“And you know where to look?”
“I do.”
He starts to say something else, but cuts himself off with a yawn that lasts forever. “I think maybe I’d better take off,” he says instead. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Good night. Thanks again.”
I watch until he leaves, then I go up to the spare room, where Sage lies tangled in the covers. There’s a pen and small steno notebook on the night table, a Post-it stuck on the cover. I pick it up and see Ben’s scrawl.
Pls write down anything unusual.
Of course. He knew I’d ask for his help, and he knew he’d come through for me. Anything unusual, though . . . I could fill the entire notebook. Maybe I should. Maybe if I write everything out, I could give it to Rayna and explain.
I messed up so badly with her. As I wash up and get changed, I run through the whole awful conversation. I should have handled it differently . . . but how? What was I going to do, just let her see Sage without explaining? Wouldn’t it be worse if she thought she had Nico back, actually saw him in front of her, and then found out the truth?
I don’t know. I can’t tell her in writing, though. That wouldn’t be fair. I have to talk to her, face-to-face. Just not now. It’s one in the morning. I’ll wait until tomorrow.
Even asleep, Sage looks like himself. Rayna once told me Nico sprawls when he sleeps, every limb splayed out in all directions. Not Sage. He’s coiled, tensed, ready to leap into action. His soul calls out to me, and I’m dying to crawl into bed next to him, but I keep seeing him through Rayna’s eyes. I feel so guilty, like I deserve to be punished. I sentence myself to a night alone and pad back to my room for a long night of dreams in which I have the same horrible conversation with Rayna, again and again.
The second I wake up, I call her. “Hey,” I tell her voice mail. “I know you hate me right now, and that’s okay. I just . . . I really need to talk to you. Rayna, please call me. I need to explain some things to you. Please. I love you.”
This is so hard. I have no idea how to make this okay, but every minute she doesn’t know the whole truth makes me feel like I’m lying to her. I text and e-mail her.
“AAAAAIIIIIIEEEEEE!!!!!!”
I jump up and race downstairs, hoping desperately that our housekeeper, Piri, saw a mouse, or a spider, or someone crossing the threshold without touching the jamb to discharge evil spirits . . . anything except Sage. The last thing in the universe I need is for Piri to tell Rayna she saw her boyfriend. It would be a complete dis—
Crap.
Piri stands in the entranceway to the kitchen, frozen. Her shopping bags dangle from the ends of her fingertips as she stares in mute horror at Sage, who hums to himself as he pulls a skillet out of the oven. He’s wearing Piri’s ASK ME ABOUT MY SAUSAGE apron, which Dad found in Hungary and thought was so funny he bought it for her, despite the fact that it made no sense on a woman.
The minute Piri sees me and knows she has an audience, she drops her shopping bags. They stay upright, which is nowhere near dramatic enough for her, so she taps one with her foot until it topples and spills apples, squash, and zucchini across the room. Sage has to have seen it happen, but he ignores it.
“I made breakfast!” he crows, and tilts the skillet so I can see inside. “Shrimp and asparagus frittata with parmesan!”
Piri points a bony finger at him, and her mouth curls in disgust. “You!”
My heart pounds. With old-world superstitious certainty, Piri always knew there was something different about Sage. Can she tell it’s really him inside Nico’s body?
She stalks to him and peers into the skillet with such disdain I’m sure she’s going to spit in it. “You went through my kitchen. You used my parmesan.”
I almost cry, I’m so relieved. Let her hate Sage for violating her cheese. I’m cool with that.
“I did,” Sage says. “And if you’d like to join us, I think you’ll be very pleased with the results.”
Piri’s eyes squint, and I know I have to get Sage out of the room as soon as possible. Even if she doesn’t suspect anything yet, she will soon. The real Nico would be falling all over himself to apologize, bowing and scraping until he won back Piri’s approval. Sage . . . not so much.
“Smells good, right?” he says.
Note to self: When a man takes over someone else’s body, probably best to brief that man on what the previous resident was like.
Then again, Sage trying to play Nico would probably be an even worse disaster.
“Why are you here,” Piri asks, “without your girlfriend?”
His eyes shoot toward me. No. Bad.
“Because,” I say brightly, “Nico wants to make Rayna a special meal, and he’s practicing to make sure he gets it right.”
Piri sniffs the air, a human lie detector. She glares up at Sage, her hands on her hips. “No more cooking in my kitchen. You want eggs? I’ll make you eggs.”
She reaches for the pan, but Sage sweeps it out of the way. “I’m good, thanks. These are fine.”
Piri’s face turns beet red as Sage flips the frittata onto a plate, then sweeps into the dining room, which I can see he’s already set with our plates and a huge pot of tea. “You coming, Clea?”
“In a sec.”
I bend close to Piri. “Sorry about Nico. He’s not himself. I think he and Rayna are going through a little rough patch.”
“Hmmm.”
“He really wants to make it up to her with a surprise. So when you see her, please don’t say anything about this. You probably shouldn’t say anything to Wanda, either. She’s not so great at keeping secrets.”
“Hmmm.”
Piri’s mouth is a thin straight line, and she won’t stop glaring into the dining room at Sage. The best thing I can do is get him out of her sight.
“Breakfast looks great,” I say as I walk into the dining room. Behind me, I hear Piri mutter in Hungarian and make spitting noises. I lower my voice. “Maybe we should take it upstairs.”
“Why? I have the table all laid out.”
“Just . . . trust me. Please.” I already have our plates and utensils in my hands and am on my way out of the room. Sage follows with the teapot. “It’s only until I talk to Rayna,” I add when we’re out of earshot. “I don’t want Piri saying anything to her, so the less she sees of you the better.”
Sage follows me into my room and I lock the door behind us, then spread a blanket on the floor. I arrange our plates on it. “Like a picnic. It’s good, right?”
“It’s perfect,” Sage says.
But he’s not looking at breakfast, he’s looking at me. He moves closer, shrinking the distance between us, and my heart thuds in my chest. I’ve been in a scattered frenzy all morning, but now the whole world shrinks down to only me and Sage. When he reaches out and cups my cheek in his hand, I close my eyes to savor his touch.
“This is life now,” he says, his voice a caress. “You and me. No one chasing us, no one stopping us . . . nothing in our way.”
He leans in, and I lose myself in his kiss. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer, breathing him in, this new scent I already love. There’s nothing else in the universe except this moment, his lips, his body, his touch. When he pulls away, I keep my eyes closed, waiting for more.
It doesn’t come.
I open my eyes and see Sage sitting on the blanket eating his half of the frittata, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Delicious. You should try it.”
With a rueful smile, I sit across from him and pour myself a cup of tea. Like last night, Sage races through his own food, then ogles mine like a cheetah stalking a gazelle.
“You can have it,” I offer. “It’s great; I’m just not hungry.”
“You sure?”
I barely nod before he grabs the plate and wolfs down every bite, then looks around the room like he’s on the prowl for more.
“Do you feel okay?” I ask.
“I feel great. Just hungry, that’s all.”
br />
I shouldn’t worry. He’s hungry, that’s not a big deal. This body just needs more fuel than the one he’s used to.
I think that, but I don’t believe it. Something feels off—something beyond the obvious—but maybe that’s because I’m still reeling from everything that’s happened.
“Think I can go downstairs and raid the pantry without your housekeeper having a fit?” he asks.
Immediately I think about Rayna—the whole reason I can’t let Piri see more of Sage—and I check my phone to see if she’s returned my texts or e-mails. She hasn’t.
“I can grab you something,” I say. “Then I should go. I really need to try to talk to Rayna.”
Sage reaches out to squeeze my hand. “Forget the food,” he says. “Go see her. And don’t worry. All you have to do is tell her the truth.”
I nod, hoping he’s right, then make him promise to lock the door after I leave. I wait in the hall until I hear the click, then slip downstairs and make my way to Rayna’s house. Wanda answers the door, but she stands like a bouncer, arms folded, her wide body blocking any way inside. “Rayna isn’t ready to see you,” she says. “Maybe you shouldn’t come back over until you hear differently.”
Wanda’s my second mom. This is the first time she’s ever seen me without pulling me into a bear hug. Her cold stare makes me feel like I’m three years old and I’ve been bad. My voice is small when I say, “I understand,” and trudge the miles that now stretch between her house and mine.
I knock gently on the door to my room when I get back, but Sage doesn’t answer. He’s probably asleep. And I’m locked out. There are definite flaws to my Keep Sage Away From Piri plan. I consider sifting through Dad’s books in the study, but I know it would take me all day to do what Ben could manage in a half hour. It would feel incredible to go for a long run . . . but all my running clothes are, of course, locked inside my room.
Then inspiration hits. My favorite cameras are locked away, but I have others all over the house. I grab one from the living room, sling it over my shoulder, and run outside. I consider driving to the beach, but I want to be close when Sage gets up, so I go back upstairs and spend the next hour snapping unique angles of the furniture, keepsakes, and subtle imperfections I usually take for granted. I shoot like I’m ravenous for the project, without a single worry about whether a shot will be perfect. I work on pure instinct. It’s absolutely magical, and time slips away. When I’m done, I run to my mom’s room and upload them to her computer. She doesn’t have the right software to do anything serious with them, but I can at least click through and check them out.
Every picture leaves me cold.
I can’t understand why. They’re exactly what I’d hoped for—fresh angles on images I always knew—but each one makes my heart sink. I enlarge each bigger and bigger, scanning for the flaw I can’t pinpoint.
Until it hits me.
Of course I’m disappointed. Sage isn’t in any of them.
I hadn’t even realized I was searching for him. I knew he wouldn’t be there—he hasn’t appeared in my pictures since he cut our soul connection. Still, I expected to find him, a treasure tucked into the background of my favorite shots.
I get it now. That’s why I was so excited to take pictures in the first place. I thought I’d have the chance to see him again. Not in Nico’s body, but in the one I’ve known in my soul all my life. Sage is alive and with me . . . but I’ll also never see him again.
“NO! OUT! OUT!”
Crap! How did I not hear my door open? For the second time today I race downstairs to find Piri and Sage in the kitchen. This time Piri’s wielding a spatula at Sage, who stands next to the refrigerator with his hands raised in mock surrender. In one of them he holds a hunk of parmesan cheese, in the other a bag of asparagus stalks.
“Easy,” he says. “I’m just making breakfast.”
“No!” she shouts. “Out of the kitchen!”
“Nico?” I ask, but he doesn’t respond until I put a hand on his shoulder and squeeze. “Nico? What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to make us breakfast.”
“This is not right,” Piri grumbles. “This is very bad.”
“Leave it alone!” Sage snaps. “Clea, can you get her out of the kitchen, please?”
I flash Piri a quick smile, then turn back to Sage. “Actually, maybe we should go back upstairs.”
“No. I’m hungry. I’m making breakfast.”
I sidle close to him and speak through clenched teeth. “You already made breakfast. I said if you were hungry I’d get you something else.” I shoot a meaningful glance toward Piri, but there’s no comprehension in his eyes.
“What are you talking about?”
“Breakfast. The frittata you made.”
“How do you know I’m making a frittata?”
A chill runs down my spine. “Can you come upstairs with me?” I ask Sage.
“I’m cooking.”
“Please?”
He grimaces, but he puts down the parmesan and asparagus and follows me out of the room. As we pass the dining room, I notice the table is again set for a meal, complete with another big pot of tea.
“You do know you already made breakfast this morning, right?” I ask when we’re halfway up the stairs.
“What do you mean?”
“You got up, you set the dining room table, and you made a frittata. Piri walked in and yelled at you for being in her kitchen, then we went up to my room to eat. We had a picnic on the floor. You don’t remember that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
We reach my door and I pull it open. Sure enough, the floor is still littered with the detritus of our meal. Sage stares.
“What’s all this?”
“I told you.”
“No . . . this wasn’t here before.”
“It was. You just don’t remember.”
He looks worried, so I reach out and put a hand on his arm. He yanks away.
“It wasn’t!”
“It’s okay,” I say, masking my fear with a calm voice. “You forgot. I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything . . .”
“I didn’t forget! I’m telling you, Clea, these were not here!”
His face twists in anger. I suddenly feel very small next to his huge, muscular frame, and my voice sounds meek and scared.
“Please don’t yell at me.”
“Then stop lying to me!” He stomps on one of the plates, shattering it.
“What’s happening up there?” Piri calls. She’s coming upstairs. I can tell. I know something is very wrong with Sage—there’s no way he’d talk to me like this otherwise—but right now I have to deal with Piri, and I can’t do it unless Sage stays calm and out of my way. I have to placate him. Hating myself a little, I hang my head.
“I’m so sorry. . . . It was my mistake. I don’t know what I was thinking. Forget everything I said. I’ll go get something to clean this up and I’ll be right back, okay?” I reach out and squeeze his hand while I give him a hopeful smile, and after a moment he grudgingly returns the squeeze.
I slip out the door, close it behind me, race for the stairs . . . and practically slam into Piri. She carries a broom like a club over one shoulder.
“We call 9-1-1,” she says when she sees me. “Now.”
“No. We do not call 9-1-1.”
“I don’t like that boy, Clea. He changed.”
“You’re wrong,” I lie. “Nico’s upset about Rayna. That’s it. He’s fine, I’m fine . . . everything is fine. It’s better than fine. For you, I mean.”
I’m scrambling, and Piri can tell. She narrows her eyes and looks at me dubiously. “For me?”
“Yes! I want to show you something. Come with me.” From my bedroom I hear the crunch of Sage stepping on another plate, but I ignore it and lead Piri downstairs. I have no idea what I’m going to show her until I hit the first floor and inspiration strikes.
“Piri, my mom and I have been ta
lking, and we want to send you on a vacation.”
I rattle off what I hope is a convincing story about Mom and I wanting to surprise her with a trip to Foxwoods Casino, a place I know she loves. I say we want to send her immediately—this very night—but I’m going to book it right now with her in the room so she can choose any spa treatments or shows she wants to see.
We’ve never done anything like this for her before, and I can tell she thinks it’s strange. Yet once I pick up the phone and start making arrangements she gets excited and jumps in with a huge list of requests. It’s cute, actually—her eyes light up and she bounces up and down excitedly as I book everything she asks for. She even squeals when I get her a table close to the stage for a magic show she’s dying to catch. It makes me wish Mom and I had planned this for her ages ago.
By the time I’m off the phone, Piri isn’t concerned about anything except her trip. She gives me a huge bear hug and kisses me on both cheeks before practically floating out of the house. I hold my breath as I watch her car on the security camera screens, terrified she’ll see Wanda or Rayna and stop to chat and say something about Nico, but thankfully it doesn’t happen.
“Did I do this?”
I jump at the voice. It’s Sage, and he holds one of the broken plates like he doesn’t know how it got into his hand.
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember it.”
He looks crushed. Whatever made him so violent before is gone now, and he’s so sad I just want to make him feel better. “Don’t worry,” I say. “You’re disoriented, that’s all.”
“Sure.” He still stares at the plate. Gently I pull it from him and set it on the table, then take his hands in mine. I wait for him to look at me, and when he does, when I see the man I love in those eyes, I can’t help but be positive everything will turn out okay.
“Listen to me,” I say. “You’re going to be fine.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I do, though. Whatever else is happening . . . you’re here. You’re human. We’re together. We have our whole lives ahead of us, and we’re starting them right now.”
For the rest of the day, I don’t leave Sage’s side. He never gets angry, and he doesn’t have any more memory lapses. When he takes a nap, I write down what happened in the steno book Ben left me, then watch Sage sleep. I want to be the first thing he sees when he wakes up. I want to ground him in reality.