But after saying it the first time, I've barely said anything else.
Hearing his soft muffled groan as he releases the clasp on my bra, so effortlessly, so perfectly, nothing awkward or fumbling about it.
Every move he makes is so graceful, so perfect, so —
Maybe too perfect.
"What's wrong?" he asks, as I push him away. His breath coming in short shallow gasps as his eyes seek mine, their surrounding skin tense and constricted in the way I've grown used to.
"Nothing's wrong." I turn my back and adjust my top, glad I completed the lesson on shielding my thoughts since it's the only thing that allows me to lie.
He sighs and moves away, denying me the tingle of his touch and the heat of his gaze as he paces before me.
And when he finally stops and faces me, I press my lips together, knowing what's next. We've been here before.
"Ever, I'm not trying to rush you or anything. Really, I'm not," he says, his face creased with concern. "But at some point you're going to have to get over this and accept who I am. I can manifest anything you desire, send telepathic thoughts and images whenever we're apart, whisk you away to Summerland at a moment's notice. But the one tiling I can't ever do is change the past. It just is."
I stare at the floor, feeling small, needy, and completely ashamed. Hating that I'm so incapable of hiding my jealousies and insecurities, hating that they're so transparent and clearly displayed. Because no matter what sort of psychic shield I create, it's no use. He's had six hundred years to study human behavior (to study my behavior), versus my sixteen. "Just —just give me a little more time to get used to all this," I say, picking at a frayed seam on my pillowcase. "It's only been a few weeks." I shrug, remembering how I killed his ex-wife, told him I loved him, and sealed my immortal fate, less than three weeks ago.
He looks at me, his lips pressed together, his eyes tinged with doubt. And even though we're merely a few feet apart, the space that divides us is so heavy and fraught —it feels like an ocean.
"I'm referring to this lifetime," I say, my voice quickening, rising, hoping to fill up the void and lighten the mood. "And since I can't recall any of the others, it's all I have. I just need a little more time, okay?" I smile nervously, my lips feeling clumsy and loose as I hold them in place, exhaling in relief when he sits down beside me, lifts his fingers to my forehead, and seeks the space where my scar used to be.
"Well, that's one thing we'll never run out of." He sighs, trailing his fingers along the curve of my jaw as he leans in to kiss me, his lips making a series of stops from my forehead, to my nose, to my mouth.
And just when I think he's about to kiss me again, he squeezes my hand and moves away. Heading straight for the door and leaving a beautiful red tulip behind in his place.
CHAPTER 3
Even though I oversleep, I still manage to get out the door and over to Miles's on time. I guess because it doesn't take me nearly as long to get ready now that Riley's no longer around to distract me. And even though it used to bug me the way she'd perch on my dresser wearing one of her crazy Halloween costumes while grilling me about boyfriends and making fun of my clothes, ever since I convinced her to move on, to cross the bridge to where our parents and our dog Buttercup were waiting, I haven't been able to see her. Which pretty much means she was right. I can only see the souls who've stayed behind, not the ones who've crossed over.
And like always when I think about Riley, my throat constricts and my eyes start to sting, and I wonder if I'll ever get used to the fact that she's gone. I mean, permanently and irreversibly gone. But I guess by now I should know enough about loss to realize that you never really stop missing someone —you just learn to live around the huge gaping hole of their absence. I wipe my eyes and pull into Miles's drive, remembering Riley's promise, that she'd send me a sign, something to show she's okay. But even though I've been holding tight to her pledge, staying alert, and searching vigilantly for some indication of her presence—so far I've got nothing. Miles opens the door and just as I start to say hi, he holds up his hand and says, "Don't speak. Just look at my face and tell me what you see. What's the very first thing you notice? And don't lie." "Your beautiful brown eyes," I say, hearing the thoughts in his head and wishing, not for the first time, that I could show my friends how to shield their thoughts and keep all their private stuff private. But that would mean divulging my mind-reading, aura-seeing, psychic-sensing secrets, and that I can't do. Miles shakes his head and climbs inside, yanking down on the mirrored visor and inspecting his chin. "You're such a liar. Look, it's right there! Like a shining red beacon you can't possibly miss, so don't even try to pretend you don't see it." I glance at him as I back out of the drive, seeing the zit that dared sprout on his face, though it's his bright pink nail polish that steals my attention. "Nice nails." I laugh.
"It's for the play." He smirks, still zit gazing. "I can't even believe this! It's like I'm totally falling apart just when everything was going so perfect. Rehearsals have been great, I know all of my lines as well as everyone else's ... I thought I was totally and completely ready, and now this!" He jabs at his face. "It's just nerves," I say, glancing at him as the light turns green.
"Exactly!" He nods. "Which just proves what an amateur I am. Because professionals, real professionals, they don't get nervous. They just go into their creative zone and... create. Maybe I'm not cut out for this?" He looks at me, his face tense with worry. "Maybe it's just a fluke that I got the lead." I glance at him, remembering how Drina claimed to climb inside the director's head and sway him toward Miles. But even if that's true, that doesn't mean he can't handle it, doesn't mean he wasn't the best. "That's ridiculous." I shake my head. "Tons of actors get nervous, suffer from stage fright or whatever. Seriously. You wouldn't believe some of the stories Riley used to —" I stop, eyes wide, mouth open, knowing I can never finish that sentence. Can never divulge the stories gleaned from my dead little sister who used to enjoy spying on the Hollywood elite. "Anyway, don't you wear, like, a ton of heavy pancake makeup?"
He glances at me. "Yeah. So. What's your point? The play's Friday, which, for your information, happens to be tomorrow. This will never be gone by then." "Maybe." I shrug. "But what I meant was, can't you use the makeup to cover it?"
Miles rolls his eyes and scowls. "Oh, so I can sport a huge flesh-colored beacon instead? Would you look at this thing? There's no disguising it. It's got its own DNA! It's casting shadows!"
I pull into the school parking lot, claiming my usual space, the one right next to Damen's shiny black BMW. And when I look at Miles again, for some reason I feel compelled to touch his lace. As though my index finger is inexplicably drawn to the zit on his chin.
"What're you doing?" he asks, cringing and pulling away.
"Just —just be still," I whisper, having no idea what I'm doing, or why I'm even doing it. All I know is my finger has a definite destination in mind.
"Well don't —touch it!" he shouts, the exact moment I make contact. "Great, that's just great. Now it'll probably double in size." He shakes his head and climbs out of the car, and I can't help but feel disappointed to see the pimple still there.
I guess I was hoping I'd developed some kind of enhanced healing ability. Ever since Damen told me, right after I'd decided to accept my fate and start drinking the immortal juice, that I could expect to go through some changes, anything from super-enhanced psychic abilities (which I was not looking forward to), to super-enhanced physical abilities (which could certainly have its benefits in P.E.), or something else altogether (like the ability to heal others, which has my vote since it would be totally cool), I've been on the lookout for something extraordinary. But so far, all I got is an extra inch of leg, which really doesn't do much for me besides requiring a new pair of jeans.
And that probably would've happened eventually anyway.
I grab my bag and climb out of my car, my lips meeting Damen's the instant he comes around to my side.
"Okay, seriously. How much longer can this possibly last?"
We both pull away and look at Miles.
"Yeah, I'm talking to you." He wags his finger. "All of the kissing, and hugging, and let us not forget the constant whispering of sweet little nothings." He shakes his head and narrows his eyes. "Seriously. I was hoping you guys would be over it by now. I mean, don't get me wrong, we're all very happy that Damen's back in school, that you've found each other again, and will most likely live happily ever after. But really, don't you think it's time to maybe try and tone it down a little? Because some of us aren't quite as happy as you. Some of us are a little bit love deprived."
"You're love deprived?" I laugh, not at all offended by anything he just said, knowing it has far more to do with his anxiety about the play than anything to do with Damen and me. "What happened to Holt?" "Holt?" He balks. "Don't even talk about Holt! Do not even go there, Ever!" He shakes his head and turns on his heel, heading toward Haven who's waiting by the gate.
"What's his problem?" Damen asks, reaching for my hand and entwining my fingers with his, gazing at me with eyes that still love me, despite yesterday. "Tomorrow's opening night." I shrug. "So he's freaking out, has a zit on his chin, and naturally he's decided to hold us responsible," I say, watching as Miles links arms with Haven as he leads her toward class.
"We're not talking to them," he says, glancing over his shoulder and frowning at us. "We're on strike until they stop acting so love struck or this zit goes away, whichever comes first." He nods, only half joking. Haven laughs and skips alongside him, as Damen and I head into English. Going right past Stacia Miller who smiles sweetly at him and then tries to trip me. But just as she drops her small bag in my path, hoping to incite a nice, humiliating face plant, I see it lifting, and I feel it smacking —right into her knee. And even though I feel the pain too, I'm still glad I did it. "Owww!" she wails, rubbing her knee and glaring at me, even though she has no tangible proof that I'm in any way responsible.
But I just ignore her and take my seat. I've gotten better at ignoring her. Ever since she got me suspended for drinking on campus, I've done my best to stay out of her way. But sometimes —sometimes I just can't help myself.
"You shouldn't have done that," Damen whispers, attempting a stern look as he leans toward me. "Please. You're the one who wants me to practice manifesting." I shrug. "Looks like those lessons are finally starting to pay off."
He looks at me, shaking his head as he says, "You see, it's even worse than I thought, because for your information that was psychokinesis you just did, not manifesting. See how much there is to learn?" "Psycho-what?" I squint, unfamiliar with the term, though the act itself was sure fun. He takes my hand, a smile playing at the corner of his lips as he says, "I've been thinking ..." I glance at the clock, seeing it's already five minutes past nine and knowing Mr. Robins is just now leaving the teachers' lounge.
"Friday night. What do you say we go somewhere…special?" He smiles.
"Like Summerland?" I look at Damen, my eyes growing wide as my pulse quickens. I've been dying to get back to that magical, mystical place. The dimension between the dimensions, where I can manifest oceans and elephants, and move things far greater than projectile Prada bags —only I need Damen to get there.
But he just laughs and shakes his head. "No, not Summerland. Though we will return there, I promise. But I was thinking more like, I don't know, maybe the Montage, or the Ritz, perhaps?" He raises his brows. "But Miles's play is Friday and I promised we'd be there!" I say, realizing just after I've said it that I'd conveniently forgotten all about Miles's Hairspray debut when I thought I was going to Summerland. But now that Damen wants to check into one of the area's most swanky hotels —my memory is somehow restored.
"Okay, then, how about after the play?" he offers. But when he looks at me, when he sees how I hesitate, how I press my lips together and search for a polite way to decline, he adds, "Or not. It was just a thought."
I gaze at him, knowing I need to accept, that I want to accept. Hearing the voice in my head shouting: Say yes! Say yes! You promised yourself you'd leap forward, without once looking back, and now's your chance —so just go ahead and do it! JUST! SAY!
YES!
But even though I'm convinced that it's time to move on, even though I love Damen with all of my heart and am determined to get over his past and take the next step, what comes out of my mouth is entirely different.
"We'll see," I say, averting my gaze and focusing on the door, just as Mr. Robins walks in.
CHAPTER 4
When the fourth-period bell finally rings, I get up from my desk and approach Mr. Munoz.
"Are you sure you're finished?" he asks, looking up from a pile of papers. "If you need another minute, that's perfectly okay."
I glance over my test sheet, then shake my head.