But when I look at Damen again, I start to panic. Because not only is his hand still empty, but a trail of sweat is coursing its way down his cheek for the second time in two days. Which wouldn't seem all that strange except for the fact that Damen doesn't sweat. Just like he never gets sick and never has off days, he also never sweats. No matter what the temperature outside, no matter what the task at hand, he always remains cool, calm, and perfectly able to handle whatever's before him. Until yesterday, when he failed to access the portal. And now, as he fails to manifest a simple bouquet for Miles. And when I touch his arm and ask if he's okay, I get only the slightest trickle of the usual tingle and heat.
"Of course I'm okay." He squints, raising his lids just enough to peer at me, before closing them tightly again. And even though our gaze was brief, what I glimpsed in his eyes made me grow cold and weak. Those were not the warm loving eyes I've grown used to. Those eyes were cold, distant, remote—just like I glimpsed earlier this week. And I watch as he focuses, his brow furrowed, his upper lip beaded with sweat, determined to get this over and done with so we can both move on to our perfect night. And not wanting this to drag on any further or repeat the other day when he failed to make the portal appear, I stand right beside him and close my eyes too. Seeing a beautiful bouquet of two dozen red roses clutched in his hand, inhaling their heady sweet scent while feeling the soft plush of petals that just happen to be mounted above long thorny stems—
"Ouch!" Damen shakes his head and brings his finger to his mouth, even though the wound is already healed long before it can get there. "I forgot to make a vase," he says, clearly convinced he made the flowers himself, and I have every intention of keeping it that way.
"Let me do it," I say, in an effort to please him. "You're absolutely right, I need the practice," I add, closing my eyes and envisioning the one in the dining room at home, the one with the complicated pattern of swirls and etches and luminous facets.
"Waterford crystal?" He laughs. "How much do you want him to thin
k we spent on this thing?" I laugh too, relieved that all the weirdness is over and he's back to joking again. Taking the vase he thrusts into my hands as he says, "Here. You give these to Miles while I get the car and pull it around."
"You sure?" I ask, noting how the skin around his eyes appears tense and pale, and his forehead is the slightest bit clammy. "Because we can just run in, say congrats,and run out. It doesn't have to be a big deal."
'"This way we can avoid the long line of cars and make an even quicker getaway." He smiles. "I thought you were anxious to get there."
I am. I'm as anxious as he. But I'm also concerned. Concerned about his inability to manifest, concerned about the fleeting cold look in his eyes—holding my breath as he takes a swig from his bottle, reminding myself of how quickly his wound healed, convincing myself it's a good sign.
And knowing my concern will only make him feel worse, I clear my throat and say, "Fine. You go get the car. And I'll meet you inside." Unable to ignore the startling coolness of his cheek when I lean in to kiss it.
Chapter Eleven
By the time I get backstage, Miles is surrounded by family and friends and still dressed in the white go-go boots and minidress of his very last scene as Hairspray 's Tracy Turnblad.
"Bravo! You were amazing!" I say, handing over the flowers in place of a hug since I can't risk taking on any additional energy when I'm so nervous inside I can barely handle my own. "Seriously, I had no idea you could sing like that."
"Yes you did." He sweeps his long wig to the side and buries his nose in the petals. "You've heard me perform car karaoke plenty of times."
"Not like that." I smile, and I'm serious. In fact, he was so good I plan to catch a repeat performance on another, less nervous-making night. "So where's Holt?" I ask, already knowing the answer but just trying to make conversation until Damen arrives. "Surely you've made up by now?"
Miles frowns and motions toward his dad, while I cringe and mouth sorry. Having forgotten he's out of the closet with his friends, but not yet his parents. "Don't you worry, all is well," he whispers, batting his false eyelashes and running his hands through his blond-streaked locks. "I had a temporary meltdown, but it's over with now, and all is forgiven. And speaking of Prince Charming..." I turn toward the door, eager to see Damen walk through it. My heart going into overdrive at just the mere thought of him—the whole, wonderful, glorious thought of him—and not doing much to mask my disappointment when I realize he's referring to Haven and Josh.
"What do you think?" he asks, nodding at them. "They gonna make it?" I watch as Josh slides his arm around Haven's waist, cupping his fingers and pulling her closer. But no matter how hard he tries, it's no use. Despite the fact that they're perfect together, she's focused on Roman—mirroring the way he stands, the way he tilts his head back when he laughs, the way he holds his hands—all of her energy flowing straight toward him as though Josh doesn't exist. But even though it seems mostly onesided, unfortunately Roman's the type who'd be more than willing to take her out for a test drive. I turn back to Miles and force a casual shrug.
"There's a cast party at Heather's," Miles says. "We're all headed there soon. You guys coming?"
I give him a blank look. I don't even know who that is.
"She played Penny Pingleton?"
I don't know who that is either, but I know better than to admit it, so I nod like I do.
"Don't tell me you guys were macking so much you missed the whole show!" He shakes his head in a way that makes it clear he's only partly joking.
"Don't be ridiculous, I saw the whole thing!" I say, my face flushing a thousand shades of red and knowing he'll never believe me even though it's more or less true. Because even though we were behaving ourselves and not at all macking, it was almost like our hands were macking—with the way Damen entwined his fingers with mine—and like our thoughts were mucking—with the telepathic messages we sent back and forth. Because even though my eyes were watching the whole entire time—my mind was elsewhere, already occupying our room at the Montage.
"So you coming or not?" Miles asks, his mind correctly guessing not, and not nearly as upset as I thought he might be. "So, where you two headed, anyway? What could be more exciting than partying with the cast and crew?"
And when I look at him, I'm so tempted to tell him, to share my big secret with someone I know I can trust. But just as I've convinced myself to spill it, Roman walks up with Josh and Haven in tow.
"We're heading over, anybody need a ride? It's only a two-seater, but there's room for one more." Roman nods at me, his gaze pushing, probing, even after I turn away.
Miles shakes his head. "I'm grabbing a ride with Holt, and Ever better-dealed me. Some top-secret plan she refuses to spill."
Roman smiles, his lips lifting at the corners as his eyes graze over my body. And even though, technically speaking, his thoughts could probably be considered more flattering than crude, the fact that they're coming from him is enough to give me the creeps. I avert my gaze, glancing toward the door, knowing Damen should've been here by now. And I'm just about to send him a telepathic message, telling him to step it up and meet me inside, when I'm interrupted by the sound of Roman's voice saying, "Must've kept it secret from Damen too, then. He already left."
I turn, my eyes meeting his, feeling that undeniable ping in my gut as a chill blankets my skin. "He didn't leave, " I say, not even trying to clear the edge from my voice. "He just went to pull the car around back."
But Roman just shrugs, his gaze filled with pity when he says, "Whatever you say. I just thought you should know that just now, when I stepped out for a smoke, I saw Damen pulling out of the parking lot and speeding away."