But I’m not normal.
Not even close.
And that’s pretty much what keeps me crouching out here in the dark, on the wrong side of her window.
If you’re not going in, can you at least tell me what we’re doing out here? The words thought instead of spoken, he doesn’t want to risk being heard.
I’m saying good-bye. I sigh. I’m preparing for a future without her.
Though I’m facing the wrong way to see his expression, I can feel the way his energy shifts, the way it broadens and expands until it swal ows us both. Providing a wonderful, warm, hug-like embrace that lingers wel past the point when his arm catches up and fol ows suit.
“Ever…” he whispers, hands clasped at my waist, lips pushing through my curtain of hair to land on my cheek. And even though it seemed like something might fol ow, he chooses to end it right there. Al owing the kiss to do what words fail to.
We huddle together, watching as the happy couple picks at the remaining scraps of dinner. Each of them urging the other to claim the last slice of pizza before Sabine waves her hand and reaches for her wineglass and Monoz laughs and digs in.
But despite their playful attitude, it’s not hard to locate the glint of remorse in Sabine’s gaze, the flicker of defeat at having taken a chance, issued an ultimatum, only to fail at the one thing that truly meant something to her.
A look that’s almost enough to rouse me from my position at the window so I can hurl myself in there and show her that al is okay, al is forgiven.
Almost, but not quite.
Instead, I remain right in place, observing their date. She stil in her suit, which, coupled with the pizza, signals a late night at work; while Munoz is dressed far more informal y, wearing a pair of broken-in jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt with the cuffs rol ed halfway to his elbows, enjoying a little time off from school, using his winter break to work on his book.
The one he was about to give up on.
The one I told him would be published someday.
Well, at least some good came of my abilities. They may have alienated Sabine, but at least I managed to convince Munoz to not give up on his dream.
And I’m so lost in the thought, and Damen’s so lost in the act of comforting me, that neither one of us is prepared for Munoz to burst through the side door with an overstuffed trash bag in hand.
“Ever?” He stands before us, Hefty bag dangling by his side, squinting as though he stopped trusting his eyes the moment they landed on me.
I flash my palm, my gaze pleading with his to keep quiet, keep the news to himself, keep on heading for the trash as though he didn’t see us stooped beneath the windowsil .
But it’s a lot to ask of someone who’s been searching for you. And while he makes for the trash can and drops the bag in, he’s quick to circle right back to where Damen and I stand.
“Where the hel have you been?” His words take me by surprise, mostly because they didn’t come out nearly as angry as they could have. They sounded more like a huge sigh of relief.
“I’m staying at Damen’s,” I say, as though that somehow covers the ful extent of my absence. “And Sabine’s ful y aware of that since Damen cal ed to tel her as much.” I glance at Damen, glimpsing the wave of shock that plays over his face. He didn’t realize I knew that.
“Sabine’s been worried sick. You’ve got to go in there—you’ve got to let her know you’re okay.” He glances between us, his brain stil trying to catch up with what he sees before him.
“You know I can’t do that.” My voice is flat, matter of fact. “And you know why. In fact, you know way more than you should—way more than I ever intended.” I sigh and shake my head, remembering the day, just a few weeks before, when, in a frantic rush toward a disaster I didn’t foresee, I manifested a bouquet of daffodils and a black BMW right before his eyes. Basical y showing him right then and there that the ful extent of my weirdness—my powers—go far deeper than the psychic telepath he knew me to be. He saw me run like the wind, make things appear where there was once only air—and I’m pretty sure that after getting over the shock of that, he probably started wondering just what else I might be capable of. Or at least that’s what I would’ve done if our positions were switched.
“Are you part of this too?” Munoz asks, shifting his focus to Damen as though looking for a nice convenient place to dump al the blame.
“I am the reason, yes,” Damen says, without hesitation, no pause of any kind.
And I can’t help but gape, so startled by the words, the way they echoed what Lotus said earlier. Wondering if that’s what he meant, or if it’s just a coincidence that his words mirrored hers.
Munoz ponders, tries to make sense of it. He was headed in one direction when Damen went in another, and now he’s forced to catch up, or at least meet somewhere in the middle.
“I always thought there was something very strange about you,” Munoz final y says, his voice low, almost dreamy.
Damen nods, and I’ve no idea how he took that, his voice, like his face, gives nothing away.
“It’s almost as though you’re not from this time,” Munoz adds, as though musing to himself.