by Cora Carmack
I lay her down as gently as I can, but it’s hard to control the limp weight of her body, and I end up having to adjust her into a comfortable position. She must be exhausted because she stays sleeping through the entire thing. A lamp is on near her bed that I assume is her night light, and I leave it on just in case. Tucking the blankets up to her chin, I push a few blonde curls back from her face.
She’s such a pretty little girl. Vibrant and enthusiastic, and I think I might love her already. Somewhere in the back of my mind, warning bells go off.
It’s not smart to love mortals.
They’re vulnerable and breakable, and they age and die. All things I knew going into this, but I hadn’t expected my reaction to Wilder and his world would be this potent. If this is how I feel after one night, how will I feel in a week? A month?
Unease prickles along my spine, but when I make my way back into the living room and lay eyes on a sleeping Wilder, it's replaced by the shivering excitement he always seems to induce in me.
Even though I had planned to go, I find myself sitting down beside him again. The need to feel close to him is stifling, but I meant what I said to him in the kitchen. I can't just dive into something serious with him. The pull toward him is serious enough, to add in sex on top of that, especially when I'm still not sure how all of this is going to work … not a good idea. But it won't hurt to just lay beside him for a while, right? He's asleep. And I made my stand in the kitchen even though I was terrified of what he'd say.
Most of my relationships with artists have been about sex. It's the only truthful kind of intimacy I could ever have with them. And I've spent my entire existence knowing the worth of my beauty and my gift. I had been afraid that without my ability and without sex … I might not hold as much interest for Wilder.
Now I feel stupid for that niggling fear. When he'd held my face in his hands, and pinned me with his eyes … gods, he made me feel like the world revolved around me. Like I was the sun, and everything else existed in relation to me, depended on me.
Carefully, I slide a little closer, and without putting too much of my weight on him, I lean into the crook of his arm and rest my head between his heart and his shoulder. His scent and heat surrounds me, and I let myself fall a little deeper into him. His arm drops from the back of the couch, draping along my side and curling around my hip. I tense, and look up, but other than a slight shifting of his body, sinking farther into the cushions, he doesn't appear to be awake.
I stay for another hour, flirting with the edge of sleep in his arms, but when I find myself beginning to replay the night in my head again, I decide I've lingered long enough.
But he apparently isn’t quite as out of it as his sister. He groans and shifts when I climb out from under his arm. While I slip my shoes back on, he blinks sleepily at me, looking almost confused.
“I have to go,” I whisper. “Gwen is in bed. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you.”
The fog in his eyes clears, and he wipes a large hand over his face before standing. He wobbles slightly, so I assume he's still a little drunk. I would be too if my body didn't reset at midnight.
“You were just going to sneak out again?”
“I was going to leave you a note.”
He crosses the gap between us, and his hand slides around my neck, pausing to rub a circle around my nape before tangling his fingers in my hair. His grip is claiming, possessive, but his nose nudging against mine is sweet and playful. “New rule. We never leave without a proper goodbye.”
A smile sprawls unbidden across my mouth.
“And what does a proper goodbye involve?”
His nose rubs against mine again. “It involves me thanking you for spending time with me, and reminding you of why we should do it again soon.”
He kisses me then, slow and still a little sleepy. His mouth moves against mine with a laziness that feels easy and gentle, and like an introduction to a new part of us. This is what it's like to touch with no endgame, no destination. This is a kiss that doesn't ask for anything, it just is. This kiss is closeness and comfort, and when it's over, I'm battling the same urge to cry that had gripped me when I watched him sleep.
Who would have thought that at my age, I could still experience a new kind of intimacy from a mere kiss? Something altogether different from everything I've ever experienced.
“Thank you,” I whisper when he pulls away.
One corner of his mouth lifts in a devilish smile.
“I think you're confused. That kiss was me thanking you.”
“I know. But still.”
“Well, now I have to say you're welcome.”
But instead of saying it, he kisses me again, his tongue sliding against mine with a little more force, a little more urgency. I have that falling sensation I sometimes get in dreams when he pulls away, and I stare at him for a few long moments before I remember that I'm supposed to be leaving.
“When can I see you again?” he asks as I shuffle toward the door.
My immediate response is to say tomorrow, but I stop myself. I should wait and see how I'm feeling tomorrow, where my energy levels are at.
“I'm not sure. How about you call me, and we'll figure something out.”
I have to give him my number because he doesn't have it, and when I'm done rattling it off, I'm tempted to make another excuse to stay. But he yawns again, and I know I should let him get some sleep. I say a final goodbye and head out the door. He stays on the porch, arms crossed over his chest to fight off the cold, waiting until I get in my car and pull away.
You’ve got time, I tell myself, and resist looking back through the rearview mirror. Time to see him, time to figure out how this will work, time to explore the happy hum of the connection I feel between us. But in the back of my mind, I can't help but think that time is relative here. Wilder is human. Which means I've never been lower on time than I am right now.
He calls the next day, and I make an excuse as to why I can't see him. It hurts, because all I want to do is find out where he is and run straight there. But I was right … my energy levels are higher than they should be. I should have been good for at least another day before needing to expend some of my influence, but there's a restless churning in my chest that tells me otherwise. Normally, I would probably be fine to go a little while longer, even with my energies this high. But what if I saw him again like this? What if the level spiked, and there was no one else around, no other option? What if I lost control again like I did in that club? What if Gwen was there when it happened?
I feel physically ill at the thought. No. I need to be smart. Safe.
I start a journal to chronicle my experience, trying to make sense of it. I can't very well write the truth of what I'm feeling where someone else could find it, so I settle on a number system.
Today is about a five on a scale from one to ten. It’s manageable, but worse than I'm comfortable with. I wonder if it could be connected to time? I spent, let's see, about four hours yesterday, two to three of which contained a high level of exposure. But I … relieved some pressure … about halfway through that time. What number would I be at if I hadn't done that?
For now, I think I should cap myself at five hours. And go in as calm and close to zero as possible. That should keep me at a comfortable level.
He calls again the next day, but I haven't been able to get any time alone with anyone in Lennox's friend group. My friend group. Most of them work a day job on top of their craft or schoolwork, and they're working pretty heavily now since there's no school and the holidays are busy.
“I'm sorry,” I murmur into the phone. More sorry than he could possibly know. “But I can't today either.”
“Do you have to work?” he asks.
I consider telling him the truth, that I don’t, but it would be nice to have a ready-made excuse for situations just like this one. Not because I want to lie to him, but I don't see any other way around it. A job would definitely be convenient, though I've not had muc
h use for a real one in centuries. That's one benefit of immortality. It's easy to build up wealth when you've got centuries to do it, and when knick-knacks and other objects from your past are old enough to be worth millions to the right collector or museum. Every few decades, I start over as a new version of my self, new birth certificate and identity and all that jazz. And that new me is always the sole beneficiary of my wealth when the old me “dies.”
“Yes, I have to work,” I lie.
“Oh. Okay. Where do you work?”
Damn. Damn. Where can I say? It has to be somewhere that he can't actually drop by to see me. Or … where he can drop by and see me, but it's under my control.
“I work from home.”
“Really? Doing what?”
“Uh, just some online stuff. Nothing all that interesting. But I'm pretty backed up because of the holidays, and I need to get it all done before the end of the calendar year.”
“Online stuff? So you're some kind of tech genius?”
“Hardly.”
“So, since you work from home, does that mean I can swing by sometime? Maybe distract you with a lunch break? Or a foot rub? Or maybe you get carpel tunnel?”
I laugh. He sounds so cute and eager on the line, and I wish I could see his face right now. I wonder if he's shaved yet, or if his facial hair would be even thicker than the last time I saw him. I wonder if he’s wearing his glasses or if he’s giving responsible Wilder a break.
“Not this time,” I tell him, but I soften my tone and hope he can hear the smile in my voice. “I've got too much to do. But maybe soon. I'll see what I can do.”
He sighs on the other end, and rather than letting him go like I should (especially considering how much work I supposedly have), I keep talking. “How are Gwen and your mother?”
“They're good. They've both asked about you actually.”
“Really?” I'm a little frightened to know what his mother asked.
“Yeah. They'd both like to see you again, but I told them they'd have to wait. I want some time with just us before we have to watch another Disney movie with my sister.”
“I don't mind Disney.”
“Of course you don't. You're like a real life version of one of those princesses.”
I scoff a laugh. “I'm not a princess.”
“You look like one.”
“I have eyes too large for my face and a waist disproportionate to the rest of my body?”
He chuckles, the sound low and deep on the other end.
“No, your eyes are the perfect size for your face, and I happen to really like your proportions.”
I lean back against the pillows on my bed, and laugh. A little too loud. A little too eager to hear him keep talking.
“So I'm not a Disney princess.”
“Maybe not. But you're definitely beautiful enough. And Gwen is just as obsessed with you as she is with letting it go.”
“I like her too.”
“I'm glad.” He suddenly sounds serious. “I told you that she's a big part of my life now. She and my mom both. When classes start back up again, I won't have much free time left between those, work, and my family.”
“Are you saying I might have to help babysit if I want to spend time with you?”
“Not always.”
“I wouldn't mind. I like your family, Wilder. I like your life.”
A beat of silence stretches between us and then he asks, “I know you said you're estranged from your sisters. But do you have any other family? Parents? Cousins? Aunts? Uncles?”
I've got a tremendous amount of family, really. I mean my sister muses are the closest ties by far, but all the gods are connected to each other in some way. But it's been a long time since I've seen any of them. The only ones who still walk the Earth are my sisters, the furies (who are also dependent on humanity to satisfy their need for justice and punishment), and the watchers, the sons of Argus.
I suppose the fates might still be here too, but they've never been the type to mingle with humanity. They were always isolated … from everyone and everything. There are descendents, too. But the bloodlines are so watered down now that there are unlikely to be any mortals out there with significant ties to deity. Oracles, perhaps, might be the rare exception. I've never met one myself, but I heard rumors of them long after the greater gods withdrew from the world.
“Kalli? Are you still there? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry.”
“No … no, it's fine. I'm sorry. I got a little lost in my thoughts. And to answer your question … it's just me. I don't see any of my family anymore.”
He's silent for a long time on the other end. Maybe waiting for me to say more. Or perhaps unsure of how to reply. Other people never are. They usually apologize or offer sympathies or attempt to pry. When Wilder does reply he only says, “I wish you were in my arms right now.”
“Me too,” I answer without thinking.
We stay on the line a little longer, not really saying anything. But I can hear him breathing on the other end, and it somehow helps with the emptiness I always feel when I think about my sisters. A part of me knows that we would have had to split up eventually, even if things with Mel hadn't gone so wrong. We couldn't have all lived and gone unnoticed together in the modern world. But that doesn't mean I don't miss them, that I don't feel the barely there tug of our intertwined fates behind the larger more vibrant thread that I'm currently feeling with Wilder.
“I should go,” I finally say.
“Okay.”
“Can I call you tonight? Before I go to bed?”
He pauses for a moment, and I imagine him smiling.
“I'd like that.”
After we hang up, I text a few people in the group again, trying to see if anyone has any free time or is working on anything interesting. No one is available. I didn’t text Jack yesterday since he was the last person I had contact with as a muse and I’m trying to space them out, but I’m desperate enough to see Wilder, that I text him anyway.
He replies almost immediately. He has tomorrow evening off. And he wants to know if I’d pose for him again.
I waver, knowing that Wilder probably wouldn’t like the idea if his reaction to Jack on Christmas is any indication. But I don’t have much of a choice. And besides … that was before we talked, before I made my decision. He knows now how I feel. And really, Jack isn’t even remotely a threat to him. No one is.
I text him back, yes. And we make plans to meet the following evening at his apartment.
Chapter Eighteen
Wilder
Kalli calls late that night while I’m going through some files for work. I smile when I see her name on the caller ID, and I start packing up my work as I lift the phone to my ear.
“Hey you,” I answer.
There’s a long silence, enough that I pull the phone back to make sure I didn’t accidentally hang up or lose the call.
“Kalli? Are you there?”
“I’m here. Sorry.”
Her voice is soft. Warm. It reminds me of caramel for some unfathomable reason. Christ, this girl turns me into a total idiot.
“How did your work go?”
“Um. Okay. I’ve got some more that I need to do tomorrow, but I think I could take some time off the next day.”
I run through my schedule in my head. That’s a Monday, and I’m working through most of the day. And I think Mom has a night shift, so I’d have to be at her place that night to keep Gwen, but I could swing something in between.
“How about dinner?” I ask. “I could pick you up around six-thirty?”
“You got your car back okay?”
“Yeah. Mom took me by to grab it. So, six-thirty? We good?”
She hesitates again, and I wonder if she’s trying to keep me away from her place. I don’t have the slightest clue where she lives. “We could meet somewhere if that’s easier?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that would be great.”
“Any requests on where or what we eat?”
I can almost hear her shake her head on the other end. “How about you take me to one of your favorite places.”
I rack my brain for a moment, but come up empty.
“I’m not sure any of the places I frequent are good first date material.”
“I don’t care. This hardly counts as a first date anyway. And I’d rather go somewhere that will teach me about you than a first-date-appropriate restaurant.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I don’t want either of us to feel like we have to impress each other or be something we’re not. I’d rather skip over all that posturing and just get straight to what matters.”
God, this girl. I can tell already that I’m going to fall so damn hard for her. It’s not a certainty I’ve ever felt before, and it freaks me out. But that doesn’t change how inevitable it all feels. And I like the idea of us just getting to know each other for real. Normally, the first few weeks of dating someone are filled with dinners I can no longer afford and small talk carefully balanced so as to be interesting, but not tipping into dangerous zones. It’s like walking a damn tight wire, trying to get to the other side where you figure out whether this is a person you’ll actually want to be with when real life sets in.
I already know that I want her for more than a first date and a second and a tenth.
“I like you Kalli …” I trail off, realizing I don’t even know her full name. “What’s your last name?”
She hesitates again, and I have to fight a sigh. It’s the only thing I don’t like about her … that inability to open up without thinking about it first, weighing her options.
“Thomas,” she finally says. “My name is Kalli Thomas.”
It’s not what I would have guessed for her. It seems too plain and ordinary for this girl that is anything but that.
