He turns, turns until he’s facing me, and one look at his face is all it takes to know that this is even worse than I thought. And I know I have to say something quick, something to temper all this, but before I can even open my mouth, he’s back for round two, forcing me to sit back and wait for my turn.
“And you know what really kills me the most? You know who saw fit to finally fill me in on all this?” He pauses as though waiting for me to respond, but I won’t, the question was obviously rhetorical. This is his show, his script, and I have no intention of stealing his scene. “The one and only person out of your entire super-secret gang of the eternally beautiful—the only one out of all of you who was willing to sit down and level with me, without pulling any punches or trying to pass off any kind of bull—the one and only person who was willing to look me in the eye and reveal all was surprisingly enough—”
And before he can finish—before he can utter the word I already know.
Damen.
Remembering the moment Miles e-mailed the portraits he’d uncovered in Florence—the portraits Roman was determined he’d find.
The way Damen’s fingers trembled as I passed him the phone, the way his lids narrowed, his jaw tightened, the way he so valiantly accepted the sudden unearthing of his centuries-old secret.
The way he vowed to come clean with Miles, to stop hiding, stop lying, to finally tell the truth and get it all out in the open.
But never once believing he’d actually go through with it.
“Damen.” Miles confirms, nodding emphatically, gaze never once leaving mine. “And when you consider the fact that I’ve known him for—what? Less than a year? Less time than I’ve known you anyway, that’s for dang sure, and certainly far less time than I’ve known Haven. And yet he’s the one who told me. Despite the fact that I talk to him far, far less than I talk to either of you—he’s the one who chose to be straight with me. Even though he’s always been the quiet keep-to-himself type—and now I know why—but anyway, even though we’ve never really bonded, so to speak, he’s still the only one who treated me like a true friend. Like someone he could trust and confide in. He just sat me down and spilled it—told me the truth about you, about him, about—about everything—all of it!”
“Miles—” I start, my voice hesitant, unsure what to say, unsure if he’s really ready to listen to me anyway.
But when he stops long enough to gaze at me, head cocked to the side, brow raised in a challenge, I know that he is. Yet before I can even begin to go there, before I can start up with the whole laundry list of reasons for why I purposely kept him in the dark—all the very good and valid reasons for why he should be glad he was kept in the dark—I need to see for myself.
Need to see what Damen told him.
The exact words he used.
And, even more important, why he decided to divulge everything now, when surely some of it could’ve waited ’til later—much later, in fact.
Closing my eyes for a moment, allowing my mind to merge with his. Knowing I’m reneging on my promise to never spy on my friends’ innermost thoughts or memories unless absolutely imperative, and forging ahead anyway, desperate to see just what went down that day.
The words forgive me filling the space that divides us, blossoming, growing, ’til I can practically see the letters taking shape.
Hoping he can sense the words too, and will soon find a way to pardon what I’m about to do.
twelve
I reach over the counter quickly. So quickly Miles has no way to stop me. No idea what’s about to happen until it’s too late. Slamming his wrist hard onto the glass, harder than I intended, I secure my hand over his in a way that presses his palm flat against it, rendering him completely helpless. Vaguely aware of his struggle, the way he squirms and wriggles and tries to break free.
But it’s no use.
His fight barely registers. It’s less than a blip on my screen.
When it comes to brute strength, there’s no matching me.
And when he finally realizes that, he heaves a deep sigh and settles in, opening his mind, and surrendering to what he knows I’m about to do.
I slip inside his head, fluidly, easily, taking a moment to get my bearings and have a brief look around, before I discard all extraneous thoughts and swoop in on the exact scene I came here to see.
Seeing Miles climb into Damen’s car, at first relaxed and happy, anticipating a nice off-campus lunch, only to grab hold of his seat in a death grip—his eyes wide, face a mask of fright, as Damen speeds out of the school parking lot and onto the street.
And to be honest, I’m not sure what surprises me more—the fact of what Damen’s about to do—or that he’s still keeping his promise of going to school and attending all of his classes even though I’ve clearly reneged on mine.
“No worries,” Damen says, glancing at Miles, his face creasing into a smile. “You’re perfectly safe. I can almost guarantee that.”
“Almost?” Miles flinches, shoulders scrunching, eyes squinching, as Damen maneuvers in and out of a long string of cars traveling well below his unnaturally high speed. Cautiously venturing a quick glimpse at him as he says, “Well, at least I know where you get it—you drive as crazy as everyone else in Italy!” He shakes his head and winces again.
Causing Damen to laugh even harder.
The mere sound of it causing my heart to swell in a way I can barely contain.