"You call the police?" he asks, his expression suddenly serious. I press my lips together and squint at the light straight ahead, hating the fact that I did indeed call the cops.
Knowing that if everything turns out to be fine, and Damen shows up unscathed, he's going to be pretty unhappy about my drawing that kind of attention his way. But what was I supposed to do? I mean, if there was an accident or something, I figured they'd be the first to know. So Sunday morning, I went down to the station and filed a report, answering all of the usual questions like: male, Caucasian, brown eyes, brown hair... Until we got to his age and I nearly choked when I almost said: um... he's approximately six hundred and seventeen years old...
"Yeah, I filed a report," I finally say, pressing hard on the gas the second the light turns green and watching the speedometer rise. "They took down the info and said they'd look into it."
"That's it? Are you kidding? He's underage, he's not even an adult!"
"Yeah, but he's also emancipated. Which is like a whole other set of circumstances, making him legally responsible for himself, and other things I don't quite understand. Anyway, it's not like I'm privy to their investigation techniques, it's not like they filled me in on the big plan," I say, slowing to a more normal speed, now that we've entered the school zone. "Do you think we should pass out flyers? Or hold a candlelight vigil like you see on the news?"
My stomach curls when he says it, even though I know he's just being his usual overly dramatic, though well-meaning self. But up until now, I hadn't imagined it ever coming to that. I mean, surely Damen will show up soon. He's got to. He's immortal! What could possibly happen to him? But no sooner do I think it than I pull into the parking lot and see him climbing out of his car. Looking so sleek, so sexy, so gorgeous—you'd think everything was perfectly normal. That the last few days had never occurred.
I slam on the brakes, my car lurching forward then back, causing the driver behind me to slam on their brakes too. My heart rac
ing, my hands shaking, as I watch my completely gorgeous, up until now MIA boyfriend, run a hand through his hair so deliberately, so insistently, and with such focused concentration you'd think it was his most pressing concern. This is not what I expected.
"What the hell?" Miles shrieks, gaping at Damen as a whole slew of cars honk behind us. "And what's he doing parked all the way over there? Why isn't he in the second-best spot, saving the best one for us?" And since I don't know the answers to any of those questions, I pull up beside Damen, thinking he might. I lower my window, feeling inexplicably shy and awkward when he merely glances at me before looking away.
"Urn, is everything okay?" I ask, wincing when he just barely nods, which is pretty much the most imperceptible acknowledgment of my presence he could possibly give. He reaches into his car and grabs his bag, taking the opportunity to admire himself in the driver's side window as I swallow hard and say, "Because you sort of took off Friday night... and I couldn't find you or reach you all weekend... and I got kinda worried... I even left you some messages... did you get them?" I press my lips together and cringe at my pathetic, ineffective, wuss-laden inquiry. You sort of took off? I got kinda worried? When what I really want to scream is: HEY YOU IN THE SUPER-SLICK ALL-BLACK ENSEMBLE WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?
Watching as he slips his bag onto his shoulder and gazes at me, his quick powerful stride closing the distance between us in a handful of seconds. But only the physical distance, not the emotional one, because when I look into his eyes they seem miles away.
And just when I realize I've been holding my breath, he leans into the window, his face close to mine when he says, "Yeah. I got your messages. All fifty-nine of them." I can feel his warm breath on my cheek as my mouth drops open and my eyes search his, seeking the heat his gaze always provides, and shivering when I come away cold, dark, and empty. Though it's nothing like the lack of recognition I glimpsed the other day. No, this is far worse. Because now when I look in his eyes—it's clear that he knows me—he just wishes he didn't.
"Damen, I—" My voice cracks as a car honks behind me and Miles mutters something unintelligible under his breath.
And before I've had a chance to clear my throat and start over, Damen's shaking his head and walking away.
Chapter Seventeen
"Are you all right?" Miles asks, his face displaying all of the heartbreak and pain I'm too numb to feel. I shrug, knowing I'm not. I mean, how can I be all right when I'm not even sure what's all wrong?
"Damen's an asshole," he says, a hard edge to his voice.
But I just sigh. Even though I can't explain it, and even though I don't understand it, I just know in my gut that things are far more complicated than they might seem.
"No he's not," I mumble, climbing out of the car and closing the door much harder than necessary.
"Ever, please... I mean, I'm sorry to be the one to point it out, but you did just see what I saw, right?" I head toward Haven who's waiting by the gate.
"Trust me, I saw everything, " I say. Replaying the scene in my mind, each time pausing on his distant eyes, his tepid energy, his complete lack of interest in me—
"So you agree? That he's an asshole?" Miles watches me carefully, assuring himself I'm not the kind of girl who would ever allow a guy to treat her like that.
"Who's an asshole?" Haven asks, glancing between us.
Miles looks at me, his eyes asking permission, and after seeing me shrug, he looks at Haven and says, "Damen."
Haven squints, her mind swimming with questions. But I've got my own set of questions, questions with no probable answer. Such as: What the hell just happened back there? And: Since when does Damen have an aura?
"Miles can fill you in," I say, glancing between them before walking away. Wishing more than ever that I could be normal, that I could lean on them and cry on their shoulders like a regular girl. But there just happens to be more to this situation than meets their mortal eyes. And even though I can't yet prove it—if I want answers, I'll have to go straight to the source. When I get to class, instead of hesitating at the door, like I thought I would, I surprise myself by bursting right in. And when I see Damen leaning against the edge of Stacia's desk, smiling and joking and flirting with her—I feel like I've stepped into a major case of deja vu.
You can handle this, I think. You've been here before. Remembering the time, not so long ago, when Damen pretended to be interested in Stacia, but only to get to me. But the closer I get, the more I realize that this is nothing at all like the last time. Back then all I had to do was look into his eyes to find the smallest glimmer of compassion, a sliver of regret he just couldn't hide. But now, watching as Stacia outdoes herself with her hair-tossing, cleavage-flaunting, eyelash-batting routine—it's like I'm invisible.
"Um, excuse me," I say, causing them to look up, clearly annoyed by the interruption. "Damen, could I, um, could I talk to you for a sec?" I shove my hands in my pockets so he can't see them shake, forcing myself to breathe like a normal, relaxed person would—in and out, slow and steady, with no gasping or wheezing.
Watching as he and Stacia glance at each other, then burst out laughing at the exact same time. And just as Damen's about to speak, Mr. Robins walks in and says, "Seats, everyone! I want to see you all in your seats!"
So I motion to our desks, and say, "Please, after you." I follow behind, resisting the urge to grab him by the shoulder, spin him around, and force him to look me in the eye as I scream: Why did you leave me? What on earth happened to you? How could you do that—on that night—of all nights? Knowing that sort of direct, confrontational approach will only work against me. That if I want to get anywhere at all, then I'll have to act cool, calm, and easy. I toss my bag to the floor, stacking my book, notebook, and pen on my desk. Smiling as though I'm no more than a casual friend interested in a little Monday morning chat when I say, "So, what'd you do this weekend?"