“Jeez, do you ever unclench?” She laughs, uncrossing her arms and dropping onto her leopard beanbag chair in a heap of leather and lace, spreading her dress all around her before resting her head against her hand. “Could help with the acting stuff though—he’d definitely snag all the best roles.”
“And that’s good for how long?” I look at her. “Trust me, even in Hollywood people would start to notice how he never aged a day over eighteen.”
“Didn’t seem to hurt Dick Clark.”
I squint, having no idea who that is.
“America’s Oldest Teenager? New Year’s Rockin’ Eve?”
I shrug, still no bells.
“Whatever.” She laughs and shakes her head. “Anyway, I have this theory that there’s a whole lot more of us than we think, actors, supermodels—I mean, seriously? How do you explain some of them?”
I shrug. “Luck, good genes, plastic surgery, and lots and lots of Photoshop.” I laugh. “That’s how I explain it.”
“Well, between you and me, Roman’s not always all that forthcoming with the details. He tends to hold a lot back.”
No kidding.
“This one time, when I asked him just how many more of us were out there, and how many he himself turned, he just turned away, mumbled some childish nonsense about that being for him to know and the rest of the world to find out, or something like that. And no matter how much I bugged him, that’s all he’d say. Just kept repeating that over and over until I got so annoyed, I dropped it.”
“That’s what he said?” I ask, trying to keep the alarm out of my voice but not entirely succeeding. “He said it’s for him to know and the rest of the world to find out?” I gasp, not liking the ominous sound of it. Not liking it at all.
Haven looks at me, attempting to backtrack when she sees my expression, hears the way my voice rises, and realizes she might’ve gone just a tad too far. That her loyalties no longer extend to me and are definitely balanced in Roman’s favor. “Or maybe he said for me to find out? That’s how the saying goes, right?” She lifts her shoulder as her fingers pick at the lace on her sleeve. “Well, anyway, it’s probably better not to talk about Roman since I love him and you hate him and if we want to be friends we’re going to have to exist in a Roman-free zone, right? We’re going to have to agree to disagree.”
A Roman-free zone—how lovely! But that’s just what I think, what I say is entirely different.
“Do you love him?”
She looks at me, looks at me for a long moment, before she dips her head and says, “I do. I really, really do.”
“And is it—reciprocated?” I ask, doubting Roman’s even capable of loving anyone, especially seeing how it was never shown to him, never really offered in any real or lasting way, according to what I saw. And it’s pretty hard to give something you’ve never experienced yourself. Even what he felt for Drina wasn’t love, or at least not the real kind anyway. It was more an obsession with something just out of reach, like a shining, glittering object that you yearn for but can never quite touch. Exact same feeling he’s trying to duplicate with Damen and me. Only it won’t work. With or without the antidote he’ll never win that one. What Damen and I share goes much deeper than that.
“Honestly?” She looks at me. “I really don’t know. But if I had to guess, then I’d say, no, he doesn’t—doesn’t love me at all. I mean, even though he keeps his feelings under wraps, usually pretending like he doesn’t even have any—sometimes—sometimes he goes off on this—well, I call it his dark jag—where he locks himself in his room and won’t talk to anybody or come out for hours—and, well, I have no idea what he’s doing in there. And even though I try to respect it, try to let him have his space, I’m still really curious. Though, I figure, if I hang on long enough, he’ll finally learn to trust me, let me in, and”—she shrugs—“change all of that.”
I look at her, amazed by how composed she is, acting far more self-assured than she ever did before.
She ga
zes down at the strategically shredded black leggings she wears under her dress, fingers picking at one of the holes when she says, “You know, Ever, in every relationship, there’s always someone who loves more, right? I mean, last time, with Josh, it was him. He definitely loved me far more than I did him. Did you know he even wrote a song about me after we broke up, in an attempt to get me back?” She lifts her brow and shakes her head. “It was pretty good too, and I was flattered for sure, but it was too late and I’d already moved on to Roman who I clearly love more. He just agrees to hang out with me, and we have a good time, and it’s not like there’s any other girl on the scene—well, other than you—” She looks at me, her eyes narrowed in a way that makes me cringe, but just as quickly she laughs and waves it away. “But the point is, no matter what you think, no matter how it may look from the outside, the truth is, it’s never really equal. That’s just not the way it works. There’s always the pursued and the pursuer, the cat and the mouse, that’s just how it goes. So, tell me, Ever, who loves more in your relationship—Damen or you?”
The question catches me off guard, even though it’s pretty obvious it was coming. But when I see the way she pauses, head tilted to the side, fingers twirling a random chunk of hair, patiently waiting for me to respond, I end up mumbling a bunch of jumbled nonsense that finally results in, “Well, um, I don’t know. I never really thought about it, I guess. I mean, I never even really noticed, for that matter—”
“Really?” She shifts onto her back and gazes up at her star-spangled ceiling that I know from experience glows in the dark. “Well, I have,” she says, gaze still focused on the constellation overhead. “And just so you know, it’s Damen, not you. Damen’s the one who loves more. He’d do anything for you. You’re just along for the ride.”
thirty-two
I wish I could say Haven’s words didn’t bother me. That I was able not just to refute it but to plead a case so convincing she was instantly swayed to my side. But the truth is, I didn’t do or say much of anything. I just shrugged, pretending to brush it off, as she blasted a series of songs from her iPod I’d never even heard before, by bands I didn’t even know existed, and we flipped through a pile of magazines, the two of us hanging out in the same way we used to. Just like old times. But that’s just how it seemed on the surface. Deep down, we both knew things were entirely different.
Then after I left, while I was hanging at Damen’s, Haven’s words kept replaying in my head, asking me which of us loved more. And to be honest, they’ve pretty much stayed with me today as well. All through my breakfast with Sabine, I wondered, all through shelf restocking and register ringing at the store, I asked myself was it me or him? Even through all three back-to-back readings that “Avalon” was scheduled for, including the one I’m finishing now, the question kept repeating in my head.
“Wow, that was—” She looks at me, eyes wide with wonder. “That was truly, truly, truly remarkable.” She shakes her head and reaches for her purse, face wearing a blend of excitement, doubt, and a longing to believe—the usual post-reading look.
I nod, smiling politely while gathering up the deck of Tarot cards I spread out for show but don’t really use. It’s just easier to have some kind of prop or tool—keeps it more remote and detached that way. Most people get pretty freaked by the idea of someone being able to peer straight into their heads and listen in on all their deepest thoughts and feelings, never mind how one brief touch can reveal a long and complex history of events.
“It’s just—you’re so much younger than I expected. How long have you been at this?” she asks, slinging her purse over her shoulder as her eyes continue to study me.
“Being psychic is a gift,” I say, even though Jude specifically asked me not to say that, figuring it would discourage potential students from signing up for his psychic development class. But since the course has pretty much fizzled down to just him and Honor, I really don’t see what harm it could do. “It knows no age limit,” I add, mentally urging her to quit gaping at me and move it along. I’ve got plans, somewhere to be. My evening carefully designed down to the minute, and if she lingers much longer, she’ll seriously mess with my agenda. But seeing a look of skepticism start to creep in, I tell her, “That’s why children are such naturals at it, they’re open to all the possibilities. It’s only later, when they discover how society frowns on these things that the desire to be accepted takes over and they shut it all out. What about you? Didn’t you have an imaginary friend as a kid?” My gaze moves over her, knowing she did because I saw it the moment I touched her.