words to sink in, hoping he’ll see just how serious I am. “And while I’m really sorry that you feel like I’m ignoring you, and that I don’t care about you, it’s not at all true. Seriously, not even a bit. You’re pretty much the only real friend I have left at this point. And I really want to make it up to you, and I promise I will. Soon. For sure. But right now I’m just…I’m just a little…preoccupied, that’s all.”
“And what about Damen? You gonna make it up to him too?”
I look at him, not even trying to bury my shock. I mean, I cannot believe he’s seriously choosing to confront me with that.
“Please don’t assume you know more than you do,” I say, my voice a little harsher than I intended. “There’s a lot more to it. Stuff you don’t understand. Nothing is anywhere near as simple as it may seem on the surface, and believe me, this goes way beyond that—the roots are pretty dang deep.”
He gazes down at the ground, digging the toe of his shoe into the carpeted floor, taking a moment to collect his thoughts, decide just the right way to confront me, before he lifts his head, looks me right in the eye, and says, “And would one of those things that I can’t possibly understand have anything to do with the fact that you’re—?”
Our eyes meet, leaving me frozen, unable to breathe. The word speeding toward me, crashing straight into my energy field before it can even leave his lips.
And there’s nothing I can do about it, no way to rewind or stop him from saying:
“Immortal?”
His gaze locks on mine, and no matter how much I may want to, I can’t look away.
My skin is prickled with cold when he adds, “Or is it the fact that you’re psychic? Gifted with all manner of mental and physical powers. Or maybe it’s the fact that you’ll stay young and beautiful forever. Never aging, never dying, just like your sidekick Damen, who’s been around for six hundred years and counting and who only just recently decided to turn you like him?” His eyes narrow, as his gaze sweeps my face. “Tell me, Ever, am I on the right track? Are these the things you were referring to?”
“How did—” I start.
But the words are drowned out by his voice when he says, “Oh, and let’s not forget about Drina, who, as it turns out, was also immortal. And then, of course, there was Roman as well. Not to mention Marco, Misa, and Rafe—the three somewhat annoying tagalongs Haven’s chosen to hang with for whatever unknown reason. And, I can’t believe I almost forgot to mention the most recent addition to the gang of the eternally beautiful—our dear friend Haven herself. Or, should I say, my dear friend, your newfound immortal enemy—even though you’re the one who chose to make her like you? Is this the kind of stuff I couldn’t possibly begin to understand?”
I swallow hard, stunned into silence and unable to think of anything better to do than sit there and stare. And even though I mostly feel horrified to have it all laid out before me like that—the accumulated facts of my very strange life revealed in a way so neutral, so ordinary, it hardly seems real, even to me—there’s also a small part of me that’s relieved.
I’ve been carrying this secret for so long, I can’t help but feel lighter, brighter, as though I’ve finally been freed of a burden that was far too heavy to bear on my own.
But Miles isn’t finished. He’s only just begun. So I shake my head and refocus on his words, struggling to keep up when he says, “And the ironic thing is, if you really stop and think about it, if you really stop and ponder it in a methodical, logical way, well then, I think it’s pretty clear that I’m the one who should be avoiding you.”
I squint, not quite following how he arrived at that conclusion but knowing he’s about to explain.
“I mean, imagine how it feels to find out that the friends I thought I knew so well, the same friends I felt confident sharing everything with, are not only not at all what they appear to be, but that they’re also, every single one of them, members of a super-exclusive, super-secret club. A club where, it’s pretty dang obvious that everyone is welcome. Everyone but me.” He stops, shaking his head as he moves toward the front of the store, gazing out the display windows at the sun-dappled street just beyond. His voice bearing the burden of his words when he says, “I gotta tell ya, Ever, it hurts. Make no mistake. It really and truly hurts me to the core. I mean, the way I see it, which is the only way anyone could see it, but still, the way I see it, it’s like you don’t want me to be immortal too. It’s like you don’t want to know me, or even be my friend, for anyth
ing even close to resembling eternity.”
He turns, turns until he’s facing me, and one look at his face is all it takes to know that this is even worse than I thought. And I know I have to say something quick, something to temper all this, but before I can even open my mouth, he’s back for round two, forcing me to sit back and wait for my turn.
“And you know what really kills me the most? You know who saw fit to finally fill me in on all this?” He pauses as though waiting for me to respond, but I won’t, the question was obviously rhetorical. This is his show, his script, and I have no intention of stealing his scene. “The one and only person out of your entire super-secret gang of the eternally beautiful—the only one out of all of you who was willing to sit down and level with me, without pulling any punches or trying to pass off any kind of bull—the one and only person who was willing to look me in the eye and reveal all was surprisingly enough—”
And before he can finish—before he can utter the word I already know.
Damen.
Remembering the moment Miles e-mailed the portraits he’d uncovered in Florence—the portraits Roman was determined he’d find.
The way Damen’s fingers trembled as I passed him the phone, the way his lids narrowed, his jaw tightened, the way he so valiantly accepted the sudden unearthing of his centuries-old secret.
The way he vowed to come clean with Miles, to stop hiding, stop lying, to finally tell the truth and get it all out in the open.
But never once believing he’d actually go through with it.
“Damen.” Miles confirms, nodding emphatically, gaze never once leaving mine. “And when you consider the fact that I’ve known him for—what? Less than a year? Less time than I’ve known you anyway, that’s for dang sure, and certainly far less time than I’ve known Haven. And yet he’s the one who told me. Despite the fact that I talk to him far, far less than I talk to either of you—he’s the one who chose to be straight with me. Even though he’s always been the quiet keep-to-himself type—and now I know why—but anyway, even though we’ve never really bonded, so to speak, he’s still the only one who treated me like a true friend. Like someone he could trust and confide in. He just sat me down and spilled it—told me the truth about you, about him, about—about everything—all of it!”
“Miles—” I start, my voice hesitant, unsure what to say, unsure if he’s really ready to listen to me anyway.
But when he stops long enough to gaze at me, head cocked to the side, brow raised in a challenge, I know that he is. Yet before I can even begin to go there, before I can start up with the whole laundry list of reasons for why I purposely kept him in the dark—all the very good and valid reasons for why he should be glad he was kept in the dark—I need to see for myself.
Need to see what Damen told him.
The exact words he used.
And, even more important, why he decided to divulge everything now, when surely some of it could’ve waited ’til later—much later, in fact.
Closing my eyes for a moment, allowing my mind to merge with his. Knowing I’m reneging on my promise to never spy on my friends’ innermost thoughts or memories unless absolutely imperative, and forging ahead anyway, desperate to see just what went down that day.
The words forgive me filling the space that divides us, blossoming, growing, ’til I can practically see the letters taking shape.
Hoping he can sense the words too, and will soon find a way to pardon what I’m about to do.
twelve
I reach over the counter quickly. So quickly Miles has no way to stop me. No idea what’s about to happen until it’s too late. Slamming his wrist hard onto the glass, harder than I intended, I secure my hand over his in a way that presses his palm flat against it, rendering him completely helpless. Vaguely aware of his struggle, the way he squirms and wriggles and tries to break free.
But it’s no use.
His fight barely registers. It’s less than a blip on my screen.
When it comes to brute strength, there’s no matching me.
And when he finally realizes that, he heaves a deep sigh and settles in, opening his mind, and surrendering to what he knows I’m about to do.
I slip inside his head, fluidly, easily, taking a moment to get my bearings and have a brief look around, before I discard all extraneous thoughts and swoop in on the exact scene I came here to see.
Seeing Miles climb into Damen’s car, at first relaxed and happy, anticipating a nice off-campus lunch, only to grab hold of his seat in a death grip—his eyes wide, face a mask of fright, as Damen speeds out of the school parking lot and onto the street.
And to be honest, I’m not sure what surprises me more—the fact of what Damen’s about to do—or that he’s still keeping his promise of going to school and attending all of his classes even though I’ve clearly reneged on mine.
“No worries,” Damen says, glancing at Miles, his face creasing into a smile. “You’re perfectly safe. I can almost guarantee that.”
“Almost?” Miles flinches, shoulders scrunching, eyes squinching, as Damen maneuvers in and out of a long string of cars traveling well below his unnaturally high speed. Cautiously venturing a quick glimpse at him as he says, “Well, at least I know where you get it—you drive as crazy as everyone else in Italy!” He shakes his head and winces again.
Causing Damen to laugh even harder.
The mere sound of it causing my heart to swell in a way I can barely contain.
I miss him.
There’s just no denying it.
Seeing him like this—with the sun bouncing off his dark glossy hair, as his strong, capable hands grip the wheel—well, it just makes it clear how empty my life feels without him.
But then, just as quickly, I stop—reminding myself of all the reasons why I did what I did. There’s still so much left to uncover about our former lives together, stuff I need to know before we can go any further.
I blink it away, determined to move past all that as I continue to watch.
Seeing Damen brake at the Shake Shack, where he buys Miles a coffee shake with crushed Oreo cookies inside, before leading him toward one of those blue painted benches, the exact same one where he and I once sat. Taking a moment to gaze down at a beautiful beach filled with colorful umbrellas that look like giant polka dots pinned into the sand, at a lineup of surfers waiting for the next big wave, to a flock of seagulls circling overhead, before turning his attention to Miles, who slurps his shake quietly and waits for Damen to begin.
“I’m an immortal,” he says, looking right at him.
Just throws the first pitch without a warm-up, without a batter in place. Just tosses the ball right out there, face patient, still, allowing plenty of time for Miles to step up and take a swing.
Miles sputters, spitting the straw from his mouth and brushing his sleeve across his lips as he gapes at Damen and says, “Scusa?”
Damen laughs, and I’m not sure if it’s the result of Miles’s attempt to speak Italian or Miles’s dramatic attempt to draw it all out and pretend as though he didn’t actually hear what he so clearly did. Still, Damen continues to hold his gaze as he says, “Your ears did not deceive you. It’s exactly as I said. I’m an immortal. I’ve roamed this earth for just over six hundred years, and up until recently, Drina and Roman did too.”
Miles gapes, his coffee shake all but forgotten as his gaze moves over Damen, attempting to make sense of it, attempting to take it all in.
“Forgive me for being so blunt—and trust me when I say that I didn’t put it out there like that to enjoy a little shock value at your expense. It’s just that, if nothing else, I’ve come to learn that news like this—news of the unexpected kind—is best told quickly and bluntly. I’ve definitely paid the price of holding back.” He pauses, his gaze suddenly saddened, faraway.
And I know he’s referring to me—the time he waited so long to tell me the truth behind my own existence—and how he’s made the same mistake once again, by not coming
clean about our shared history.
“And I’ll admit, part of me just assumed you’d already figured it out. What with Roman making sure you’d find the portraits and all. You must’ve drawn some sort of conclusion about them.”
Miles shakes his head, blinks his eyes a bunch of times, and abandons his shake to the table. Looking at Damen with an expression that’s one hundred and eighty degrees past confused when he says, “But—” his voice so hoarse, he clears his throat and starts again. “I mean, I guess—well, I guess I don’t get it.” He squints, slowly taking him in. “For starters, you’re not all pasty white and weird looking. In fact, you’re pretty much the opposite, and ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been rockin’ a tan. Not to mention, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s daylight. Like, ninety-five degrees’ worth of daylight. So, excuse me for saying so, but in light of all that, what you just said really doesn’t make any sense.”
Damen tilts his head, wearing an expression that’s far more confused than Miles’s. Taking a moment to add it all up, before he throws his head back, allowing great peals of laughter to spill forth, until he finally slows down enough to shake his head and say, “I’m not a mythical immortal, Miles, I’m a real immortal. The kind without the burden of fangs, sun-avoiding, or that gawd-awful blood-sucking.” He shakes his head again, musing under his breath at the idea of it, remembering how I once assumed the same thing. “Basically, it’s just me and my trusty bottle of elixir here—” He holds up his drink, swinging it back and forth as Miles watches, transfixed by the sight of it. The way that much sought-after substance, the one mankind has searched for forever, the one Damen’s parents were murdered for, glows and glints in the bright afternoon sun. “Believe me, this is really all it takes to keep me going for, well, for eternity.”
They sit in silence. Miles scrutinizing Damen, looking for giveaways, nervoustics, self-aggrandizement, gaping holes in the story, or any other telltale sign of a person who’s lying, while Damen just waits. Allowing Miles all the time he needs to get accustomed to the idea, to settle in with it, to warm up to a new possibility he never really considered before.