by Stacey Jay
Romeo
I turn to find her watching me with that look in her eye, the hungry one that makes me even hungrier. Innocent girl, my ass. I don’t care if she did have her first kiss only two days ago. Ariel is a temptress, and I am … weak, weakening, weaken-est.
I walk back to her, feeling the danger increase with every step. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I think you know,” she says. “But I can tell you if you don’t.”
“No,” I say, not sure I can take hearing her say the words aloud. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Dylan will be coming back to this body.”
“Maybe.”
“Most likely. And I don’t know what he’ll remember. If—If we— He may remember he was with you because he fell in love with you. Or he may remember he was with you for some other reason. Including that bet.”
“I don’t care what he remembers.”
“I care,” I say. “I don’t want you hurt.”
“You’ll hurt me more if you don’t listen to me.” She lays her palms over my heart, making it beat faster. “I want to do everything I can with you in the time we have left. I want to go to my first dance, and cook my first dinner, and go skinny-dipping, and everything else we can fit in.”
Skinny-dipping. What’s she trying to do to me? “It’s cold outside.”
“I know a hot spring, way out in the country near where my grandparents used to live. It’s warm all year, and very private.” She tips onto her toes, bringing her lips closer to mine. “We’ll bring a picnic. And towels and blankets to wrap up in. After. It will be perfect.”
Blankets. After. Perfect.
I close my eyes, but open them immediately, finding no strength in the images flashing behind my closed lids.
“I was serious this morning. I’ve walked the earth for more than seven hundred years. Most of that time is a blur, and I still feel like a young man, but what I feel doesn’t matter. The reality is that I am repulsively old.”
She cocks her head, as if I’ve said something stupidly adorable. “I don’t think you’re repulsive.”
“You don’t know everything about me. In many ways, I’m still a monster.”
“Are you trying to scare me?”
Am I? I should be encouraging her love/lust in all forms, not frightening her away. But I don’t want to lie anymore, and I don’t know if I can keep from telling the truth if we’re skin to skin. “Maybe. Maybe you should be scared.”
“Your curse doesn’t scare me; why should your age?”
“Because, I’m …” I sputter and try again. “It’s … I’m …”
She takes my hand. “When I look at you, I don’t see a monster.”
“You don’t see me. You see a body I’ve—”
“I see you,” she says, with a surety that shuts me up for a moment. “And I care about you. Isn’t that all that matters?” Her fingers link through mine, making my throat feel tight.
Care. She still hasn’t said she loves me. I need to finish the job of winning her, no matter what it takes. I can’t afford to keep pushing her away, but I can’t seem to stop.
“Care matters. But what if the woman at the register were a man? An old man with hair in strange places and sagging skin and a giant red nose and ears that touch his shoulders and that nearly-dead smell people get after a lifetime of eating too much meat? What would you say then?”
“I’d say that’s pretty gross.”
“Exactly. Now multiply that times ten and you’ll have some idea how truly undesirable I—”
She stops me with a kiss that turns into a smile and another kiss. By the time she pulls away, I’m smiling again. I can’t help myself. She … does things to me. This girl.
“You’re so romantic,” she says.
“I’m not trying to be romantic.” I scowl.
“Which is very romantic. In its own way,” she says. “But pointless. I want what I want, and you don’t have the words to convince me that I don’t want it.” And then her arm is around my waist and she’s kissing me again, a long, lingering kiss that makes my body hum and my soul ache, and makes Longing lift its fist and knock out the much weaker Reason with a single blow.
I sigh into her and give up the fight. My fingers thread through her hair, pulling her closer, knowing I’ll never get enough of her. She intoxicates me, but not in the way that leaves a man senseless. She lifts me up like a breath of sweet air, like sun on my skin, like … god.
No, not god. Like the idea of god, the one I imagined when I was a boy, before my father broke my mother’s faith and spirit, back when she told stories of the merciful lord who loved me and my brother no matter what. Through her eyes, I saw something bigger than myself, bigger than any trouble that would ever find me. It was intoxicating, the thought of being loved so much, to have been given such a gift.
To give such a gift.
Could I? Maybe? Could I … love Ariel? Is that why she makes me feel this way?
Liar. Such a grand liar, you’ve deceived yourself.
I wince, and the rhythm of our kiss falters for a moment. Right. I don’t love her. I never would have so much as spoken her name if I didn’t need her to save me from a fate worse than death. This isn’t love. It’s gratitude.
And lust, of course. It’s lust that makes something primal inside of me insist that this girl is mine and no one else’s. It feels like more, but it isn’t. Juliet found a second soul mate, but were I able to see my own aura, I know it wouldn’t be blushing the pink of true love. I am a damned thing in limbo, of neither the light nor the dark, and my soul is too tainted to ever feel anything innocent or true.
But still … I need her, and the need cuts so deep, it makes me dizzy. I don’t know why. I don’t know anything anymore. I’m lost and confused and drowning in my own thought vomit.
I pull away, breath coming fast. “I don’t know what’s right.” I shake my head. “You make me feel …”
“Like you’re eighteen?”
I gaze down into her peaceful face, considering her all over again. Every time I think I’ve got a complete picture of Ariel drawn in my mind, she does something to surprise me, to smudge the edges into something new, an image more complex and intriguing than what it was before. “I guess so. I never made it to eighteen, but …”
“And you make me feel normal.” She rests her head on my chest, and my arms go around her. There’s no question that they will. “I’ve never felt normal, and I don’t know how long it will be until I feel this way again. If ever. But with you, I am, and it’s … perfect. So just go with me. Okay?”
I’m not sure what I’m promising, but I find I don’t really care. I don’t want to think; I want to feel. Like her, I want to feel normal, even if only for a stolen moment that will have to last me eternity. Besides, I’ve never been the “good guy.” No reason to start now, especially when Ariel is practically begging me to be bad. “All right,” I say.
She looks up at me. “Yes?”
“Yes.”
Her smile is the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. “Good.”
Not good. But it’s too late to turn back now. “Go back to the dressing room. I’m going to bring you something perfect.”
“And then we’ll get out of here,” she says.
“And then we’ll get out of here.”
“And go wherever I want to go.”
“Wherever you want to go.”
“And do whatever I want to do.”
I take a breath. “Whatever you want to do. Whatever.”
She smiles and walks calmly into the dressing room. I take a moment, appreciating every step, keenly aware of how I hate to see her go.
Ariel
At first I think he’s joking. “That’s a wedding dress,” I say, pulling my hand away from the hanger like the skirt is concealing a poisonous snake in its ruffles.
“I know.” He sticks his face through the curtain, looking disappointed that I’m still in my shirt and jeans. My eyes meet
his, and my lips tingle, wanting to kiss him again already. “Try it on.”
“But—”
“It will be perfect.”
“But I—”
“Trust me?”
Yes. I do trust him. I do. I trust him with my heart and soul. So I take the dress and fight my way through the crinoline and twist myself into knots hooking every hook and zipping every zipper.
And when I’m finally through, I’m so, so glad that I did.
I stand before the full-length mirror in the dressing room, mesmerized by my reflection. The deep V of the neckline is pretty scandalous, but it emphasizes what little I have on top in a way I never thought clothing could accomplish. The narrow waist fits perfectly, and the ruffles that start on the left hip and swirl in a half circle around the skirt aren’t ridiculous at all. They’re gorgeous, and give the dress a feeling of movement even when I’m standing still. It already seems like I’m dancing. I can only imagine how beautiful it will look when I’m spinning around the floor in Romeo’s arms.
His arms. I want to be in them. Right now. I reach for the zipper and drag it down.
“I hear a zipper,” he says from outside the curtain, making me jump. The realization that he’s hovering makes me smile, and my skin feel hot all over.
“It fits. I’m going to put my other clothes back on.”
“Aren’t you going to show me first?”
“Not until the wedding day,” I tease, pulling at another zipper.
“But I want to see!”
“Tomorrow night.” I undo the waist hooks and let the dress puddle to the ground around my ankles as I reach for my jeans. “It will be more fun if it’s a surprise.”
“You have a cruel idea of fun.” He sniffs. “Fine. I don’t need to see it. I’m sure it looks as good as I knew it would.” He sounds genuinely upset. He really does love clothes. If I let myself, I can imagine us making this a regular thing, imagine him teaching me how to dress, like the shopping buddy I never had. The buddy who makes me understand the meaning of lust for the first time in my life.
I do. I lust for him. It’s like a brain-and-personality-altering drug. I can’t believe half the things I’ve said in the past thirty minutes, but I don’t regret any of them. I’m ready. I can’t wait.
I grab the dress and push through the curtain, but my grin fades when I see that Romeo isn’t standing outside. I scan the store, thinking he must have gone to pay for his tux, but he isn’t at the cash register, either. He isn’t by the shoes or the suits or the—
I spot his dark head in the section with the dishes and pots and pans. His back is turned and it looks like he’s talking to someone. But who? It’s not like any of Dylan’s friends would come to the Goodwill. Tanner’s parents are loaded, and Jason Kim’s family is flat-out stinking rich, almost as well off as Gemma’s. The Kims own the property next door to the Sloop compound, fifteen acres with a hobby vineyard and a mansion with an indoor basketball court. Allegedly.
I’ve never been there, but Gemma has. Her parents used to make her tag along to barbeques at their neighbor’s house when she was younger. She told me all about the basketball court and Jason’s loft room that’s as big as my entire house.
Gemma. I haven’t thought about her all day. It’s strange. Ever since she disappeared the week before last, I’ve been so worried that I haven’t been able to go long without imagining the horrible things that could have happened to my best friend. It’s been a scary distraction. But today I’ve been distracted by other things. This is the first time she’s crossed my mind, which only makes it that much more shocking when I get close enough to see Romeo talking to a girl with shiny brown hair that brushes her shoulders, bright red lipstick, and a ball cap pulled down low over her face. Even with the hat, I know her immediately.
It’s Gemma. Here. In Solvang. Alive! Home!
I’m so excited, I drop the dress and run. “Gemma!”
She turns to me, the anger in her expression transforming to surprise of the not-totally-pleasant variety. A funny feeling flutters inside me, but it’s too late to adjust my course. I’m already practically on top of her.
The hug is brief—only a few seconds—but it’s enough to make me feel really, really stupid. She’s rigid and tight, and I can feel her wanting to pull away. I unwrap my arms as fast as I can and step back, covering my awkwardness with a smile. “I’m so glad to see you!”
“You too. You just … scared me.” She tugs her cap lower and glances nervously around the deserted store before knotting her arms across her chest. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here with Rom—Dylan.”
“You’re here together?” She raises a skeptical eyebrow, and shoots Dylan an even more skeptical look. I glance at Romeo, but he’s staring at the ground. Guess he wants me to handle this. It makes sense. She is my best friend.
“Yeah. We’re shopping for the dance.”
“You’re kidding.” A bubble of shocked laughter pops from her lips.
“No. I’m not,” I say, angry before I finish the last word.
Why am I the one answering questions? Why is she doing her best to embarrass me? And more important, why is she acting like everything’s fine and this is any other time that we’ve run into each other in town? She’s been a missing person for what feels like forever!
“Forget about me. Where have you been?” I don’t try to keep the irritation from my tone. “We’ve all been so worried. I’ve been crazy wondering if you’re okay.”
She purses her lips and widens her eyes, as if I’m the one who’s behaving irrationally. “It hasn’t even been two weeks, Ree. I’m sorry I didn’t call, but I’ve—”
“No one knew if you were dead or alive!” I cross my arms too, feeling the need to brace myself against this conversation. “Your parents have posters up all over town. They think you’ve been kidnapped or murdered or—”
“My parents are full of shit,” she says, the same heat in her voice that always accompanies mention of her mom or dad. “They know I’m fine. So do the police. Haven’t you wondered why there’s nothing on the news about a Sloop being kidnapped?”
“I … no. I didn’t …” I swallow against the acid rising in my throat. “They really know you’re okay?”
“Yes!”
“Then why—”
“I’m sure they’re hoping someone will see me if I come back into town, and report back like a good Sloop minion,” she says, with another anxious survey of the store. “That’s why I’m staying away from the town center. I haven’t graduated yet, so there’s a chance my parents could force me to come back if they find me. But I called them the first night I left. They know I’m never coming home again.”
“What?”
“I don’t belong to them anymore.” She lifts her left hand in the air and holds it there. For a second I think she’s going to give me the finger or something, and I am entirely, furiously confused. Then I see it. The rings. There are two. One a simple silver band and one with a tiny little diamond poking proudly into the air.
“You …” I shake my head. I can’t even say the words. I was freaked out by trying on a wedding dress I plan to wear to a dance. I can’t believe that Gemma’s actually—
“I’m married,” she says, erasing any doubt.
“To who?”
Her eyes flash as she takes a peek toward the door. “You’ll see. He’s getting gas, but he’ll be here in a second. He needs some jeans for our trip, and we’re trying to save money. But he’s over eighteen and I’m eighteen, so it’s completely legal. My parents are going to have to live with it. I talked to a lawyer in LA. As soon as I get my GED, they will never control my life ever again.” She smiles, but it’s different from her usual smile. There’s no anger or meanness lingering beneath, no hint of the sarcastic smirk that’s been the only smile in Gemma’s repertoire since the seventh grade.
She just looks happy. A little manic, but still … happy. Free.
No matter
how upset I still am, I can’t help but feel happy for her. Even if I have a hard time believing that getting married was a good idea. Gemma bores easily. I’ve never known her to date the same guy for more than a couple of months. I can’t imagine her content with one person for a year, let alone until death do them part.
“So how’s that working out? Your happily ever after?” Romeo asks, speaking up for the first time.
I cut my eyes his way, silently warning him not to ask Gemma any questions. Maybe he doesn’t know that Gemma and Dylan hate each other.
As if on cue, Gemma curls her lip and snarls, “It’s going great, psycho. How’s the sociopath thing going? Skinned any small animals lately?”
“Not lately. I’ve been trying to cut back.”
Gemma falters, surprised by the comeback. I pounce on the moment. “So where are you going to live?” I ask. “Are you going to get an apartment in town or—”
“No way. We’re out of here as soon as possible. Which reminds me …” Gemma casts another meaningful look Dylan’s way. “Could you disappear? I need to talk to Ariel without being overheard by the criminally insane.”
Romeo slides an arm around my waist. For the first time, his touch makes me feel awkward. “Anything you say to Ariel, you can say to me.”
Gemma laughs. “Come again?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, Stroud,” she says, her voice pure acid, “but I—”
“Hey, Gemma. Sorry. I was—” A breathless man wearing a short-sleeved black shirt—the better to show off his many tattoos—hurries up the aisle behind Gemma. He slows when he sees she’s not alone. “Oh. Hi, Ariel. Dylan.” He offers me a grin, but his expression grows chilly when he nods to Romeo.
He knows Dylan is in trouble a lot. Mike worked at the school for almost an entire semester, and probably had Dylan in detention at least once or twice. Mr. Stark always makes his student teachers do the things he hates to do. Like run detention and grade papers and tutor the kids who are having trouble writing a persuasive argument. Mike was tutoring Gemma until he took a leave of absence twelve days ago. Mr. Stark said he had family problems and had to take some time off. Now I know that was a lie. Mike wasn’t having family problems; he was eloping with one of his students.