Everlasting

  Not getting a chance to finish before he turns, his face wearing an expression so dark and stormy I can’t help but flinch. “What could it hurt?” His mouth goes grim as his eyes fix on mine. “After al that we’ve been through—did you real y mean to ask that?”

  I kick my toe against the rug, feeling far more serious than he realizes, far more serious than I’m prepared to let on. Instinctively knowing deep down inside that the scene we just witnessed bore way more meaning than he’d care to admit. The universe is not at al random. There’s a definite reason for everything. And I’ve no doubt in my heart, in my soul, that that seemingly crazy, blind old lady is offering a clue to something I real y need to know.

  Though I have no idea how to convince Damen of that.

  “Is this real y how you want to spend our winter break? Sleuthing after some demented old woman’s riddle? Trying to track down a deeper meaning that, in my humble opinion, does not exist?”

  Better than the alternative, I think, though I restrict the words to my head. Remembering Sabine’s face the night after I’d final y returned home in the wee hours of the morning—just after sending my former best friend to the Shadowland and the impromptu memorial that fol owed in Summerland. The way she looked at me, her robe cinched tightly around her, her lips colorless and grim. But her eyes were the worst—the normal y bright blue irises eclipsed by the deep lavender circles that spread just beneath. Staring at me with a horrible combination of anger and fear, her voice harsh, the words measured, wel rehearsed, when she gave me the choice between getting the help she’s convinced that I need or finding another place to live. Sure I was just being obstinate when I nodded, circled back, and made my way out the door.

  Made my way over to Damen’s, where I’ve been ever since.

  I clear the thought from my head, tucking it away to a place I’l later revisit. Knowing that at some point I’l have to deal with our issues head-on, but for now, this situation with the dark side of Summerland clearly takes precedence.

  I can’t al ow for distractions, not when I stil have one more good point to make. Something I know he’d hoped would go unmentioned the moment I notice the flash of trouble that crosses his face.

  “She knew your name,” I say, dismayed by the way he casual y lifts his shoulders, tries to wave it away.

  “She hangs out in Summerland, a place where knowledge is plentiful. There for the taking.” He quirks a brow as his mouth tugs up at the side. “I’m sure it’s al there in the Great Hal s of Learning for just about anyone to find.”

  “Not just anyone, ” I state. “Only the worthy.” Having experienced its opposite firsthand, remembering the not-so-long-ago time when I was counted among the un worthy, when the Great Hal s of Learning barred me from entering until I pul ed myself together, and got my good mojo—as Jude would say—back on track again. A terrible time I hope to never revisit.

  Damen looks at me, and while it’s clear he has no immediate plans to surrender, it’s also clear he’s al for finding a compromise. This sort of defensiveness and evasiveness is getting us nowhere. We need action. We need to form a plan.

  “She knew you were cal ed Esposito.” I eyebal him careful y, wondering how he’l try to squirm out of that. “Your orphan name,” I add, referring to the name that was imposed on him back when he was mortal, just after his parents were murdered and he, left alone with no one to care for him, became a ward of the church.

  And though he’s quick to reply, saying, “Again, more information that’s available to anyone who seeks it. Amounting to no more than an unhappy memory of a long-ago past I prefer not to dwel on.” He chases it with a sigh, a sure sign that the fight’s seeping out of him along with his breath.

  “She also cal ed you by another name. Notte?” I look at him, my gaze making it clear that while he may prefer to brush it off and move on to other subjects, I’m not quite through with this one. I need answers. Real and solid answers. A shrug and quirked eyebrow don’t begin to qualify.

  He turns away, but only for a moment, before he’s back to facing me. And the way his shoulders slope, the way his hands sink deep into his pockets, the way his jaw softens in silent resignation—wel , it makes me feel bad for pushing it like this. Though the feeling doesn’t last long, it’s soon overruled by curiosity, as I cross al my limbs and wait for his reply.

  “Notte. ” He nods, giving the name a beautiful, Italian twist I couldn’t manage if I’d tried. “One of my names. One of the many, many surnames I went by.”

  I look at him, not al owing myself to blink, not wanting to miss a thing.

  Watching the path of his long lean body as he swal ows, rubs his chin, crosses his legs at the ankle, and settles back against the window ledge. Taking a moment to mess with the shutters, gaze out at the pool, the moonlit ocean beyond, before snapping it shut and turning to me. “She cal ed me Augustus too, which was my second name—my middle name. My mother insisted on one, though they weren’t so common at the time. And, since you and I first met in August, on August eighth to be exact, wel , I later adopted it as a last name, changing it a bit to match the month, thinking there was some kind of deeper meaning behind it. That it somehow connected me to you.”

  I swal ow hard, my fingers fiddling with the crystal horseshoe bracelet he gave me that day at the track, a little overwhelmed by a sentiment I didn’t expect.

  “But, you have to understand, Ever, I’ve been around for a very long time. I had no choice but to change my identity every now and again. I couldn’t afford for anyone to catch on to my abnormal y long life span, as wel as the truth of … what I am. ”

  I nod, everything he’s said so far makes perfect sense, but there’s more, much more, and he knows it. “So how far back does the name Notte go, anyway?” I ask.

  He shutters his eyes, rubs the lids. Keeping them closed when he says, “All the way back. Back to the very beginning. It’s my family name. My true surname.”

  I steady my breath, determined not to overreact. My mind swimming with so many questions, the most prominent being: How the hell did the old lady know that? Soon fol owed by: How the hell did the old lady know that when I didn’t even know that?

  “There was no reason to mention it.” He addresses the thought in my mind. “The past is just that— past. Over. There’s no reason to revisit. I much prefer to concentrate on the present, right now, this moment in time.” His face lifts a little, as his dark eyes light upon mine.

  Glinting with the promise of a brand new idea, he makes a move in my direction, hoping I’l agree to the distraction.

  His progress soon halted when I say, “You don’t seem to mind revisiting the past when we go to the pavilion.” And when I see the way he flinches, I chide myself for not being fair.

  The pavilion, the beautiful gift he manifested for my seventeenth birthday, is the only place where we can truly be together—wel , keeping within the confines of the events of the time. But stil , it’s the only place where we can truly enjoy skin-on-skin contact, free of the fear of him dying, free of any worries of invoking the DNA curse that keeps us separated here on the earth plane. We just choose a scene from one of our past lives, merge into it, and enjoy getting swept away by the lush, romantic moment. And I ful y admit to loving it every bit as much as he does.

  “I’m sorry,” I start. “I didn’t mean—”

  But he just waves it away. Having reclaimed his position at the windowsil when he says, “So what is it you’d have me do, Ever?” His gaze making up in kindness what the words seemed to lack. “Just where would you have me take it from here? I’m wil ing to tel you anything you want to know about my past. I’l gladly draw up a timeline of every name I was ever known by, including the reason I chose it. We don’t need some crazy old lady for that. It’s not my intention to hide anything from you, or deceive you in any way. The only reason we haven’t gone over it before is because it just seemed so unnecessary. I much prefer to look forward than back.”

  The silence tha
t fol ows has him rubbing his eyes and stifling a yawn, and a quick peek at his bedside clock reveals why—it’s stil deep into the middle of the night. I’ve kept him from sleep.

  I reach out, offering my hand as I pul him close to me, toward the bed. Smiling at the way his eyes light up for the first time since he awoke to me thrashing and kicking my way out of a horrible nightmare. Quickly overcome by the swarm of his warmth, the tingle and heat only he can provide. His arms sliding around me as he pushes me back—back onto the blankets, the rumpled pil ows and sheets, his lips sweeping the ridge of my col arbone before dusting my neck.

  Mine at his ear, nipping, tugging the lobe, voice barely a whisper, I say, “You’re right. This can wait until morning. For now, I just want to be here.”

  three

  After two solid weeks of waking up in Damen’s bed, wrapped in Damen’s arms, you’d think I’d have grown used to it by now.

  But nope.

  Not even close.

  Though I could get used to it.

  I’d like to get used to it.

  Used to the solid assurance of his body snuggled tightly around mine, the warmth of his breath at my ear …

  But as of now, I’m nowhere near.

  I’m always a little disoriented at first. Requiring a handful of moments to piece it together, take stock of this new set of circumstances.

  Determine my location, my situation, and just how I came to find myself here.

  And it’s always that last part, that how-I-got-here part, that never fails to deflate me.

  Which is never a good way to greet a new day.

  “Buon giorno, ” Damen whispers, his voice a little scratchy, unused. Choosing to start each morning with one of the many languages he speaks, today settling on his native Italian, pushing his face into the curtain of long blond hair that spil s down my neck, while inhaling deeply.

  “Buon giorno, yourself,” I say, the words muffled, spoken straight into the plush, down-fil ed pil ow my face is burrowed into.

  “How’d you sleep?”

  I rol onto my back, push my hair out of my eyes, and enjoy a nice, long moment of simply admiring him. Realizing that’s yet another thing that I’m stil not quite used to—the look of him. The pure and startling beauty of him. It’s a pretty awe-inducing sight.

  “Okay.” I shrug, stealing a moment to close my eyes so I can manifest some minty fresh breath before I continue, “I mean, I don’t remember it, so that must be a good sign, right?”

  He lifts himself off the sheet, settling his weight onto his elbow while resting his head against his palm to better see me. “You don’t remember it? None of it?” he asks in a voice that’s ridiculously hopeful.

  “Wel , let’s see…” I fake ponder, index finger tapping my chin. “I remember you turning off the lights and sliding in beside me…” I sneak a peek at him. “I remember your hands … or at least the almost feel of your hands…” His gaze blurs ever so slightly, a sure sign he’s remembering too. “And I seem to vaguely remember the almost feel of your lips … but, like I said, the memory’s pretty vague so I can’t be too sure…”

  “Vague? ” He grins, eyes flashing in a way that makes it al too clear just how wil ing he is to refresh my memory.

  I return the smile, though it soon fades when I say, “Oh, and yeah, I seem to remember something about a late-night/early-morning impromptu visit to Summerland, and the crazy old lady where we buried Haven’s belongings, and how you, somewhat reluctantly, agreed to help me uncover the meaning of her crazy, cryptic message.…” I meet his gaze again, and yep, it’s just as I thought. He looks as though I’d opened a spigot and dumped a load of cold water right onto his head.

  He turns on his back and stares at the ceiling, engaging in a moment of deep, thoughtful silence, before he sits up, swings his legs over the side, and fights to untangle the sheet from his knee.

  “Damen—” I start, unsure of what fol ows, but it’s not like it matters, he’s quick to fil in the blanks.

  “I was hoping we could spend our winter break doing other things.” He moves toward the window where he stops, looks at me.

  “What kind of things?” I narrow my gaze, wondering what other things there could possibly be.

  “Wel , for starters, don’t you think it’s time we settled this whole thing with Sabine?”

  I grab the pil ow from his side, and plop it right over my face. A move I recognize as being incredibly ineffective, not to mention immature, but at the moment, I don’t care. I mean, if I don’t even want to think about Sabine, then I think it’s safe to say that I real y don’t want to talk about Sabine either. But there he is, attempting to chat about my number-one, off-limits, completely taboo—or at least for the moment anyway—subject.

  “Ever…” He plucks at the pil ow, but I just grip it tighter. “You can’t leave it like this. It’s not right. You have to go back there eventual y.”

  He tugs one more time before sighing and retreating to his place by the window.

  “You kicking me out?” I lower the pil ow to my bel y, turn on my side, and wrap my arms around it, as though it’l shield me from whatever comes next.

  “No!” He’s quick to shake his head. Fingers raking through his tangle of hair, making sense of it, pushing it back into place. Gazing at me with a look of outright astonishment when he says, “Why would I do that?” His hand returns to his side, settles by his leg. “I love going to bed with you, just as much as I love waking up with you. I thought you knew that?”

  “Are you sure?” I venture, reading the dismay in his gaze. “I mean, it’s not too frustrating? You know, the two of us sleeping with each other, without being able to real y and truly sleep with each other?” I press my lips together, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks.

  “The only thing I find frustrating is you trying to hide under a pil ow in order to avoid talking about Sabine.”

  I close my eyes, al owing my fingers to mindlessly pick at the pil owcase seam, aware of my mood shifting, changing, slipping to the opposite side of his, and hoping I can stop it before it goes too far, divides us too much.

  “There’s nothing to say. She thinks I’m crazy. I think I’m not. Or at least not in the way that she thinks.” I peer at him, trying to insert a little levity, but it slides right past him. He’s taking this far too seriously. “Anyway, she’s so entirely sold on her opinion that my only real choice is to agree with it, or go away. That’s the choice she presented me with. And yeah, while I freely admit that it hurts, hurts in a way that goes pretty dang deep, there’s stil this part of me that can’t help but think maybe it’s for the better. You know?”

  His eyes narrow, thinking, weighing, before he folds his arms across his chest, causing his muscles to twitch and then settle. “No, I don’t know. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

  “Wel , it’s like you always say: I’l have to say my good-byes eventual y—sooner rather than later. I mean, according to you, that’s pretty much a given, right? So what’s the point of making peace, of insisting on hanging around for a few more months, when I’l have to split soon anyway? You said so yourself; it won’t be long before she catches on—before everyone catches on. She’l see that neither one of us has aged, not even a day. And since there’s no logical way to explain something like that, and since Sabine’s a person who expects nothing less than absolute black-and-white logic, wel , there’s real y not much more to say on the subject, is there?”

  We exchange a look, and although I’ve hit al the points, including the ones that original y came from him, it’s clear he needs more.

  He’s stil not convinced of why I shouldn’t get out of bed, march myself over there, and try to make peace. Which means he’s either being incredibly stubborn, or I’ve failed to make my case, or both.

  “It’s like, why delay the inevitable?” I swal ow hard and hug the pil ow again. “I mean, maybe this whole thing happened for a reason.

  You know how I’ve been dreading the good-bye,
and so, now that this has happened, maybe it’l just make it easier—maybe this is just the solution I’ve been looking for al this time— maybe this is like a gift from the universe?” The words coming so quickly, I pause to catch my breath, though one look in his eyes makes it clear he’s stil not riding tandem with me. So I decide to switch gears, try another approach, hoping this one might work a little better. “Tel me, Damen, tel me for reals, in al of your years, with al of your arrivals and departures, so to speak, did you never once pick a fight, or even use a fight as a reason to leave?”

  “Of course I did.” He averts his gaze, fingers picking at the waistband of his black cotton briefs. “On more than one occasion, I assure you. But that doesn’t mean it was the right thing to do.”

  I fal quiet, having nothing more to add. Squinting as he turns to adjust the shutters, welcoming a dul slant of light from what appears to be a very gray, sunless, mid-December day.

  “Maybe you’re right.” He studies the scenery. “Maybe this wil make for the cleanest break. It’s not like you can tel her the truth. It’d be like fuel to her fire. She wouldn’t accept it. And if by some miracle she did, wel , then, she’d be quick to condemn it. And the worst part is, she’d be right. What I’ve done—what I’ve made you—it’s unnatural. It goes against every law of nature.” He pauses, turns back to me, a look of true regret marring his gaze. “If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that we are not living the life that was intended. Our bodies are immortal, true, but our souls clearly are not. Our lives flaunt the most fundamental laws of nature. We are the opposite of what we were meant to be.”

  I start to speak up, start to say something, if for no other reason than the fact that I hate to see him this way. But he won’t let me. He’s far from finished. Stil got a few more points he’s determined to make.