“You’re comparing love to cancer. I don’t believe it.”
“Actually, we were talking about attraction. And you proved my point about avoiding attraction because you jumped straight from there to love. But yes, love as cancer holds up quite well. Something that grows inside of you against your will and without your consent, slowly taking over more and more vital parts until it kills you. That fits nicely.” I smile, pleased.
“Stop,” Ry says, frowning. A deep crease forms between his eyebrows. “That’s not funny.”
I’m taken aback. I talk a lot of crap to Ry—especially the last few sleep-deprived days working so closely together. Usually he laughs. Oh, no. Oh no. “I’m sorry. Have you lost someone to cancer? That was really insensitive of me.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just—you can’t really think that about love. Not really.”
I shrug, an itch growing between my shoulder blades, soul deep. “It makes everything hurt more,” I finally say as we get out of the truck, because it’s the only true thing I can think of to say about love right now, here with Ry. If I hadn’t loved my parents—I mean, come on, I literally worshipped them—finding out they were just using me wouldn’t have been so awful.
We stop at my favorite tree beneath the footbridge and Ry climbs under the stairs and into the roots. I follow and we open up our food without a word.
Except . . . oh, idiot gods, why didn’t you choose this area of the world for your sad little reigns? Because carne asada french fries are, beyond a doubt, the most deliciously disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted in my life. I shovel them into my mouth, cool sour cream and guacamole, crisp salsa fresca, mushy fries, melted cheese, tender meat. Every bite is like a revelation of what the perfect harmony of ingredients can be.
“I think they modeled this stuff after ambrosia,” Ry says, watching me with a tentative smile.
“I can feel it clogging my arteries as I eat. And I don’t care. It’s going to be such a happy death.” I finish before him and lean back against the roots, groaning and holding my stomach. “Too much. Not enough.”
He laughs, and I stare at the bits of sky bold enough to break through the dense, tangled weave of branches. I should have brought mints. My throat prickles with dryness, a strange, salt chemical taste that sucks the moisture out, leaving my tongue thick and chalky in my mouth.
The back of my neck tingles and I look around sharply.
“Something wrong?” Ry asks, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“Do you smell something weird?” I don’t see anyone, but I can’t be this paranoid. There has to be a reason it smells like Sirus’s house did the day of the break-in.
“No, why?”
My phone rings before I can answer him. Mother on the caller ID. The ancient Egyptian in me wonders if the strange smell and fear are connected to my mother somehow, connected to the twisted memories I dream every night.
“My mom. Gotta answer.”
“No problem. I’ll go get my notebook and be right back.” He grabs our garbage and leaves. His limp has an odd grace to it, almost like a swagger without the arrogance. I love it—it’s enough of a break in his physical perfection to make him interesting where otherwise he’d be unreal.
Oh, floods, I am not watching him walk away.
I answer the phone with a distracted, “Hey.”
“Little Heart,” my mother says, and she sounds tired. Maybe that’s a normal mom thing, but Isis the Ever Energetic doesn’t do tired. Now I’m worried again. In her emails she said Nephthys has been staying with her around the clock. I wish I could be there, too. No, I don’t.
“What’s up? Are you okay?”
“I have not been well. But I’m feeling better. How are you?”
“Better is good. I’m fine. Busy.”
“That’s nice. Your work is going well? Your friends are kind?”
I’ve been trying to tell her more about my life in my emails. It feels . . . nice. Nice to be able to talk with her a little more. She never listened to me when I was at home, but she can’t very well ignore typed words she has to respond to. “Yeah, everything’s really good.”
“I am glad. I wanted to ask your opinion on colors for the baby’s room. You’re so much better with this than I am.”
I sit up straight. “Yeah, sure. What are you thinking?”
“I need something neutral, but I want it to be warm and welcoming. Maybe blue and yellow?”
I bite my lip, running through palettes in my head. “You don’t want to do a baby’s room in yellow—it’s not soothing enough. Brown and green will give you more options if it’s a girl and you want to add some pink accents. If you go with a spring green, it’s still a very warm color without the inherent energy of yellow.”