A Matter of Fate

by Heather Lyons

  Knowing Kellan won’t mind, I listen to Karl’s message. Unsurprisingly, our friend is both pissed and worried: Where the hell are you two? We couldn’t find you guys at all last night when we had to leave. Moira’s water broke around one-thirty. I know you’re not at home—I was there twenty minutes ago. So, again—where the hell are you two? CALL ME NOW.

  It’s comforting to know it’s not just me he threatens at the end of calls.

  The news about the baby is great, exciting even, if anything could be exciting in the midst of a hangover and the possibility of . . . well, too many things, really.

  Kellan shifts, and I quickly slap the phone down on a table. It’s loud enough to wake him.

  Predictably, the hand wringing begins. What should I say? Hello? Is that what one says when they find themselves partially undressed and in bed with a boy the morning after drinking heavily? Or maybe a more mundane good morning, even though, in no way, shape or form, does it feel like a good morning?

  He squints in the mild, filtered light. Then he pushes himself up on his elbows, twisting his head to look around the room. “Um . . . where are we?”

  He sounds so adorably husky and confused that I find myself swaying a bit closer. Goodness, is he gorgeous.

  “Chloe,” he says when it’s apparent I’m not going to answer, since I’m too busy ogling him and his perfect chest, “where are we?”

  My hands are so sweaty already, my throat so tight. I have to clear it just to say, “A hotel.” Then I wait quietly, desperately, for him to remember anything at all that will absolve us of any crime. Because from my standpoint, things are looking like we’ve . . . No. No. Don’t rush to assumptions.

  “I have a hangover,” he finally offers, groaning.

  “Me, too.” I lick my dry lips, resisting the urge to touch him. “Do you remember anything about last night?”

  I try not to stare as he puts on his shirt, but it’s a lost cause. He doesn’t look at me, though, when he says, “We had our first fight, if you don’t count when you dumped me.”

  Ah, there’s my trusty friend guilt. I knew it couldn’t leave me alone for too long.

  “I think,” he continues, “it was because you were drinking too much.”

  I briefly close my eyes in shame.

  He’s not done, though. “But then, after fighting . . . I drank way too much, too.” He gives a short, ugly laugh. “With you, no less.”

  Must find rock to crawl under.

  He gives me a tiny grin before letting it fade away. “I remember Cal. She was there.”

  Everything in me deflates even further, which is a miracle, because I’m already feeling as crummy as one can possibly feel. “Maybe,” I choke, on the verge of tears, “we were fighting and drinking because she and . . . and . . . Jonah were there, just . . . doing whatever disgusting things they do with one another.”

  “Jonah wasn’t there,” Kellan says tiredly, fingers rubbing at his hairline.

  “You don’t know that—”

  “Yeah, actually, I do.” And then, “Want to tell me what’s going through that head of yours?”

  I whisper, after an excruciatingly long moment during which I debate a million different times whether or not to broach this potentially explosive topic, “We’re in a hotel room.”

  Is ignorance better than knowing if something between us had really happened? And is hypocrisy always such a bitter pill to swallow? After it becomes obvious he’s not going to be the one to willingly continue the conversation, I stammer something lame like, “We . . . uh . . . were here . . . you know, together?” I tap the bed a few times. “And . . . there was alcohol involved . . . ?”

  I think he’d have laughed at me had we not been discussing whether or not we’d had sex and didn’t both have wretched hangovers.

  And oh, good lords. SEX. How pathetic would it be if it’d happened while drunk, even if with someone I love? And then don’t remember it? I’ve always assumed—at least once I’d gotten back together with Jonah—that my first time would be with him, when the time was right. Which, despite temptations, never seemed to happen considering a) we’ve been chased around by vengeful quasi-Magicals and b) we’ve both been babysat by nosy, gossipy Guards who wouldn’t think twice of spreading our news to the greater masses. And then, of course, there’s c) the core belief I’ve always had that having sex for the first time ought to be romantic and for all the right reasons and with the right person during the right time. Not that I don’t love Kellan, and not that I haven’t secretly fantasized doing such things with him over the course of the last school year, but still.

  This is not what should have happened.

  “So . . . .” I trail slowly, stymied by his lack of participation in the conversation, “any . . . thoughts about any of this?”

  His face shifts into neutrality. “We didn’t have sex, Chloe.”

  I blink. Twice. “Are you sure?”

  He laughs under his breath. “Yeah.”

  “But . . . I remember us . . . ?” I say, waving a hand between our bodies.

  He lifts one eyebrow and waits.

  I’ve got to be fire-engine red by now. “We did a lot of kissing.”

  “I remember.” But he looks away.

  I let a breath out. “You remember it all?”

  “I didn’t say that. I simply said I didn’t think we had sex.”

  “How . . . uh . . . would you . . . know?”

  “I’d know,” he says, rubbing at his forehead some more. “If it was with you, I’d know.”

  Even still, something happened. Something strong, something meaningful, and something wanted—even without the alcohol. And this makes me cry, because it’s a million times worse than what Jonah and Callie have done. As far as I know, all they did was kiss. What Kellan and I did . . . .

  It’s unforgivable, sex or not.

  His voice is devoid of emotion when he says, “You love my brother. You picked him.”

  Huh? “That doesn’t mean we didn’t—”

  “In our case, I think it does.”

  I grip tight red bunches of my dress. “Because I love him?”

  He nods.

  When it comes to Kellan, I continuously do the stupid, wrong things. So, in the worst, most ill-opportune moment, I choose to finally verbalize what he already knows. “I love you, too.”

  Now he stands up, shoves his hands in his pockets. “You love him more.”

  Even though I know, if I peeked, his face would be impassive, calm even, I can’t look at Kellan. So I evade in the worst sort of way. “I checked your phone this morning. Karl called—Moira had the baby.”

  “That’s great news,” is Kellan’s response, although it doesn’t sound great coming from him at all. And I know it’s not how he must really feel, because he loves his friends, and I’m sure he’s happy for them.

  I admit reluctantly, “She called, too.”

  “What did she say?”

  It’s my turn to laugh bitterly. “Like I’d listen to her message.”

  He sighs. “I should probably go call her back.”

  I leap into his path to the phone. “Wait.”

  He stops and gives me a sad smile. “I know you’re freaking out about what may or may not have happened. And while I can’t one-hundred-percent guarantee nothing did, I can assure you that I honestly believe I would know if it had. As would you.”

  “But . . . we were drunk,” I say, shamed to my core.

  “Let’s try a little experiment.” He leads me over to a pair of chairs nearby. “One that might set your mind at ease. Do you trust me?”

  I don’t hesitate. “Always.”

  “As you and my brother have found fit to point out to me in the past, you two have such a strong Connection you’ve been able to merge your minds. Correct?”

  He doesn’t really expect me to talk to him about that, does he?

  “And . . . it’s said that people who are able to do this typically do not find themselves . . . .�
� He struggles for the correct word. “Capable, I suppose, of becoming . . . intimate with someone else. Does that make sense?”

  Yes, even though this is the first I’ve heard about it. But I also know people who have Connections aren’t supposed to be able to fall in love with someone else. So if this is Kellan’s theory, it’s riddled with holes and is leaking like a sieve.

  “But—” I try, and he silences me with a finger over my lips.

  “Your Connection with my brother is strong. Strong enough I don’t think, despite our . . . .” He pauses, shakes his head. “What you may . . . feel for me . . . That anything happened last night. So, I’ll surge first. And then you can try next. Okay?”

  I can’t believe he’s asking me to do this. That he’s willing to do this.

  He surges into me before I can protest, pressing his forehead against mine, eyes closed. He doesn’t look for anything in particular, just stays in the moment with me. It feels so sweet, so lovely to have him in my mind. But I’m terrified of what will happen if we connect, what it’ll mean. So when I tentatively stretch my mind out to his, I’m physically shaking. I’m just about to reach the very outer edge of his mind before . . . The link snaps back.

  I try again, anxiety nearly out of control, but the same thing happens.

  He pulls back out, and in that frustratingly rational, calm voice of his, says, “See? I think had we been able to connect on this level, it might have meant . . . .” He swallows. “Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it? It only confirms what I said. Nothing happened between us. Your consummated Connection with my brother never would’ve allowed it.”

  I nearly choke. “Consummated?”

  He smiles. Just a little. “You know what I mean.”

  And then he pulls away. I want to touch him, but I don’t—not because it’s wrong, but because it’ll make things worse for him. “Please promise me,” I beg, “that someday you and I will be . . . .”

  He waits for me to finish.

  “Just, anything important to one another.”

  “You are important to me,” he murmurs. “I don’t think that can change, no matter how much I wish differently. And there’s nothing to forgive. I came here on my own accord. I knew what I was doing.”

  My heart breaks again over this man.

  He takes a deep breath. “You need to talk to Jonah.”

  I don’t know why, but I still stonewall. “He’ll never forgive this.”

  “He will.”

  “You don’t know that. I can barely imagine forgiving him for kissing Callie.”

  “You will.”

  “Kellan, Kellan, I can’t . . . .”

  “You can.”

  And when he says it like that, I want to believe him.

  Chapter 54

  An hour later we are nursing our hangovers at a small café a few blocks from the hotel. Kellan has procured us aspirin, which, along with dark sunglasses, are the only things that save me from fleeing back into the dark.

  “Did you get ahold of Karl?” I ask as he sips his coffee. I’m drinking water, afraid anything else will threaten my perilously fragile stomach.

  “I did,” Kellan tells me. “His temper was waylaid by the fact that he’s got a very healthy daughter who, apparently, is the most perfect child ever to be born.”

  I have no doubt she is. “Can we go and see them?”

  He sets his cup down. “I’m sure they’d appreciate that.” Then more hesitantly, “While you were getting ready this morning, I called Callie back.”

  I stiffen at her name.

  “And,” he adds, “I invited her here to talk to you.”

  When I go to stand up, he grabs my arm gently. “Chloe, she came to the party last night to try to talk to you—”

  “Probably gloat,” I choke out.

  “No. But it’s been five days since you’ve last spoken to Jonah. I think—”

  I ignore the curious stares from the people around us as I start yelling. “Why would you do this? You know I’d rather cut myself than talk to her!”

  He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and takes a deep breath. Then his hand slides down my arm to rest on my hand. “I will always want what’s best for you. And this, believe it or not, is best right now. Besides, she’s already here, about twenty feet away, looking as if she’s ready to bolt, too. Hear her out?”

  I turn around just enough to see Callie Lotus, gorgeous as a runway model, evil villain of my imagination, picking at a piece of peeling paint on a newspaper box.

  “Will you at least stay?” I whisper frantically.

  He shakes his head. “This is a conversation for the two of you.”

  As if she can hear these words, Callie comes over to our table. She and Kellan hug, which sets off yet another round of uncomfortable, ugly feelings in me.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet this morning, Kel,” she says, her voice better suited to a sexpot diva than a girl of seventeen. Then her eyes settle on me. “Hello, Chloe.”

  Like I’m going to volunteer a greeting. I think I end up snarling at her.

  Nothing further is said until the server takes her order for chamomile tea. Once that’s done, she says to Kellan, “Give Karl and Moira my best when you go to the hospital.”

  “Don’t leave,” I hiss. Callie shrinks back in her chair, no doubt remembering exploding trees and fences, but Kellan is unfazed by this.

  “Karl probably needs to be calmed down,” he jokes to me. “For Moira’s sake.”

  Uncaring about what little bit of pride I have left, I plead, “Please don’t leave me here with her.”

  He turns in his chair so he’s facing me. “Chloe, you know I’d never purposely put you in a position where you’d get hurt, right?”

  “Then don’t leave—”

  “You trust me, right?”

  I nod helplessly.

  To Callie, he says, “Remember what we agreed on?”

  Callie sighs, sipping her tea. “Yeah, yeah. You aren’t the only one who has conditions. My mother, when she found out I was coming . . . .”

  Kellan laughs. “Astrid not approving of interference? Shocking.” As Callie gives him a rueful smile, he stands up.

  “Please don’t go,” I beg again. And then, unfairly, to myself: If you truly love me, you won’t go.

  “I have to,” he says, voice oddly strained. He leans down, kisses the top of my head, and extracts his hand from mine. And then he leaves. He actually leaves me alone with Callie Lotus.

  Who is all calm and grace, sipping her tea like we’re in a swank restaurant, friends rather than enemies. But then, maybe she doesn’t see me as an enemy or even a rival, since she’s won Jonah back.

  She leans back in the chair and tilts her face to the sun. Her sunglasses are on the table—she doesn’t have a raging hangover, after all—but when her eyes train on me, I’m startled to see that they are almost my shade of green. “Do you remember anything about last night, Chloe?”

  My eyes narrow behind the dark plastic. “Why?”

  “We had a bit of a conversation,” she says, “or rather, I attempted a conversation. You slapped my face, called me a whore, and tossed your drink all over my shirt.”

  I’m sorry, but—what?

  “Not that I’m blaming you.” She pours a bit of honey in her tea. “I mean, I knew you and Kel were blitzed by the amount of empty glasses on the table in front of you two, but I thought, what did I have to lose?”

  I dislike her, this is true, but I am not a violent person by nature, nor am I typically someone who’d be so crass to actually slur somebody, even her, in public like that. “Um . . . I don’t remember any of that . . . .”

  “I figured you wouldn’t. Thus the call to Kel. You and I, Chloe, need to have a talk. And now that you’re sober,” she looks me up and down, frowning, “this’ll be a bit more civil.” She pauses, fingering her cup. “Hopefully.”

  “You have nothing to say that I want to hear.”

  “Look,” she
says, hands flat against the white tablecloth. “This isn’t easy for me, either. You think I want to take on the girl who blows stuff up and then smacks me, calls me names, and ruins one of my favorite shirts? Heck no. But I’m here, because I care about Jonah.”

  “Love him,” I growl.

  She’s unapologetic. “This is true. And an even better reason to be here.” She motions for the waiter to bring another pot of tea. “Before I tell you what happened last week between me and Jonah, I’d like to go back to the beginning, so maybe you can understand where I’m coming from.”

  The nerve! She steals my boyfriend and then has the audacity to come and brag about it?

  “I met Jonah and Kellan Whitecomb when we were seven.” She smiles as the waiter sets the pot down. “I had a really lousy childhood. My parents had been murdered the year before—”

  “What?” I say, taken aback by how calmly she’s telling me this.

  “My biological parents had been murdered,” she repeats, like I’m an idiot, “and I’d been living in an orphanage until adopted by Astrid. She happened to live a couple of houses down from the Whitecombs, so I got to know the boys pretty quickly. They were over at Astrid’s a lot, what with their mother dead and their father mostly absent. They were my best friends.”

  It takes quite a bit of control not to demand her to get to the point, and she must see it from my face.

  “Well, anyway—I won’t lie, I loved Jonah from the moment I met him. He was so intensely loyal, so incredibly kind to everyone, even me. I was an outcast—outside of our little group, that is. Being . . . well, what I am, many adult Magicals shunned me and refused to have anything to do with Astrid through association. I mean . . . I really shouldn’t even exist.”

  Stupidly, I’m intrigued now, when I really ought to be leaving. “Meaning?”

  “One of my biological parents was a Magical—an Elf . . . .” she motions up and down her body. “But my mother was a Human non. I think that’s why they were murdered. I mean, it’s all well and good for the different Magical races to mate together, but gods forbid, a Magical and a non? It’s forbidden, you know.”

  Uh, I didn’t know. I worry even more for Lizzie and Graham.