Not unless something was terribly wrong.
And even though I don't have any proof, I just know in my gut that the way he's been acting so off lately —with the sudden blank looks that are impossible to miss no matter how quickly they fade, not to mention the sweating, the headaches, the inability to manifest everyday objects, or access the Summerland portal —well, when I add it all up, it's clear that he's sick.
Only Damen doesn't get sick.
And when he pricked his finger on that thorny rose just a little while ago, I watched as it healed right before me.
But still, maybe I should start calling the hospitals —just to be sure.
Except Damen would never go to the hospital. He'd see it as a sign of weakness, defeat. He's far more likely to crawl off like a wounded animal, hiding out somewhere where he could be alone.
Only he doesn't have any wounds because they instantly heal. Besides, he'd never crawl off without telling me first.
Then again, I was also convinced he'd never drive off without me, and look how that turned out.
I riffle through his drawers, searching for the Yellow Pages —yet another accessory in his quest to seem normal. Because while it's true that Damen would never take himself to the hospital, if there were an accident, or some other event beyond his control, then it's possible that someone else might've taken him without his consent.
And while that completely contradicts Roman's (most likely bogus) story of watching Damen speed away, that doesn't stop me from calling every hospital in Orange County, asking if a Damen Auguste has been admitted, and coming up empty each time.
When the last hospital is called, I consider calling the police but quickly decide against it. I mean, what would I say? That my six-hundred-year-old immortal boyfriend went missing?
Td have just as much luck cruising Coast Highway, searching for a black BMW with dark tinted windows and a good-looking driver inside —the proverbial needle in the haystack of Laguna Beach.
Or —I can always just settle in here, knowing he's got to turn up eventually.
And as I climb the stairs to his room, I comfort myself with the thought that if I can't be with him, then at least I can be with his things. And as I settle myself upon his velvet settee, I gaze among the things he prizes the most, hoping I'm still one of them too.
CHAPTER 15
My neck hurts. And my back feels weird. And when I open my eyes and glimpse my surroundings —I know why. I spent, the night in this room. Right here on this ancient velvet settee, which was originally intended for light banter, coquettish flirting, but definitely not sleeping.
I struggle to stand, my muscles tightening in protest as I stretch toward the sky then down toward my toes. And after bending my torso from side to side and swiveling my neck to and fro, I head over to his thick velvet drapes and yank them aside. Flooding the room with a light so bright my eyes water and sting, barely having enough time to adjust before I've closed them again. Ensuring the edges overlap and no amount of sunlight is allowed to creep in, returning the space to its usual state of permanent midnight, having been warned by Damen that those harsh Southern California rays can wreak havoc on the contents of this room. Damen.
Just thinking about him makes my heart swell with such longing, such all-consuming ache —my head grows dizzy and my whole body sways. And as I grab hold of an elaborate wood cabinet, grasping its fine detailed edge, my eyes search the room, reminding me that I'm not nearly as alone as I think. Everywhere I look his image surrounds me. His likeness perfectly captured by the world's greatest masters, matted in museum-quality frames, and mounted on these walls. The Picasso in the dark somber suit, the Velazquez on the rearing white stallion—each of them depicting the face I thought I knew so well—only now the eyes seem distant and mocking, the chin raised and defiant, and those lips, those warm wonderful lips that I crave so bad I can taste them, appear so remote, so aloof, so maddeningly distant, as though warning me not to come near.
I close my eyes, determined to block it all out, sure that my panicked state of mind is influencing me for the worst. Forcing myself to take several deep breaths, before trying his cell phone again. His voice mail prompting yet another round of: Call me . . . where are you . . . what happened. . . are you okay . . . call me —messages I've left countless times already. I slip my phone back into my bag and gaze around the room one last time, my eyes carefully avoiding his portraits while assuring myself there's nothing I missed. No blatant clue to his disappearance that I might've overlooked, no small, seemingly insignificant hint that might make the how and why a little easier to grasp.
And when I'm satisfied I've done all I can, I grab my purse and head to the kitchen, stopping just long enough to leave a short note, repeating all the same words I said on the phone. Knowing the moment I walk out the door my connection to Damen will feel even more tenuous than it already does. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, picturing the future that just yesterday seemed so sure —the one of Damen and me, both of us happy, together, complete. Wishing it was possible to manifest such a thing, yet knowing deep down it's no use.
You can't manifest, another person. Or at least not for very long.
So I shift my attention to something I can create.
Picturing the most perfect red tulip —its soft waxy petals and long fluid stem the ideal symbol for our undying love. And when I feel it take shape in my hand, I head back to the kitchen, tear up the note, and leave the tulip on the counter instead.
CHAPTER 16
I miss Riley.
I miss her so much It's like a physical ache. Because the second I realized I had no choice but to inform Sabine that Damen wouldn't be making it to dinner (which I waited to do until ten minutes past eight when it was clear he wouldn't show), the questions began. And they pretty much kept coming for the remainder of the weekend, with her asking stuff like: What's wrong? I know something's wrong. I wish you would talk to me. Why won't you tell me? Is it something with Damen? Are you two in a fight? And even though I did talk to her (over dinner when I somehow managed to eat enough to convince her that I really and truly do not have an eating disorder), trying to assure her that everything was A-OK, that Damen was just busy, and that I was overtired after spending such a long, fun-filled night at Haven's —it was clear she didn't believe me. Or at least not the part about me being fine. She totally believed the part about me staying at Haven's.
Instead, she kept insisting that there had to be a better explanation for my constant sighing and mood swings, the way I went from morose to manic to mopey and back again. But even though I felt bad for lying to her —I stuck with my story. I guess it seemed easier since lying to Sabine made it easier to lie to myself. Fearing that retelling the story, explaining how even though my heart refuses to believe it, my head can't help but wonder if he might've purposely ditched me—might somehow make it come true. If Riley were here, things would be different. I could talk to her. I could tell her the whole sordid tale from beginning to end. Knowing she'd not only understand, but that she'd get answers too.
Her being dead is like an all-access pass. Allowing her to go anywhere she wants merely by thinking about it. Making no place off limits —the entire planet is fair game. And I've no doubt she'd be far more effective than all of my frantic phone calls and drive-bys combined.
Because in the end, all my disjointed, clumsy, ineffective investigating really amounts to is: (nothing).
Leaving me just as clueless this Monday morning as I was on Friday night when it occurred. And no matter how many times I call Miles or Haven, their answer is always the same —nothing to report, but we'll call you if anything changes.
But if Riley were here, she'd close this case in no time. Getting quick results and in-depth answers —she'd be able to tell me just exactly what I'm dealing with, and how to proceed. But the fact is, Riley's not here. And despite her promising me a sign, seconds before she left, I'm starting to doubt it'll happen. And maybe, just maybe, it's time I stop looking and get on with my life. I slip on some jeans, slide my feet into some flip-flops, pull on a tank top, and chase it with a long-sleeved T—and just as I'm about to walk out the door and head for school, I turn right around and grab my iPod, hoodie, and sunglasses, knowing I'd better prepare for the worst since I've no idea what I'll find.
* * *
"Did you find him?"
I shake my head, watching as Miles climbs into my car, throws his bag on the floor, and shoots me a look filled with pity.
"I tried calling," he says, brushing his hair off his face, his nails still sporting a bright flashy pink, "Even tried to swing by his house but didn't get past the front gate.
And trust me, you do not want to mess with Big Sheila. She takes her job very seriously." He laughs, hoping to lighten the mood.
But I just shrug, wishing I could laugh along with him, but knowing I can't. I've been a wreck since Friday and the only cure is to see Damen again.
"You shouldn't worry so much," Miles says, turning toward me. "I'm sure he's fine. I mean, it's not like it's the first time he's disappeared."
I glance at him, sensing his thoughts before the words leave his lips. Knowing he's referring to the last time Damen disappeared, the time I sent him away. "But that was different," I tell him. "Trust me, that was nothing like this."
"How can you be so sure?" His voice is careful, measured, his eyes still on me.
I take a deep breath and stare at the road, wondering whether or not I should tell him I mean, I haven't really talked to anyone in so long, haven't confided in a friend since well before the accident —before everything changed. And sometimes, having to hoard all of these secrets can really feel lonely. I long to get out from under their weight and gossip like a normal girl again.
I look at Miles, sure that I can trust him, but not all that sure if I can trust me. I'm like a soda can that's been dropped and shaken, and now all of my secrets are rushing to the top.
"You okay?" he asks, eyeing me carefully.
I swallow hard. "Friday night? After your play?" I pause, knowing I've got his full attention. "Well . . .we, um... we sort of made plans."
"Plans?" He leans toward me.
"Big plans." I nod, a smile hinting at the corner of my lips, then instantly fading when I remember how it all went so tragically wrong.
"How big?" he asks, eyes on mine.
I shake my head, gazing at the road ahead when I say, "Oh, just your usual Friday night. You know, room at the Montage, new lingerie, chocolate dipped strawberries, and two flutes of champagne ..."
"Omigod, you didn't !" he squeals.