THOSE WHO MARRY A LUCENT FEMALE MUST INCLUDE THE HIDING OF HER ABILITIES INTO THEIR SEALING VOWS.
By the time Collin stopped pulling down the books he could find on Eivan, the day was already gone. Thursday and Friday, I’d gone back with his permission and studied everything I could cram in—which wasn’t much. The thing was, Collin wouldn’t actually let me touch the books. Even he handled them with rubber gloves on, and it took him a full seventeen seconds to turn each page. Once, toward the end of the night, I leaned in too close and he clothes-lined me, nearly taking out my larynx.
Apparently breathing on the books was a no, no.
Friday night, I flashed to Belize. My parents had booked us a hotel room instead of our regular cabins. I didn’t exactly know if my presence would be welcomed by Colby.
I landed unceremoniously on the bed, toeing off my shoes before the shrill of my mother’s yell startled me.
“Theodore Romero Ramsey, you come in and don’t even let us know!”
I looked in the direction she was coming from, the bathroom. It was just like my mom to give me no personal space. I was twenty years old, and she still thought an adjoining bathroom was a good idea.
“Mom, I’m exhausted. I would’ve called in a few minutes.”
Her stern face didn’t faze me.
“I know. Come on, let me see you.”
That was mom-speak for let me squeeze the life out of you while simultaneously not-so-coolly checking if you’ve lost weight or suddenly stopped bathing.
“Son, don’t give your mother a hard time.” My father’s voice beckoned me to motion.
“I’m not. I’m just tired.”
I made my way over to them, endured the sniffing and measuring of my mom and the back-clapping embrace of my father. I wasn’t sure if I passed the test with my mom, but my arms had gone around a lot more of her this time. My parents had me late in life, and after my mom had turned fifty, she began having trouble flashing long distances—and now she could only flash once every few years and short distances. Out of boredom and frustration, she’d taken up cooking, and it showed. Even my dad, who’d once been a stickler for exercise and health, now sported a peach-cobbler belly.
“Hazel, let’s leave him to rest. Son, we’re going shopping. We have our phones. We will see you tonight at dinner, right?”
“Yes, Dad. Does she know?”
“No,” Mom answered. “Sable knows, but not Colby.”
I nodded in reply and yawned.
They left me to my thoughts—which always strayed back to her. I walked over to the sliding glass door and looked out onto the beach, searching her out with my eyes. Instead of searching for journals and texts which only held obtuse bits of information, I should’ve been honing my seeking skills. There had been seekers before. It was a common secondary gift for females. Some stories said they could pinpoint a person down to the specific room where they were. So far, I only knew the general area people were in and what country.
Right now, scouring the sea of bodies on the beach for hers would be a perfect time to sharpen that skill.
I chuckled to myself at the girls on the beach. Hundreds of them lounged on the sand hoping to perfect their tans. If I knew Colby, and I did, she’d be under an umbrella praying for the Almighty to give her the power to block out UV rays. Her mom and her grandmother were the same way. Her grandmother, though seventy years old, could pass for a woman in her forties. Her skin was nearly wrinkle-free and without a blemish. Sable and Colby wished for the same thing, so they followed the elderly woman’s strict advice: avoid the sun; it was made to heat the Earth, not bake your skin.
After almost giving up, I spotted the biggest umbrella advertising some bottled beer with a Spanish name. I pressed my fingertips to the glass, trying to touch her. Though I could only see her legs, I knew them by heart. She was ingrained in me—intermingled with the cells in my skin. I would know her in a sea of people. I could recognize her form in an ocean of clones.
Just because she denied it, didn’t mean she wasn’t mine.
She scissored her legs using one to scrape sand off the opposite foot. She liked the warmth of the sand as it cradled her body while she lay in it. There was something, she always cooed, about how the sand was so close to the ocean, yet so far away, that called to her. She loved the beach. No matter what country, ocean or time zone, she had an equal opportunity beach obsession.
I’d once imagined our sealing to be held on a beach of her choice. With her in a simple white dress, her hair caught in the torrent of the ocean’s gust.
Colby shot up to a seated position and looked directly at the hotel. There was no way she could ever see me all the way in the Penthouse, but I ducked behind the cover of the wall anyhow. I knocked my head against the hotel wall, completely dumbstruck again by her beauty. I peeked back out to see that she’d relented and relaxed once more under her protective shade.
The first time I ever saw Colby was in Kindergarten. She was wearing rain boots on the sunniest first day of school with lime green leggings and a hot pink dress with black polka dots. My first thought was to ask her why she was dressed like a slice of watermelon. The teacher made us all introduce ourselves by standing at our desks. We had to state our name and then our favorite thing to do. I said my name was Theo and that I loved to play checkers. She stood and said her name was Colby, pointing her glare in my direction and declaring, “My favorite thing to do is not play checkers.”
She earned my heart with her checker-hating, watermelon-outfit-wearing spunk. Even at that tender age, all I wanted to do was jump up and kiss her pink lips.
Those days seemed like ages ago.
And there I was, no longer in love with checkers, but still in love with her.
I dressed for dinner in dark-washed jeans and a button-down white shirt. It was a beach, after all, so I passed on the Chucks and went for the flip-flops. I stepped in front of the mirror and took a deep breath. This appearance tonight was going to give it all away—the secret of my newest gift. Best bet: she would think I was amazing and throw her arms around me, accepting me and my ever-growing bag of tricks. Worst case scenario, and the one I most expected, all of this would make things worse and our only communication, my unanswered e-mails, would be trashed instead of read.
These were the stupid things I did—taking wild chances to get her back.