“I don’t necessarily believe that death controls us,” I amend carefully. “But you can’t argue that it wins in the long run. Every time. Because we all die, Dare. So death wins, not love.”
He snorts. “Tell that to Perseus and Andromeda. They’re immortal in the sky.”
I snort right back. “They’re also not real.”
Dare stares at me, willing me to see his point of view and I’m suddenly confused about how we started out talking about love and are now talking about death. Leave it to me to work that into conversation.
“I’m sorry,” I offer. “I guess it’s a hazard of living where I do. Death is always present.”
“Death is big,” Dare acknowledges. “But there are things bigger than that. If there’s not, then this is all for nothing. Life is worth nothing. Putting yourself out there, and taking chances and all that. All of that stuff is bollocks if it can just disappear in the end.”
I shrug and look away. “I’m sorry. I just believe in the right here and right now. That’s what we know and that’s what we can count on. And I don’t like to think about the end.”
Dare looks back at the sky, but he’s still pensive. “You seem rather pessimistic today, Calla-Lily.”
I swallow hard, because I do sound like a shrew. A jaded, ugly, bitter person.
“My mom died a few weeks ago,” I tell him and the words scrape my heart. “It’s still hard to talk about.”
He pauses and nods, as though everything makes sense now, as though he’s sorry because everyone always is. “Ah. I see. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to open a wound.”
I shake my head and look away because my eyes are watering and it’s embarrassing. Because God. Am I ever going to be able to think about it without crying?
“It’s ok. You didn’t know,” I answer. “And you’re right. I’m probably jaded. Being surrounded by death all the time… well, I guess it’s made me ugly.”
Dare studies me, hard, his eyes glittering in the light of the driftwood fire which reflects purple flames into his black bottomless depths.
“You’re not ugly,” he tells me, his voice oh-so-beautiful. “Not by a long, long shot.”
His words make me lose my train of thought. Because of the way he’s looking at me right now… like I’m beautiful, like he knows me, when I’m really just Calla and he doesn’t.
“I’m sorry I’m so emotional tonight,” I tell him. “I’m not usually like this. It’s just… there’s a lot going on.”
“I see that,” he answers quietly. “Is there anything I can do?”
You can call me Calla-Lily again. Because it seems intimate and familiar, and it makes me feel good. But I shake my head. “I wish. But no.”
He smiles. “Ok. Can I walk you back up to the house at least?”
My heart leaps for a second, but the idea of facing Finn right now isn’t one I enjoy. So I shake my head.
“I’m not really ready to go back yet,” I tell him regretfully. Because it’s the truth.
He shrugs. “Okay. I’ll wait.”
My heart thunders in my ears as I pretend that I’m not thrilled with that. We sit in the sand, so close that I can feel the warmth emanating from his body, so close that whenever he moves, his shoulder brushes mine. I shouldn’t get so much pleasure from that, from the accidental touches, from his warmth.
But I do.
We sit in such a way for an hour.
In silence.
Staring at the ocean and the sky and the stars.
No one has ever felt comfortable like this to me before, with silence that isn’t awkward. No one but Finn. Until now.
“Did you know that the Italian serial killer Leonarda Cianciulli was famous for turning her victims into tea cakes and serving them to guests?”