by Hilary Duff
Am I doing that? Am I seeing Sage inside Nico’s body because I want to?
No. That’s crazy. Every word that comes out of Sage’s mouth proves that it’s him. And even though it’ll be hard for her, eventually Rayna will understand that, too.
I hope.
There’s a knock on the door connecting our two rooms, and I open it for Ben.
“Clothing delivery,” he says, holding out one of the plastic bags. “I thought you’d want it before you got in the shower. Yours are on the bed in there,” he adds to Sage. Then he frowns. “Clea? Is everything okay?”
“Rayna,” I reply.
Ben’s whole body deflates. “I know. Are you going to call her?”
“I can’t do it over the phone. When I see her.”
Ben nods. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something comforting, like maybe that it’ll all be okay, but I think he knows better. He offers a halfhearted smile, then walks back into the other room. I turn back to Sage, who’s still gazing at his reflection.
“You don’t have to wait for Ben to finish,” I offer. “You can use the shower in here.”
“That’s okay, you go ahead.”
I watch him stare at his own face for another moment and try to imagine what he’s feeling. It was bizarre enough for me to see visions of Olivia, Catherine, Anneline, and Delia and know my soul was inside them, but if I actually looked in the mirror right now and saw one of them staring back at me . . . I’m not sure how I’d handle it.
I grab my bag of clothes, lock myself in the tiny bathroom, and turn the shower as hot as it can go. The whole room is steamy before I strip down, pull open the shower door, and test the water with my palm. It’s just this side of scalding. Perfect. I step under the powerful stream and shiver as it pelts my skin. I wash my hair three times, using the entire bottle of motel shampoo, and take huge satisfaction in the swirls of filthy water that flow down the drain. When I’ve soaped and washed every bit of the last twenty-four hours of grime off me, I lean my back against the wall and slide down until I’m sitting in the stall, my ears filled only with the patter of water, steam filling my lungs. I’d stay like this all day, but too soon the water loses its biting heat, and I turn it off before it gets too cold.
I dry off and pull out Ben’s purchases: a purple pullover sweatshirt two sizes too big for me, and a green pair of sweatpants with elastic just below the knee. The material’s thin but soft and cozy; to me they feel like the finest silk. I throw my wet towel over the clothes I took off and kick the pile into a corner. I don’t ever want to see them again.
When I come out of the bathroom, the room smells like coffee, and Ben’s sitting on the king-size bed sipping a mug of it as he laughs at a rerun of The Daily Show. His sweatshirt is orange, even bigger on him than mine is on me, and he wears it with a pair of red sweatpants.
“I should have you shop for all my clothes,” I say as I head toward the door to the other room. “You’re a genius with color. I can’t wait to see how you dressed Sage.”
“He’s asleep,” Ben says, and when I ease open the door, I see he’s right. This room has two double beds, and Sage is sprawled out on one of them, completely unconscious. His sweats match and fit him perfectly, though they’re an eye-popping shade of electric blue. I ease the door closed again and stack the pillows so I can lean my back against them when I sit on the bed next to Ben.
He takes a sip of his coffee and winces. “For once I’m jealous that you don’t need this stuff. The coffeemaker in here is awful.”
At another time, small talk over bad coffee and Jon Stewart would be fun, but not right now. “Tell me about the soul transfer,” I say. “Why do you think Sage was so sick?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because Nico’s stomach was cut open. Or maybe it’s just something that can happen, like the bends.”
“But does it mean anything? Is Sage okay?”
“Clea, I don’t know. I’m not an expert on soul transfers.”
“You knew it healed Nico’s body.”
“I checked out some things in your dad’s books, after we came back from Japan.” My father and Ben had been close, and shared a love of all things paranormal. Ben was the one person who knew about most of my dad’s research in that area, the only one who knew his way around it all. “There wasn’t a lot, and I didn’t go looking for more.”
Because you hoped it wouldn’t happen, I think but don’t say. You hoped Sage would just stay away.
I really need to stop. From getting involved with a serious girlfriend, to pushing me away when I threw myself at him, to saving Sage’s life, Ben has proven that he’s not pining for me or fighting with Sage to win me over. He didn’t go looking for more information on soul transfers back then because Sage was gone and it wasn’t relevant. I need to give him more credit. He may have come between Sage and me in the past, both in this life and lives before, but maybe what Sage said goes for Ben, too: The past is gone forever. All we have is now.
“I can go through his studio when we get back,” Ben says. “Look around and see if there’s anything I missed.”
“Thanks. That’d be great.”
He yawns and runs his hands over his face. He looks rumpled, and I realize he hasn’t slept since before we left for Vermont yesterday.
“My God, Ben, you need to sleep. You look like the walking dead.”
Ben nods to the other room. “Actually, I think even the walking dead looks better than me right now.”
We both wince. “Not funny,” Ben admits. “Maybe I should sleep. You should too.”
He staggers into the other room, and I watch the rest of The Daily Show before I turn off the TV and curl under the covers. Even with the curtains drawn, the midmorning sun glows inside, but it doesn’t stop me from drifting off.
I wake to a dead man standing over me and have to stifle a scream before I remember it’s Sage.
“Can I stay here? I just want to be close to you,” he says, his voice soft and low.
I nod and pull back the covers so he can crawl in beside me. He spoons against my back, and I stiffen against the unfamiliar shape, the too-thick arms with their too-tight squeeze. But the longer I’m curled inside his grasp, the more sheltered I feel. I dreamily imagine that this was how it was always meant to be, that Sage’s soul needed a new home to be truly human, and this home will protect us both for the rest of our lives. I cuddle in closer to him, and my final thought before I drift off is that I hope this time our happiness can last.
I wake to darkness and the smell of coffee. I’m alone in bed, and without Sage I feel tiny on a huge island of covers. I hear muffled voices from the next room, so I slip to the floor, pad across, and push open the adjoining door.
Ben and Sage sit back on the double beds, their faces and colorful sweats bathed in the light from the TV they stare at intently.
“Breadfruit . . . ? Broadfist . . . ?” Sage murmurs.
“Brownfish!” Ben whisper-shouts. “Brownfish in Bay!”
“What’s ‘Brownfish in Bay’?”
“I’d like to solve the puzzle, Pat,” comes a voice from the TV. “It’s ‘Breakfast in Bed.’ ”
“That’s correct!” lilts Pat Sajak, and a blast of music confirms the triumph.
“ ‘Breakfast in Bed’?” Ben gapes.
“Like that’s less common than ‘Brownfish in Bay’?” Sage asks.
“ ‘Brownfish in Bay’ was a perfectly reasonable guess.”
“Oh my God, you’re an old married couple,” I say, and both guys’ faces share a look of surprise as they wheel to face me.
“It’s true,” Ben sighs playfully. “He doesn’t even stay in our bedroom anymore. Imagine my surprise when I woke up in the middle of the night all alone.”
Sage isn’t even listening to him. The minute he realized I was there, he jumped out of bed, and now he envelops me in a hug that feels as safe as a cocoon. “How do you feel?” he whispers into my hair.
“Wonderful. How
about you?”
“Never better.”
I consider dragging him back into bed so we can wake up lazily together, like a normal couple living a normal life.
“Good enough to travel?” Ben asks. “We should probably hit the road.”
He’s right. There will be plenty of time for normalcy, but not before we’ve cleared one last hurdle: going home and talking to Rayna.
“After we eat,” Sage says. “I’m ravenous.”
We quickly check out and walk across the street to Denny’s. It’s April—springtime—but there’s still a winter chill in the air as the sun slips below the horizon. I huddle close to Sage and he wraps his arm around me until we’re inside. We each gobble a quick Grand Slam breakfast—two Grand Slam breakfasts, in Sage’s case, since he vacuums up his own plus half of mine and Ben’s. The minute he finishes, he practically falls asleep in the booth, then asks if I’ll sit up front on the ride to my house so he can sprawl out in the back.
Seconds after we hit the road, Sage is out. I can hear his rhythmic breathing in the seat behind me. It’s soothing, and I zone out as I listen and stare out the windshield at the now-starlit sky.
Ben clears his throat.
“So,” he says softly, peering at Sage in the rearview mirror, “everything was . . . okay with the two of you last night?”
“Ben . . .”
“I’m not asking for any ulterior reason. Which I shouldn’t have to say, and maybe I don’t have to say, but I feel like I should say.”
When I don’t respond right away, he adds, “Your line now should be, ‘You don’t say.’ ”
“Hmm, that would have been clever.”
“I thought so.”
We pass under a streetlight, and I turn to see its light wash over Sage. He sleeps contorted around his seat belt. He didn’t want to wear it, since he’d be more comfortable without, but I’d held up his bandaged wrist and reminded him he had to take care of himself if we were going to have a long life together.
“Everything was okay,” I tell Ben. “He’s fine.”
“Good.” He’s silent for a while, then adds, “He kind of reminds me of a lion.”
“A lion?”
“Lions sleep for about twenty hours a day, and spend the rest of their time hunting and eating.” He nods toward the backseat and adds, “It’s like the man can’t get rested or full.”
“It’s also like a baby, isn’t it? Maybe getting a new body is like being reborn.”
“Maybe. I hope so. A baby’s pretty harmless. A lion not so much.”
My hackles rise, and I feel my body tense. “What are you trying to say?”
“Nothing. Honestly, nothing. If this is happily ever after for you guys, I’m thrilled. I mean it. All I’m saying, as your friend, is be careful. Maybe take it slow.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I can’t help the sarcastic bite in my voice, but Ben takes it in stride.
“Exactly. If he were here to say it, he would.”
That stops me, because it’s true . . . which still doesn’t mean I want to admit it out loud. I let a little time pass, then turn up the radio to drown out the silence.
It’s midnight by the time we pull onto my property. My eyes strain for the guesthouse as we move along the driveway. Maybe it’ll be dark. Maybe I’ll get a reprieve until morning.
No such luck. The light’s on in Rayna’s room. Worse, I can see her moving toward the window. She knows we’re back. I have to talk to her now.
“Pull around the side. I’ll head to Rayna’s while you wake up Sage and take him to the guest room. I don’t want her to see him until I explain.”
“I’ll meet you over there. I want to talk to her too. If it wasn’t for me—”
“Ben, please . . . I really want her to hear everything from me.”
He thinks about it, then nods. He pulls the car around the far side of the house, and I slip out the minute he stops. Knowing Rayna, she’s already out the door and on her way. I don’t have a lot of time if I’m going to keep her from Sage.
“Thanks, Ben.”
“Good luck.”
I’ll need it.
three
RAYNA
Downward Dog . . . lower into Plank . . . Chaturanga . . . rise into Cobra . . . push into Upward-Facing Dog . . .
I have two sticks of sandalwood incense burning on my dresser, and Clea’s housekeeper, Piri, came through today for her twice-monthly stint in our house, so the carpet gives off lingering whiffs of vanilla Carpet Fresh . . . but mostly what I smell is horse manure.
This is what happens when you spend practically an entire day doing yoga in a stable.
It’s not that I’m Miss Horsewoman, though I pretend to be, and my mom loves it. It’s her job to take care of Senator Victoria Weston’s horses—has been since forever. This works well, since Senator Weston and my mom are best friends, I’m best friends with the senator’s daughter, Clea, and Mom working on the estate means we get to live in a guesthouse on the property. It’s also a bonus that my mom loves horses; she’d do the job for free.
I do not love horses. I don’t dislike them or anything. They’re beautiful, and it’s almost impossible not to look good on a horse, which is a major plus. But taking care of horses involves a lot of time around dust, mud, and of course, horse poop.
Horse poop is not my thing. Or it wasn’t . . . until Nico.
Thinking his name makes my heart race, and I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin.
Deep breath . . . extend the right leg to the sky . . . swing it through to Runner’s Pose . . .
Better.
Horse poop didn’t bother Nico.
Doesn’t. Doesn’t bother Nico.
Senator Weston hired Nico to help my mom, and I knew the second we met that we were destined to be together. The boy wears Wranglers—seriously, Wranglers—and makes them look hot. He grew up on a ranch in Montana, says the word “golly” without irony, and has a body that makes Ryan Gosling look like pre-diet Jonah Hill.
In other words, he’s almost unbearably adorable. And since he’s a horse person, of course I had to become a horse person if I wanted to snag him. While he’s gone, I feel closer to him if I’m around the stables—and by extension the smell of horse manure. I stayed out there until it got too dark and, frankly, smelly for me to take it, but it’s like the scent has lodged itself permanently into my nose. Even after a shower with perfumed soap and shampoo, I can still smell it, just not as strongly.
That’s okay. It reminds me of Nico, so it’ll help me hold it together until he comes back.
If he comes back.
Pins and needles ripple on my skin. Stop. Stop thinking that way. I move into Reverse Warrior, digging deeper and breathing into the backbend until everything except my breath and my muscles fades away.
I wonder if there’s a world record for continuous hours of yoga. Maybe I should go for it. As it is, whenever I stop I end up biting at my fingernails, and that’s no good because Nico likes when I scratch his shoulder blades. He calls them his “angel bones,” which is something only he could get away with and not sound like a complete dork. But if my nails are all ragged, they’ll hurt his back and I’ll feel bad and . . .
I tumble out of Half Moon Pose and feel something lodge in my heel.
“Ow!”
I sit on the floor and examine the damage. Despite the vanilla scent, I’m thinking Piri didn’t actually vacuum that well, because I just stepped on an open staple. Why there was an open staple in my rug is anyone’s guess, but my bigger concern is that it’s stuck in my heel and it hurts. I yank it out, and twin bulbs of blood bloom in its place, the teeth marks from an elfin vampire.
Ugh.
I hop to the bathroom, grab Band-Aids and Neosporin, then hop back into my room, where I flip on the television so MTV’s pregnant teens can keep me company while I doctor myself up. I figure they can also distract me from the horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that something is very wrong with N
ico. It’s more than a feeling; it’s a psychic knowledge, deep in my soul.
If I were Clea, I’d tell myself I’m just being overemotional. But that’s not how things work in the paranormal world. In the paranormal world, psychic knowledge means something. You’d think Clea would know this, since she’s been swimming in paranormal since she found Sage in the background of our European vacation pictures. That’s the thing with Clea, though, and I say this with love: She is in complete denial of anything that isn’t logical. It took her ages to believe that Sage is her soulmate. And even when she did believe it, when she admitted her dreams were visions of past lives, she couldn’t let go and enjoy this incredible gift of true love. She had to dissect it, and worry about which version of her Sage loved best, or what he did for satisfaction during the decades—decades—in which her soul hadn’t yet returned to Earth.
I, on the other hand, know from paranormal. I’ve had a Ouija board correctly tell me the initials of my first boyfriend, I’ve watched every episode of Ghost Hunters, and I was among the first to fall in love with Twilight. I’m much more prepared than Clea to be involved in a paranormal romance.
Not that I wanted that. I mean, I used to. I looked at Clea and Sage’s epic love affair and thought it would be so thrilling to have something like that, but the truth is, I was perfectly happy to settle down with someone whose picture could be in the dictionary next to the word “normal.”
Then Nico confessed that his family’s in some kind of cult tied to the Elixir that’s kept Sage alive for hundreds of years, and all those born into the cult are cursed to die before they’re thirty.
Sounds crazy, right? But I heard his stories. Nico’s dad died when he was twenty-eight, his sister was killed in a freak car accident when she was sixteen, and his little brother died at three because he was born with an insanely rare disorder. Crazy cursed cult is the least bizarre explanation. Plus, I’m pretty sure Nico’s head would explode if he tried to lie.