“While you and I have no expiration date, this little project of yours does—as you clearly agreed. So, tel me, where do we start?” He looks at me, awaits further instruction on how to proceed.
I check out my profile, smoothing my hands over the stray wisps of hair that insist on springing out from the sides, thinking I should try something else, that I’m not quite pleased with the reflection that stares back, when I take a deep breath and force myself to accept it.
Whenever I look at me, al I see are things I’d like to change.
Whenever Damen looks at me, al he sees is a glorious gift from the universe.
Somewhere in the middle lies the truth.
“C’mon.” I turn away from me in favor of him, knowing we have no time to waste, that a busy week, a week like I’ve planned, can feel like only a minute or two when it’s al said and done.
Grasping his hand in mine, we stand side by side, the two of us envisioning that soft golden veil of shimmering light, the one that leads us to Summerland.
We skip the vast fragrant field of glistening flowers and pulsating trees, choosing to land at the foot of the broad swath of steps that leads right up to the Great Hal s of Learning. Pausing a moment, our thoughts silenced, eyes wide, looking upon it with such awe our breath halts right in our throats.
Taking in its beautiful elaborate carvings, its grand sloping roof, its imposing columns, its impressive front doors—al of its vast and varied parts rapidly shifting, conjuring images of the Great Pyramids of Giza morphing into the Lotus Temple, which transforms into the Taj Mahal, and so on. The building reshaping, reforming, until the world’s greatest wonders are represented in its ever-changing façade.
Admitting only those who can see it for what it truly is—an awe-inspiring place created of love, and knowledge, and everything good.
The doors spring open before us, and we hurry up the stairs and into the large spacious entry fil ed with the most bril iant warm light—
a luminous showering radiance that, like the rest of Summerland, permeates every nook and cranny, every corner, every space, al owing for no shadows or dark spots (except for the ones of my making) and doesn’t seem to emanate from any one place.
We move among white marble columns that appear to have been lifted right out of ancient Greek times, along multiple rows of long, carved wooden tables and benches crowded with priests, rabbis, shamans, seekers of every kind, including: Jude?
The moment his name appears in my mind, he lifts his head and looks right at me. Thoughts are things, consisting of energy of the purest kind, and here in Summerland they can be heard by just about anybody.
“Ever…” He lifts a hand to his forehead, smoothing the area just above his spliced brow before moving to the tangle of long bronze dreadlocks he pushes away from his face. “And Damen…” His expression remains inscrutable, unreadable, though it’s clear he’s working pretty hard to keep it that way.
He rises from his seat, a little reluctantly to my eye. But when Damen moves toward him with a grin that lights up his face, Jude does his best to match it with one of his own, al owing his dimples to spring into place.
I stay put, watching the two of them engage in the usual palm-smacking, back-slapping, male-greeting ritual. Trying to read the meaning behind Jude’s reddened cheeks, not to mention the flash of chagrin in his aqua-green gaze.
I mean, even though he and Damen have cal ed a truce, even though he’s now in on pretty much al of our biggest secrets and has no plans to spil them, even though I’m absolutely certain that his uncanny ability to thwart al my best plans is not at al calculated on his part, but that something else, some higher force, is driving him to do it, to always interfere at the absolute worst time possible—I can’t stop from hesitating, can’t overcome my reluctance to greet him.
But it only takes a moment for me to recognize that hesitation for what it real y is.
Guilt.
Good old-fashioned guilt.
No more, no less.
The kind of guilt that comes from sharing a long, somewhat convoluted, and at times quite romantic past with someone, and yet, in the end, always choosing someone else.
No matter how hard Jude tried, I always chose Damen over him. And just very recently, I’ve done so again.
Yet despite my knowing I made the best choice, the right choice, the only choice, despite my instinctively knowing there’s someone else out there, someone who’s much better suited for him than me, Jude doesn’t quite see it that way.
He glances back and forth between us, his gaze ultimately settling on mine in a way that causes an unmistakable wave of cool, languid calm to flow through my body—a phenomenon I’ve experienced only with him, in this life as wel as the others before it. And try as he might to stay distant and neutral, it’s impossible to miss the flash of longing that plays in his gaze—a smal seed of hope he stil isn’t free of. Even though it’s over in a second, even though he’s quick to replace it with something else, something containing far less ache, something far more benign, I take a moment to manifest a bright shining night star over his head, wishing once again that he’l soon find the one person in the universe who’s meant just for him, who’s far better suited than I could ever be.
Then I make it disappear before they can see it.
“What brings you here?” I force a smile onto my face and keep it there until it starts to feel real.
He shuffles, rocks back and forth on his heels as his hands fumble at the loops of his jeans. Sorting through his thoughts, careful y weighing his options, deciding between complete or partial honesty, and going with complete when he says, “I just like it here. I can’t help it. Though Ava warns me not to overdo it, I just can’t seem to stay away.”
“Summerland is like that.” Damen nods, as though he completely understands, as though he’s actual y struggled with the same temptation himself. And who knows, maybe he has and we just haven’t gotten around to covering that. “The lure is pretty great,” he adds.