So while he busies himself with the business of brushing his teeth and getting ready for sleep, I slip between the sheets and try to come up with something with which to surprise him. But a moment later, when he pauses in the doorway looking like a glorious vision wrapped in blue silk, the best I can do is gulp, stare, and manifest a single red tulip that floats from my hand to his.
He grins, closes the distance between us in less than a handful of steps, and slides in beside me. His fingers softly tracing the line of my brow as he pushes my hair from my face, gathers me into the crook of his arm, and settles me snugly against him. My cheek pressed hard against his chest as I close my eyes and lose myself in the hum of his heartbeat, the almost feel of his lips, the way his hands play across my skin. Tossing my leg over his, I anchor him to me, concentrating on his essence—his energy—his being—
determined to brand every last detail of this moment onto my brain so it never slips away.
And even though I want to speak, to say something meaningful and significant, something to make up for anything bad that might’ve passed between us earlier, with the way his hands smooth and soothe—with the way his voice is reduced to a faint murmur that plays at my ear—it’s not long before I’m lul ed away from my waking state and into a deep dreamless sleep.
* * *
I wait until midmorning to tel him. Wait until the showers are taken, the clothes donned, and we find ourselves downstairs in his kitchen, sitting at the breakfast table, enjoying some chil ed bottles of elixir while Damen scans the morning papers.
I wait until I have no more excuses to delay what I know must be said.
It’s cowardly, I know, but I do it anyway.
“So, what is this? Day two or three of your week of research?” He looks up, folds his paper in half, and flashes me an irresistible smile as he tilts the bottle to his lips. “Because I think I lost track.” He wipes his mouth with his hand, then his hand on his knee.
I frown, tipping my bottle from side to side, watching the elixir spark and flare as it races up to the rim then back down again. Gnawing my lip, trying to figure out just where to start, then deciding it’s better to dive in, that there’s no reason to delay the inevitable when al paths ultimately lead to the same destination. I discard the usual preemptive pleas of: Please don’t be mad, or, just as ineffective: Please hear me out, in favor of the cleanly stated truth, saying, “I’ve decided to go on that journey.”
He looks at me, face lifting, eyes brightening, the sight of it fil ing me with instant relief—a relief that’s short lived, vanishing the moment I realize he mistook my use of the word “journey” for the vacation he’s planning.
“Oh, no, not … not that, ” I mumble, feeling about this big when I see his face drop. “I meant the journey that Lotus referred to. Though if things go as I wel as I hope, then we should have plenty of time for that too.” My hands flop in my lap as I try to force a smile onto my face, but it doesn’t get very far. It’s a false move on my part, and he knows it too.
He turns away, seemingly speechless at what I just said. But by the way his fingers grip his elixir, by the way his jaw tightens and clenches, I know he’s at no loss for words, he’s merely attempting to gather and sort them. He won’t stay silent for long.
“You’re serious.” He final y faces me. The words sounding more like a statement than the accusation I expected.
I nod, quick to chase it with an apology. “And I’m sorry. I know you’re probably not very happy to hear that.”
He looks me over, arranging his face in a way I can’t read. His words careful,
measured, when he says, “No, I can’t say that I am.” The tone exhibiting an enormous amount of self-control his energy can’t seem to mimic. Even though he has no visible aura, I can feel his vibration. I can feel his pulse quickening.
He starts to speak again, but before he can get to the words I flash my palm and stop him right there, saying, “Listen, I know what you’re going to say, trust me I do. You’re going to tel me she’s crazy, that it’s dangerous, that I need to ignore her and move on, to give you some more time to find a way for us to be able to touch each other again…” I pause for a beat, not al owing enough time for him to respond before I’m at it again. “But here’s the thing, it’s not just about us being together in the way that we want. It’s about my destiny.
My fate. My reason for being—the reason I keep coming back, being born over and over again. I have to go, there’s real y no choice.
And while I know you don’t like it, and while I know you won’t like it no matter how good an argument I wage, I’m wil ing to settle for mere grudging acceptance. Basical y, I’l settle for whatever I can get. Because Damen, while there’s definitely a good chance that she’s stark-raving crazy, there’s also just as good a chance that she’s onto something real. And I just know in my heart that this is what I need to—no, scratch that, I know in my soul that this is what I’m meant to do. It’s like she said, it’s a destiny only I can fulfil . And while I wish you could join me, while I wish that more than anything, she made it very clear that you can’t. And…” I gulp, the lump in my throat like a hot, angry firebal , but stil I push past it and add, “And I just hope you can find a way to accept that, even if you can’t get around to supporting it.”
Damen nods, taking his time to formulate a reply. Thrusting his legs out before him, crossing them at the ankle as his fingers trace the rim of the bottle. “So, what you’re tel ing me is that nothing I can say or do wil stop you from going through with this? From setting out on your own?”
I lower my gaze, thankful that our conversation has steered far from the screaming match I envisioned, and yet in some ways I’m surprised to realize it’s worse. Impassioned arguing is pretty easy to hurdle once enough time has passed, but this, this sort of grudging acceptance I thought I’d be happy to get, wel , it leaves me feeling sad, lonely, and depressingly bleak.
“And when do you plan to head off on this journey?”
“Soon.” I nod, forcing myself to look at him when I add, “Pretty much now. No reason to delay, right?”
He buries his face in his hands, spending a few silent moments rubbing his eyes, doing his best to avoid me. And when he does look up again, he stares off in the distance, past the meticulously landscaped yard, past the pool, past the ocean beyond, to some troubling mental landscape viewable only to him, careful y shielding his thoughts.
“I wish you wouldn’t do this,” he says, the words simple but heartfelt.
I nod.
“But if you insist, then I insist on going with you.” He looks at me. “It’s too dangerous—too…” He frowns, pushes his hair off his face.
“Too vague, too uncertain—I can’t just let you trot off into the muck on your own. Ever, don’t you see? You’re my whole world! I can’t just al ow you to head off on some crazy old lady’s journey!”
His eyes meet mine, showing me the ful extent of his determination. But I’m determined too, and Lotus’s instructions were crystal clear: It’s my journey—my destiny—Damen is not welcome there. And I can’t help but think that there’s a reason for that—I can’t help but think that maybe this time, it’s up to me to protect him by insisting I go it alone.