Sabine rises from the couch, her arms outstretched as she starts to move toward me, but I’m faster than she is—so much faster that I’m huddled against her wel before she can even clear the corner of the coffee table.
And it feels so good to be back that I can’t help but cry too. The two of us turning into a wet, soggy, over-apologetic mess until I remember Munoz and swipe my hand across my eyes as I say, “Hey, is there anything you guys want?” I glance between them, adding,
“I mean, you saw what I can do, al the things I’m capable of. So, with that in mind, what’l it be? A new car? A vacation house in some exotic location? Backstage passes to Bruce Springsteen?” I wiggle my brows at Munoz, knowing what a big fan he is.
But they both shake their heads.
“Are you sure?” I frown, desperately wanting to give them something. “I mean, I’m not sure if I’l stil be capable of al this once I … after I go back to how I was before. I may lose al of my powers, or at least some of my powers. Which means this could be your last chance.”
Sabine returns to Munoz and I watch as she places her hand on his shoulder and says, “What more could I possibly want when I have everything I could ever dream of right here?”
And that’s when I see it.
That’s when I see the brand-new sparkling engagement ring she wears on her left ring finger.
“Family’s the only thing that ever meant anything to me,” she says, pul ing me back into their circle. “And now that you’ve returned, I have everything. I have al that I need.”
thirty-seven
I had every intention of heading to Damen’s.
I had every intention of saying good night to Sabine and Munoz and heading right over there.
Only it didn’t quite go as planned.
Sabine and I stayed up late. Like, way late. Like, wel past the time Munoz bid us good night and headed back to his place.
The two of us hanging on the couch until the wee hours of the morning, picking at a box of leftover pizza (yes, I had a piece, or two, and I could hardly believe what I’d been missing al this time!), while getting ourselves al caught up on each other’s news—and the next thing I knew there were only a few hours left until I had to be at school.
According to Munoz, I absolutely, positively, had no choice whatsoever but to show up at school and either work some serious manifesting magick in the administrator’s office, or put in a superhuman effort at making up al that I missed, or both, if I had any hopes at al of graduating with my class.
So, instead of going to Damen’s, I chose to grab a few hours of much-needed sleep in my old room, wanting to be ful y rested and recharged when I dropped by his house, since I didn’t know how he’d react upon seeing me again, fruit at the ready. But I knew I’d need to bring my A-game.
The second I spy his black BMW in the student lot, I realize I won’t have to wait al that long. Apparently he’s stil showing up every day, attending his classes, going through the much-dreaded motions, even though, for the life of me, I can’t imagine why.
“Because I made you a promise,” he says, answering the question in my mind when he appears by my side. Holding my door open, waiting for me to climb out and join him, but for the moment anyway, I remain frozen in place.
My eyes travel over him, savoring the look of him, the feel of his presence next to mine, while the deep, aching pang in my gut reminds me of just how much I’ve missed being with him.
Despite the thril of my recent accomplishments—despite the triumph of seizing my destiny—without Damen by my side, it al dims—
it al feels so hol ow and empty.
“I searched for you.” His eyes pore over me, thirsty, drinking me in—tel ing me he missed me as much as I missed him. “Searched al over Summerland. And though I was unable to find you, I could stil sense you. That’s how I knew you were okay. Far away—in a place I couldn’t fathom—but stil okay. And it’s that comfort that kept me going, waiting for the day when you’d find your way back to me.”
I swal ow hard, swal ow past the huge lump that’s now lodged in my throat. Knowing I should say something, anything, but I can’t.
Staring at him is pretty much al that I’m capable of.
“So, when’d you get back?” His gaze remains steady, and though he strives to maintain a calm, casual vibe, I’m afraid the way I react is pretty much the opposite.
His question sets me in motion—horrible, nervous-making motion. Grabbing my bag, fooling with my hair, scratching my arm, and shifting in my seat until I final y maneuver past the offer of his hand and haul myself out of my car. My eyes darting crazily, searching for a safe place to land, which ends up being pretty much anywhere and everywhere but him.
My breath coming ragged, too fast, when I say, “Yesterday.” A truth so horrible I can’t help but cringe.
Knowing exactly how he chooses to interpret it—the only way it can be interpreted. And as much as I’d love to deny it, I can’t. There’s just no getting around the fact that I’ve been back from my journey for an entire day and yet I never found the time to see him until he just now approached me.
No way to get around the fact that I put other people before him.