TWENTY-SIX

Dee had never skipped school before. She’d never gone on a road trip with a boy, never slept in a hotel room with anyone besides her parents.

Turned out, it wasn’t all that scandalous. That night, they found a boutique and bought overpriced clothes—which James insisted on paying for, saying that the painting of Dee at the river would keep him fed for a year, so he was indebted to her. It was roundabout logic. “I’ll accept that,” she said, “but only if I get to pick out your clothes.”

He agreed.

And they walked out of the boutique wearing clean and vaguely vintage clothing. She’d put him in jeans and a cashmere sweater, and his orange jacket was shoved in the bottom of their shopping bag. He looked—well. He looked good.

They bought Chinese takeout and brought it back to their room, ate it while watching yet another cooking reality show. Dee fell asleep before it was even ten, the TV still flickering in the background.

They spent most of the next day at the library.

If there truly were old gods and demons, there had to be some record of them. Perhaps a clue in one of Lovecraft’s stories on how to defeat them.

“You really do not know how to be a delinquent,” James told her. But he was grinning and took whatever small task she assigned him.

Mostly, they read. Fairy tales, folktales, Faust, Edgar Allan Poe, Lovecraft, and the authors who had taken up where Lovecraft left off. They read about myths and legends, of deals made and deals lost, about creatures so old they did not have a name. Dee wasn’t sure if any of this was useful, but they noted anything that might relate to their current situation. They looked for any mention of a Lovecraftian monster, of burrowers, of holes in reality. While Dee browsed the literature, James invaded the art section. There was a surprising number of paintings that depicted world-ending monsters.

If there were other heartless throughout history, they did not openly declare themselves. But Dee still wanted to look, to search, to perhaps find some hint that more like themselves had survived their own hollow state.

I chose this, Dee thought, and picked up another book.

 

It felt inevitable when it finally happened. They were sitting on a park bench, finishing off hot dogs they’d bought from a stand.

Dee was talking about one of the variations of Snow White she’d found—mostly because it was one of the fairy tales with literal heart connections. She had a theory that perhaps this was one of the folktales with a grain of truth; perhaps the evil queen had been a demon. It would explain her ruthlessness and her beauty.

“People believed in the supernatural back then,” said Dee. “Like werewolves and witches and all that. The queen could’ve been a demon, but over the centuries the retelling of the story was muddled because modern people don’t believe in the supernatural.”

“People believe in the supernatural now,” countered James. “I mean, hello. Demons.”

Dee frowned. “Some people don’t. There are entire websites dedicated to disproving them. Cal didn’t believe. He told me he thought they were aliens.”

James broke into startled laughter. “Yeah. I remember.” His expression sobered and he crumpled up his napkin. “So, tell me. What do you believe in?”

“I don’t know. It could be supernatural, it could be aliens, or I could simply have lost my mind.”

“So you don’t even believe in this old gods theory of yours?”

She looked down. “All right. Fine. What do you believe in, then?”

His voice softened. “I believe we’re not crazy, for one thing.”

“Well, good.”

She was gazing out at the park when his fingertips touched her chin. He slowly tilted her face toward him. “I believe I’m glad I met you.”

Her skin felt warm where he touched her. She had a wild thought that this was when she didn’t miss her heart; because she knew if she did have one, it would have been beating so loud that it would have drowned out the world.

He gave her every opportunity to retreat, but she did not flinch away.

He kissed her. His lips were gentle, as if asking a question, but his fingers were tight on her arm, as if afraid she might suddenly vanish.

It was a sweet, warming thing—like taking a sip of hot chocolate on a misty, cold morning. The world simply tuned out for a moment, and the silence was the most beautiful thing Dee had ever heard.

They drifted apart.

“We probably shouldn’t,” she said.

His face cleared. “If that’s what you want.” He said the words without any trace of hurt or disappointment. Again, simple words. But this time they were not intended to wound.

She kissed him.

His lips were warm, soft, and they contrasted sharply with the stubble along his jaw. His hands were soft, too, and he was cradling the back of her neck, his thumb skimming along her hairline, sending shivers through her.

No one had ever kissed her like this. There had been a few parties, middle school encounters with spin the bottle and one memorable occasion with seven minutes in heaven when she and Trevor Farley had not made eye contact until the last thirty seconds, when he said, “Should we just try it?” It had been too wet and had simply felt like two mouths mashing together.

This kiss was soft, tentative. James’s lips barely moved against hers—just tiny whispers of sensation that swooped through her stomach.

This time he was the one to pull away, to gaze at her face as if trying to decipher her thoughts. “Was that okay?”

“Why’d you kiss me?” she asked instead. As if she had not just kissed him right back.

His cheeks colored. “I told you before. We could die any day. Might as well enjoy ourselves.”

A long pause.

“So you’re saying that I’m the full-fat cream cheese,” she said.

He pressed his lips together, his mouth twitching in an effort not to smile. “I would have given you a cuter nickname, I swear.” His mirth faded. “Listen, Dee. I get it. I’m not your type. You like stability and all that, and I’m—well. Me. If you want to just stay friends, I won’t hold it against you. Really, I won’t.”

She was afraid to want this. Afraid to rely on anyone, because she knew how easily they could slip away.

“It’s possible I may have trust issues,” she said.

“Shocking” was his deadpan answer.

He needed to know why this was such a bad idea. “James,” she said. “I—I don’t think I can do this. Broken little pieces, remember? I’m not sure I’m capable of loving anyone—not if I can’t trust anyone.”

His mouth thinned out. “You are not broken,” he said. “Dee, you’re fine. I like you. You—as you are now.”

The breath caught in her throat; she should have just pushed him away—it would have made everything easier. But… she found herself unable to say those words. “Could I just… have some time to think about this?”

She had always thought of herself as broken. She had crafted the word into armor, used it to keep the world at bay, to keep all her little pieces from completely falling apart.

She wondered what it would be like not to carry it around. And maybe this was the first step, maybe letting someone in was how all people did this.

He gave her a brilliant, lopsided smile. “Hey, neither of us is aging at the moment. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

She had forgotten about that—that her life would likely be two years longer than it should have been, thanks to this deal of hers. But then again, that was assuming she lived through this. Perhaps that was the way fairy-tale deals always worked, all or nothing, a long life or one cut tragically short.

“Thank you,” she said. For the kiss, for understanding, for simply being him. She wanted to somehow convey that, to tell him that she appreciated him without saying as much in words. She reached down, found his hand with hers. His fingers were dry and warm, his nails edged with charcoal. He seemed to understand; a smile played over his mouth.

Their fingers tangled, wrists pressed together.

No pulse between them.

Back in the hotel room, Dee thought things might be awkward. But somehow, they weren’t. James clicked on the television again, then went to shower. Dee sat on her bed, eating a cold egg roll and half listening to the news.

They couldn’t stay here much longer. It was Saturday—and she needed to be back at school by curfew tomorrow. No doubt Gremma would have covered for her in the meantime. Gremma was good for that, even if she was still angry. Dee felt a pang of worry at the thought of returning to her old life; this road trip had been an escape, a way to ignore the pain that would inevitably be felt upon her return. She didn’t want to think about it. Not her parents, not the empty bank account, not her tangled friendship with her roommate.

Ah, well. She’d deal with it tomorrow.

Dee was using her chopsticks to eat the last of the fried rice when she heard the news anchor say, “… cause unknown. But the force of the explosion took out half a city block.”

Dee looked up.

A blond man stood with his fingers pressed to his ear, the other hand holding a mic. “As you can see, Rachel,” he was saying, “the police have roped off the area—but we did manage to get a chopper in overhead. You should be seeing the footage now.”

The screen flickered and up came an image of smoking remnants—a building, Dee thought. Or what was left of it. It looked as though a bomb had gone off, ripped the structure to shreds and tossed the cars about. Then the image went back to that of the news reporter. The words flashed beneath his face, as they always did in urgent news reports: SEATTLE NEIGHBORHOOD STRUCK BY UNKNOWN EXPLOSION.

“The neighboring apartment buildings have been evacuated,” continued the man, “but we are still unsure as to how many people were affected by the blast. In the meantime…”

But she was no longer listening to the man’s words. She dropped the chopsticks and the take-out carton, scrambled across the bed, and gaped at the screen.

There were many people staring at the smoking building, even as the police were trying to ward them away. And among the crowd stood a man. A man with dark hair, beautiful features, and an umbrella tucked beneath his arm.