Etern1ty

by Erin Noelle

  Lyra’s head snaps in my direction, her long hair whipping around as she pins me with her wild eyes. “Do you want me to believe you or not?”

  Again, I’m taken aback by her response, but I don’t have time to figure out the reason for her strange behavior, because most importantly, I want her to believe me. So instead of questioning her, I answer, “Yes, I do.”

  She nods matter-of-factly and closes the drawer she was digging through. “Then get us each a piece of paper and something to write with.”

  I do as she asks then meet her back on the couch where we were before, handing her the supplies as I lower myself on the cushion next to her. Anxiety like I’ve never felt before surges through my veins while I wait for her to speak. I don’t know if I can do what she’s about to ask me to do. And I still don’t understand why she has paper and a pen, too.

  “Turn your back to me so I can’t look and write the numbers you see in my eyes,” she instructs.

  I open my mouth to object, but the imploring, almost desperate look she gives me stops any words from coming out. There’s no way she can know what she’s asking me to do. And there’s no way I can lie to her or deny her.

  With an overwhelming sensation of dread and sorrow, I twist to face the wall, quickly jot down the six-digit number, and brace myself for the fallout. Only when I swing back around to face her, Lyra’s holding up her piece of paper with the exact same numbers that are written on mine.

  042316

  LYRA

  08.08.15

  Clarity is often easiest found in the chaos. I first experienced this in Pamplona when the earth shook violently under my feet and the world crumbled around me, and yet in the midst of it all, I found comfort and security in the arms of a stranger. A stranger who would later open my eyes, flip my world upside down, and make me want and desire and feel in ways I never knew possible.

  Now, here I am again, although this time the chaos isn’t in my environment, but rather in my jumble of conflicting thoughts. How is it possible he can see the numbers, too? Are there more people like us? Am I really going to die in less than a year? Are we going to die together? Can we stop it from happening?

  A battle rages inside my brain; skepticism and logic war with hope and conviction and leave behind a smoky haze of confusion and mayhem. But through it all, one thing remains constant—Tavian West is my clarity.

  When everything else becomes a blurry mess, he stays in focus. And as long as I have that—as long as I have him—I don’t need anything else.

  “Can you see everyone’s?” he asks, his eyes bouncing back and forth between the numbers on my paper and my face. “Have you known mine this entire time?”

  I nod with a sad smile.

  In the blink of an eye, I’m no longer sitting on the couch, and instead I’m cradled up against Tavian’s broad chest as he strides purposefully through the apartment and into his bedroom. My back hits the pillowtop mattress, and then with the hands of a magician, Tavian strips me from my dress, bra, and panties before shucking his own clothes onto the floor.

  Good God, I still can’t believe how gorgeous he is. Maybe this is all just one incredibly long, vivid dream.

  Even without foreplay, I’m wet and ready for him when he positions himself between my thighs and nudges the tip of his cock against my entrance. He bends forward, hovering over my naked body, and fixes his intense gaze on mine. There’s so much we still need to talk about, so much to figure out, but more than anything right now, we need to lose ourselves in each other. To move and breathe as one.

  “Lyra Jennings from Brooklyn,” he rasps before feathering a kiss across my lips, “there’s not another soul on this planet, or any other for that matter, who I want to live the rest of my days with, no matter if it’s eight months or eighty years. I love you to Jupiter and back, Buttercup.”

  He slowly slides inside me, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated deep in my core. Reaching up with my left hand, I cup his jaw and drag my thumb over the dimple in his chin. I love this damn dimple almost as much as I love him. Words don’t exist in any of the seven languages I speak to properly express the awe-inspiring emotions bubbling inside me.

  “We don’t have to stop at Jupiter, Tavian West from Philadelphia,” I whisper to him. “My love for you extends light-years past the boundaries of this universe. Just promise me we do this together, however long we have.”

  A feral growl rumbles in his chest as his mouth claims mine in a passionate kiss, his lips and tongue vowing his commitment to me over and over again without uttering a word. And we then spend the remaining hours of Tavian’s birthday tangled up in each other, chasing climax after climax until we both pass out in a heap of sated bliss.

  His last birthday.

  And if he’s right, mine isn’t too far off either.

  LYRA

  08.09.15

  The sound of bacon sizzling and the smell of freshly brewed coffee greet me on my first morning of waking up in Tavian’s bed. The covers are gathered all around me, keeping me warm and snug, and I smile at the thought of him taking the time to tuck me in when he got up. I love his attentiveness and how he always seems to know what I need, sometimes before me.

  For a handful of seconds longer, I lay still and continue to count my blessings, Tavian being at the very top of the list. But it doesn’t take long for the reality from last night’s discovery to set in and my mood to nosedive.

  I’m going to die. Not like, ‘oh, yeah, I’m going to die someday, because everyone does,’ but I’m going to die soon. In like… I sit up abruptly and grab my phone off the nightstand, quickly opening Google and typing in How many days until April 23, 2016.

  The answer takes less than a nanosecond to appear on my screen—258 days—and all too suddenly, my mortality has a countdown attached to it. My lungs seize up as the air surrounding me grows thick and murky with regret and rage. I’ve spent the last twelve years hiding from myself and everyone else, and now that I’ve finally met someone who’s helped me figure it out, someone to share my love and life with, I find out we get less than a year together. How is that even possible?

  Fate must either really hate me or… well, I can’t think of another explanation. She clearly hates me and cheers for my misery.

  “I thought I heard you stirring in here,” Tavian says cheerfully, his voice ripping me from the gloom and doom path I’d started down.

  I glance up from my phone and see six feet of near perfection—from the mussed-up brown waves atop his head to the ridiculous Philadelphia Eagles slippers he has on with his low-slung pajama pants and the Pluto: Never Forget T-shirt I picked out for him in Spain. He holds up a steaming mug of coffee and grins lazily, his dimple just barely peeking out from underneath the dark scruff covering the bottom half of his face.

  Padding over to the bed, he sets the cup down on the nightstand and sits next to me on the mattress. “It’s not the morning changer from Las Ramblas, but it’s pretty damn good.” He chuckles as he leans down to press his lips to mine. “Good morning, by the way. Did you sleep well?”

  With my brain still reeling from the depressing realization of our limited days left alive, when I open my mouth to answer him, I burst into uncontrollable sobs, not making a bit of sense as I blubber on about how life isn’t fair.

  “Hey, hey, hey, calm down, baby,” he soothes as he scoops me up and moves me into his lap, engulfing my naked body with his thick, corded arms. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. What happened?”

  I bury my face in his chest and bawl like a baby for at least five minutes, my tears and snot soaking through his shirt until there’s nothing left in me. My shoulders sag forward as the last of my sniffles dry up, but I refuse to uncover my face. I just want to stay like this forever.

  Not that forever is very far away….

  Tavian rubs both of his hands up and down my back while peppering tender kisses on the top of my head, not once rushing me to answer him. He holds me up as I break down; his touch is the glue
that keeps me from fracturing into a million tiny pieces. I don’t understand how he can be so calm, so unaffected after what he now knows.

  “Lyra, baby, I need you to look at me,” he murmurs into my hair, not loosening his hold on me. “There’s something important I need to show you.”

  I don’t move immediately, but after a few beats, I slowly peel myself away from his chest and lean back just enough where I can look in his eyes. It takes a moment or two for my own eyes to adjust and focus through the irritation caused by the crying, but when I finally do and our gazes lock on each other, I suck in a sharp intake of air and freeze, paralyzed with shock.

  Oh my God, what the…?

  A megawatt smile spreads across his face and he nods excitedly. “It happened for you, too, didn’t it?” he exclaims. “They’re gone, right?”

  “Wh-wh-what in the…? How did you…? When did it…?” I can’t finish any of the questions I’m trying to ask, because I can’t pull my eyes away from Tavian’s… and where the numbers used to be. They’re completely gone, not even an outline or a shadow left.

  “I don’t know how, but I’m pretty sure I know why.” He kisses me hard and fast, which only adds to the spinning going on in my head right now. The past twenty-four hours have been a whirlwind of revelations and emotions and I can’t keep up anymore. “I got up this morning and wanted to cook you breakfast, but then I realized I forgot butter at the grocery store yesterday. So I wrote you a note in case you woke up and then ran down to the corner market real quick.”

  Pausing his story, Tavian reaches out and grabs the coffee then hands it to me, gesturing for me to drink while he continues. I wrap both hands around the heated mug and lift it to my mouth, sipping the warm drink like it’s liquid gold. Maybe the caffeine will help me make sense of what is going on right now, because this can’t really be—

  “On my way there, I passed an older woman on the street,” he explains, “and when she glanced up and said hello, I couldn’t see her numbers, but I didn’t think much about it, because the interaction was so fast and I just thought I missed them. But when I went to check out at the store, I stared directly into the cashier’s pupils, and there was nothing but blackness—not a trace of anything. So I paid and then walked around the entire block, checking every person I saw, and they’re all gone! The numbers disappeared!”

  My pulse spikes as hope blooms inside me. I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him. But I can’t help but be skeptical it’s just a fluke or a temporary thing. Why would the numbers suddenly disappear as soon as I found someone else who can see them?

  “I-I-I don’t understand.” I search his pupils again. Still nothing. “They’ve been there forever. How can they just vanish? Why now?”

  He takes the mug from my hands and returns it to the empty space next to the alarm clock then moves me so my knees straddle his thighs and we’re face-to-face, so close our noses nearly touch.

  “Because we found each other and fell in love.” He nips at my bottom lip, catching it between his teeth and sucking briefly before adding, “They did their job. They led us to each other.”

  “Tavian,” I sigh, resting my forehead against his, “this is real life, not some fairy tale. You can’t save me from a coma with a kiss, and I can’t turn you from a beast to a prince by saying I love you before the last petal falls. The numbers didn’t magically go away because we admitted we love each other, but even if they did, it still doesn’t change the fact that we’re going to die in less than a year. How can you be so cool, calm, and collected about all of this?”

  In one sweeping motion, Tavian flips both of us over on the bed so that I’m flat on my back and he’s pancaked on top of me, though he’s careful not to squish me under his weight. He only needs one hand to pin both of my wrists to the pillow above my head, and his other is cupping my chin, gently forcing me to look up at him.

  I momentarily forget about the heavy conversation we’re in the middle of as a wave of lust crests over me. My thighs part naturally to accommodate him and my nipples draw up into tight peaks, and thanks to my lack of clothing, there’s no hiding my body’s reaction to his caveman-like actions.

  He glances down at the tightened dusty tips and smirks, still showing no concern at all about the dire situation surrounding us. “First off, I know I haven’t shaved yet this morning,” he chuckles as he lowers his face and drags the dark stubble covering his jaw across my cheek, “but I’m far from beastly. I take great offense to that comparison.”

  I struggle to keep the serious expression etched across my features as his presence alone quiets the incessant nagging of my anxieties and fears. Instinctively, my body yearns to cling to him, to allow him to protect me and carry my burdens.

  “Secondly, who’s to say this isn’t our fairy tale?” he asks, eyebrows arched in question. “Do you have any idea how unbelievable the odds are that you and I—the only two people we know of on the entire planet who can see the numbers—were both in the Pamplona airport at the exact same time when a terrorist attack happens, consequently not only crossing our paths, but literally hurling us into one another?”

  “No,” I whisper, the impact of his words slamming into me.

  “It’s astronomical, Lyra. Maybe even incalculable. When I told you before that our meeting wasn’t an accident, I believed it. But now…” He shakes his head and exhales through pursed lips. “Now that I know you could see the numbers, too, there’s not even the smallest fraction of doubt that we’re supposed to be together. Call it fate, call it destiny, call it whatever you want. You’re mine and I’m yours for as long as we have left.”

  Tears prick at the backs of my eyes as a lump of dread lodges itself in my throat. “And how long is that going to be? Eight months?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Buttercup. Remember, width and depth, not length.” Wiping the wetness from my cheeks with the pads of his thumb, he smiles down at me like I’m the most precious thing in the world. “You know, when I woke up this morning and the realization had finally sunk in, I allowed myself one whole minute to feel sorry for me. In those sixty seconds, I thought about all the things I want to do but will never get a chance to, how I’ll never earn my PhD, how I’ll never have another birthday dinner at Stan’s, how I’m going to leave my mom here all alone, and a bunch of other shit I can’t do anything about.

  “And then, when that minute was up, I had to make a decision. I could either spend the rest of my days angry, bitter, depressed, and miserable, or I could make the most of the time I have left and the two of us can live it up,” he says, excitement glinting in the blue depths of his eyes. “I’ll take a leave of absence from the university and we can live off the settlement I got after my dad and brothers died. It’s been sitting in the bank for years, only being used for my bucket list trips, and we can make this the most epic of bucket list adventures. Anything and everything we want—the world is ours, until it isn’t. And if that day is next April 23rd, then we’ll have done it all and be ready to move on to the next place. Together.”

  “And if it’s not?” I squeak.

  Grinning, he skims his lips over mine. “And if it’s not, then we just keep loving and living and adding chapters to our fairy tale. No matter what, it has a happily ever after.”

  My heart swells with the love I feel for this man. An optimist even when discussing his own end, the enthusiasm he has for life is potent and infectious. He makes me want to live, to feel. For him. For me. But mostly, for us.

  I still can’t fully wrap my head around the fact that neither one of us will be here in a year—I haven’t even dared to think about how it will happen—nor can I make sense of why or how the numbers mysteriously and miraculously disappeared this morning. But I don’t have time to waste worrying about things I can’t control.

  I’ve got a story to live.

  A man to love.

  And bacon to eat.

  TAVIAN

  08.14.15

  “Lyra, I’m home!” I
singsong in my best Ricky Ricardo voice as I toss my wallet, keys, and phone onto the entryway table. Even though my tone is lighthearted and playful, I’m sincere when I call this place home, because with Lyra now living here too, that’s exactly what it is. That’s exactly what she is.

  Yes, she’s already moved in with me. Yes, I’m well aware we’re moving at lightning-fast speed. And no, I don’t give a shit what a single person thinks about it.

  When Lyra first came to visit for my birthday last weekend, I selfishly joked about wanting to keep her here and never letting her go back to New York, but I honestly didn’t expect that to happen. However, after everything came to light about the numbers and our matching dates on Saturday, I decided there was no way in hell I’m going to spend a single night without her body tucked up against mine and not have her face as the first thing I see every morning when I wake up.

  Lyra, however, was hesitant initially and questioned if we were moving too fast. She gave me some crap about not making hasty decisions and later changing my mind, but after a couple of rounds of naked wrestling in bed, I came out victorious and she agreed… thanks to the powers of my coaxing tongue.

  It took a bit of finagling and a handful of phone calls, but by Monday morning, we had arranged for a moving company to pack up her loft and send what she needed here, while putting the rest of her stuff in storage. I’m pretty sure the guy thinks he screwed me on the price, detecting the desperation in my voice, but I would’ve paid tenfold what he asked. Anything to keep her here.

  Without knowing if April 23, 2016 is in fact our ultimate countdown date, or if anything changed when the numbers inexplicably disappeared for both of us, we don’t have the luxury of time to allow our relationship to progress naturally like most couples. And if everything goes according to plan tonight, I hope to accelerate things quite a bit more. Fingers crossed.