by A. M. Hudson
least that’s a half-truth. “He just can’t have distractions.” Like food he’s in love with.
Emily nodded thoughtfully. “Well, damn. I was expecting a wedding invitation.”
Though all I wanted was to run away and cry, I casually laughed off Emily’s comment, then
bit my burger—swallowing the urge to cry with each mouthful. I couldn’t taste the f ood, and
everything Emily asked after was met with a generic response; nodding and smiling became my new
best friend. I felt bad about it, yeah, but my hear t seemed to control every action I took since I met
David. I wished we’d never mentioned him; I wished we’d just found a dress and gone home.
“Well, who needs a man anyway, Ar a? Forget David.” Emily shrugged as we were leaving.
“I’m sure you’ll find another really nice guy someday that’ll make you just as happy as David did.”
“Thanks, Em.” I sighed. “Now, about your dress? We only have five shopping days left—are
you sure you didn’t like any of them?”
Emily grimaced. “No. None of them really felt right. I don’t know, maybe I’ll just go in
jeans.”
“Yeah, it might be a bit tricky for Spence to co-ordinate his tux with denim.”
“Well, it’s no big deal, really. If I don’t find a dress—I just won’t go. I mean, the world won’t
end if I stay home instead.”
I smiled at her. She was right. Again. And she was completely oblivious to how much s he
just helped me.
There’s going to the ball, and there’s not going to the ball, but my mind was so focused on
the only options being to f ind a dress or wear so mething from the back of the cl oset, it never
occurred to me that she had other options.
Which made me realise…I have options, too—just like everyone else.
Maybe I’ve been going about this whole immortal-love-or-eternal-sadness thing all wrong.
I’ve been feeling trapped by th e choice between two paths—David or Mike—but it’s only t
he
confines of my own mind narrowing those choices.
I walked a little taller as we reached the car
park, thankful that Emily was distant and
distracted herself, allowing me to escape to my thoughts.
Fate had stepped in and offered me an alternative to eternal blood. But maybe I don’t have to
choose either of them; maybe I can choose to be on my own—to go in a different direction altogether
and forget love.
Since Mum died, I’ve spent so long blaming myself and living with guilt and anguish; I’ve
forgotten that I’m a girl of my own rights and there is such a thing as choosing how to feel.
Like when Dorothy made it home from OZ, she learned that she was never really gone in the
first place—that all the fear and loneliness she felt in that world was in her own mind.
I have control over my own life, and I get to choose what it is that breaks me...
‘ Dear diary,
Power of choice sounds great in the light, except, stupidly, in my room, alone, I keep waiting
by my window, thinking David’s going to come. For some reason, my heart won’t believe he left me,
and I’m always surprised, as I fall asleep by myself, that he hasn’t come back.’
I lifted my head from the reverie of writing and became still in the quietness of the night.
There was no wind, no cars down in the street, and the moon was hidden behind a dense rain cloud.
The familiar eerie feeling of being watched trickled into my personal space again.
I stared out past my refl ection in the wi ndow—wishing it were true—wi shing I was being
watched...by David.
But a part of me was deathly afraid it may be something else—or no one at all.
‘ I never even leave my window open, anymore’, I continued, ‘I don’t want the fresh air, and I
know David isn’t going to come. I’m also a little afraid his creepy brother Jason might come to visit
me in my sleep again.
That freaks me out beyond words.’
A loud crack startled me—followed by a flash of light outside. Oh no. With my pen bending
in my grip, I froze—sitting in front of the slightly open window, unsure if I should run or si t quietly
so the menacing storm wouldn’t notice me here.
The thunder r icocheted off the distant hor izon in a sharp snap which receded to a dense
growl. I suddenly felt like I was standing on a rope-bridge in the middle of a mountain gorge,
holding on while it rocked violently under my feet.
When the rain burst through the cloud, distracting the thunder, I bolted for my bed and dived
into the covers—concealing my head and shoulders under the cotton fortress.
I hate this! I hate storms. I’m calling Mike.
I grabbed my phone and dialled three digits before stopping mid-stupidity.
What are you doing, you idiot? Mike’s right across the hall.
Mustering every ounce of bravery in my li mbs, I sat up and hugged my pillow, sending my
gaze across the carpet to my door.
To run or not to run? Mike will make it all okay, but he won’t always be here. I have to learn
to live without him sooner or later...
Or do I?
I leaned my back against the wall and let thought consume my facial muscles for a moment.
Maybe I should just go back to Per th with him. Maybe...argh! I buried my face in my hands
and ignored the call of the storm outside. I could be happy with Mike. I love him as deep as I know
my own heart—but I’ll never let go of David. Never.
When the lightning flashed again, my heart skipped at the sight of a boy sitting perched on
my windowsill, the white glow outlining his silhouette. But with the next flash—he was gone, and
the hope of his appearance left me soulless; I looked down.
One day, pain or none, I’ll have to move on from David. Am I willing to let Mike slip away,
only to realise I made a mistake—when it’s too late?
The next crack of thunder shattered my thou ght-journey. I ditched my pillow and ran. A
something’s-going-to-grab-my-ankle kind of fear moved my feet, and my he art jumped a beat of
relief when I looked across the dark, empty corridor to see Mike’s door open. I leaped towar d his
bed—without touching his floor, and fell into him.
“Hey. There you ar e.” He wrappe d his ar m around me as I fell saf ely into the fold of his
embrace, snuggling up to his bare chest as close as physically possible. “I was wondering how long
it’d take you to come in here.” His voice sounded so light. I coul d tell he was laughing at me. But I
didn’t care; I was shaking, and just needed to feel his arms around me—needed to feel him.
“I’m sorry, Mike. I—”
“Shh, don’t be sorry, baby. You’re okay.”
“Okay,” I said, calming as the sound of his st eady, beating heart un-der my ear soothed the
muscle tensing anxiety. I listened to each beat come as reliably as the next, letting my shoulders drop
as Mike stroked my head, easing away the knot in my stomach. “Thanks, Mike.”
“Any time.”
And I knew that was truth, more than an automated statement. Just like every moment in the
past, Mike had and would always be there to comfort me through the storm.
The feel of his thick fingers, so warm, so human, gently tingling across my brow, was so
familiar to me. Once, it was the soft, almost silky touch of my mother, stroking away the nightmares,
keeping the fears at bay as sh
e’d sit by my
bed, exhausted beyond sl eepless, but wi lling,
nevertheless, to comfort her daugh ter. When I woke one morning to find her asleep on the edge of
my pillow, cold and worn, I told her I was too old to be afraid of storms anymore. Mike knew
the truth though, and he s eemed to take on her r oll, coming to my window every time there was a
storm—scaring the hell out of me when he’d tap lightly on the glass.
I closed my eyes and let myself feel the love radiating through his gentle touch. “Mike?” I
whispered.
“Yeah?”
“I—I.”
Mike laughed and kissed the top of my head. “I know, baby. I know you’re scared.”
“No—” that’s not it.
“Ara, baby, we’ll talk in the morning. It’s after midnight—go to sleep.”
I swallowed my cour age and stuffed the words I love you back down where I’ d stored them
all these years, then closed my eyes and let the tingle of Mike’s touch take me away to the peace and
silence of dreamland.
An irritating blue jay outside the window imitated an alarm clock; I inched one eye open, but
couldn’t see my room through the glare of sunlight streaming in. I could feel its soft yellow glow all
around me, and smiled because the rain was gone.
If I could sleep like that every night, I’d make it my occupation to go to bed. I was having a
really good dream, too, thanks Mister Blue Jay, for waking me up! Not.
The bed moved under me, r ising softly before warm, moist l ips touched my brow. I pushed
off the surface of my fleshy pillow and sat bolt-upright. “Mike!”
“Hey, princess. You slept well,” he noted.
He didn’t put me back in my room. What was he thinking?
“You okay, baby?”
I blinked a few extra times to focus properly on the way the morning seemed to make his skin
look like honey and his eyes as warm as hot-cocoa. “Um, yeah.” I rubbed my face with my hands,
secretly checking his door; shut. Thank God. Maybe Dad wouldn’t have noticed I was in here. “I’m
sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep in your bed.”
He laughed, shaking hi s head, then just look ed at me for a few seconds. “And I’ m sorry it
doesn’t storm like that every night.”
My cheeks lifted first , forcing my lips to follow. He’s very sweet. It’s kinda nice to be
wanted—by him.
Every time my eyes scanned the curve of his shoulder, leading into his breastbone, my heart
skipped a beat of desire—the desire to lay back against his chest and stay there for the day.
“Come here.” Mike placed a hand on my shoulder and tugged.
My muscles were so stiff that I slumped dow
n heavily. Every inch of ski n that wasn’t
covered by my singlet touched his, making me shiver inside—a good shiver. “Why did you keep me
last night, Mike?”
“Are you kidding?” His arms tightened around me for a second. “You snuggled up so close to
me, Ara, with your face and your soft breath over my chest—why on Earth would I put you back in
your room?”
“Because, I’m not yours.”
“So you keep telling me, but yet...” He motioned down at my hand over his heart.
“What time is it?” I asked, moving my hand onto his stomach.
“Um—” He stretched his arm out around my back and looked at his watch, forcing me closer
to his chest. I like this closeness. “Midday.”
“Midday?” I sat up. “Where did time go?”
“Wait a sec.” Mike grabbed my arm as I leaped for the side of the bed.
I stopped and looked dow n at his hand; his warm, sturdy fi ngers took up so much of my
body, almost consuming the entire t op of my arm. “You stay. I’ll get br eakfast. Well, brunch now, I
suppose.” He grinned, and his unshaven, sandy-brown stubble did nothing to hide the sexy indent in
his cheek—not even a little bit.
As he gently pushed me back onto the pillows, everything from my heart down went numb
with the closeness of his soft, partially open lips, coming toward me so slowly. I closed my eyes and
held my breath, wai ting for them t o touch mine. But, he kissed my fo rehead and walked away,
leaving me with a mouthful of insult.
I folded my arms and huffed, watching him disappear into the hall. He didn’t kiss me. I can’t
believe he didn’t kiss me.
Outside the window, the little blue jay alarm clock mocked me with his chattering.
“Like you can talk,” I scolded. “You don’t even have lips.”
The bird stopped his noise, flicked his tail in my direction, then flew away.
The heat in my cheeks bur ned with rejection—again. He could’ve kissed me—he saw it in
my eyes, I know he did. What is he thinking?
I rubbed at the skin on my face, as if mayb e I could chafe off some of my awkwardness.
Maybe it’s me—maybe I just think too much. I me an, who says he should’ve kissed me? No one
ever said anything about taking the next step in our relationship.
I shook my head. I ’m not sure I’ll ever get this boy thing right. I mean, what kind of a guy
sleeps with a girl in his arms all night, only to kiss her on the forehead in the morning?
David was just as bad, really.
Maybe I’m just unnaturally hideous and all the guys I fall for ar e just too nice to t ell me—or
too cruel, to be exact.
Spreading the covers out neatly over my ribs, I drew a deep breath of the morning laced with
the warm scent of toast.
He’ll come back up soon. I need to compose myself. I hope my breath doesn’t smell.
I cupped my hand and blew into it, nodding
with approval when my breath came back
scentless, then knotted my fingers through my hair in a desperate attempt to tidy my pr obably very
haggard appearance.
Okay, so this is not composure. But I’ ve been crazy over Mike for so long. I want him to
come back up those stairs and look at me like I’m the most amazing girl in the world, then take me in
his arms and kiss me—on the lips. Not the forehead.
I blinked softly a few times and let my quiet breath ease my thumping pulse.
“What ya thinkin’ ‘bout?” Mike asked, leaning against the door with a tray of coffee and toast
in hand.
“You.”
“I hope so. From the look on your face, you like whatever you were thinking about.”
He rested the tray on the foot of the bed and sat down beside me, his homely smile set my
heart racing like—like I was the only one in the world.
Great, so he wouldn’t kiss me if I was the last girl on Earth—is that what I just concluded?
Mike’s eyes narrowed as he shook his head. “Where are you, right now?”
I came back to my own head, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry. Did I phase out again?”
“Uh, yeah—” he scoffed. “Just a bit.”
“Sorry.”
“What were you thinking?”
How wrong it is of me to want you to tear off my clothes, when I’m in love with another man
as well. “I...I was thinking...”
“Whoa, hold on.” Mike wiped his hand across his mouth, then laughed once; a short, breathy
laugh. “I know that look. But...safe to say I’ve never seen it on your face before.”
Or you never noticed it before. “What look?”
He took a deep breath, studying me carefully. “You don’t think straight when you’re hungry.
Just...eat, then we can talk.”
He’s right. The hollow, quivering void in the centre of my body may be partially due to the
lack of nutrients.
I bit into the t oast, and the peanut butter and jam swirled around on my tongue with t he
prefect consistency; it didn’t even stick to t he roof of my mouth. Mike sat quietly beside me,
grinning and chewing—making me want to throw the toast down and kiss away that smirk.
Wait, no, kiss him while I’m eating the toast—it ’s really t oo good to put down. “Mmm. You’ ve
always been the best at making toast.”
“Must be the chef in me,” he joked.
“So, if the chef in you makes good to ast, what can the cop in you do?” That was suggestive,
Ara, my inner voice jeered.
“I could arrest you? For dangerously good looks.”
I choked on t he toast for a second, nearly losing it out my nose. “That’s the worst joke I’ve
heard in ages.”
Mike chuckled. “So, I’m still king, then—of bad jokes?”
“Right? I forgot about that,” I mused. “No one here gets it. They think you’re just trying to be
funny, and not succeeding.”
“Don’t worry. I get ya’.” His teeth showed with his gentle smile.
“You always did. So—if you’re king, I’m queen, then?”
“Pardon the bad joke again, but...” l eaning forward, he stroked my cheek and, with his lips
nearly against mine, said, “—you’ve always been my queen.”
My breath touched his, expell ing from my lips in a short huff. What is it with him? Is he
blind, or dumb, or just plain ignorant? That’s two times today he should’ve kissed me, and now he’s
calling me his queen. Does he want me or not? Maybe I have bad breath. “Okay, Stop it.” I sat up a
little further and put the toast down, reluctantly, as a ful l speed rant shot off from t he starting line.
“Mike? What are your intentions? You keep playing this game with me—saying you’re in love with
me, but acting like you don’t want me. You touch me and pull away, or you say things to my dad that
make me think I’m imagining all this, and when we’re alone, you—it’s like you pretend we’re
together and then remind yourself that we’re not. Why? Why do you do that if you want me? Why do
you keep confusing me, Mike. I can’t do this. I can’t be the girl that takes charge
and marches
