titans, but coffee because how
the actual fuck do they expect me to even pretend to be sane if they won’t
provide my drug of choice.
I could have
stopped in any gas station, though. Or even a store, for a bag of beans and a
little machine before I retreated back to that cloud - covered house in
the suburbs.
I didn’t though. I
drove the hour it took to take me into the heart of the city and when I found
myself slowing the motorcycle, I knew this was the place I was coming all
along.
I park the bike and
Del noses at my neck, a silent question that I ignore as I watch the shop.
She’s there.
Dancing as she cleans a counter, and I want to hear the song in her head.
I want to be the
song she hears. Every moment of every day, I want her dancing to my song.
I haven’t wanted
this since I released Del, centuries ago.
I haven’t wanted to
break a girl the way I broke her.
But standing here,
watching her dancing, and the way her gaze darts to the clock, and back to the
counter, I want it.
I stretch my Sight,
and let myself stare at her. At all of the threads of possibilities, a thousand
lifetimes and choices and one that gleams, golden bright and shining, the one
that matters.
The one that will
be.
It ties her to me.
I let out a breath,
and I push off the bike, and enter the coffee shop.
Iris looks up, a
little bit of frustration bleeding into her eyes, when I push open the door,
and then a smile, sweet and artless twists her lips.
“You,” she murmurs,
softly. Her red
hair is pulled up today, and she’s wearing a summer dress, dark green, that
sets off her pale skin and freckles, and she’s smiling, her eyes warm.
Inviting.
Mine.
“Me,” I agree. “Did you miss me, sweetheart?”
“Should I have?”
she asks, turning away to pour my coffee—cold - brewed, black, topped up with a straw. I
take it from her and add a splash of milk, watching the coffee instead of her
as it turns creamy and I take the first sip.
“Yes,” I say
simply.
She blinks, and a
smile curves her lips up, wide and amused.
Gods, this girl.
She has no fucking filter, no masks that she hides behind and flirts with.
She’s just raw emotion, honest and there for the taking and it may well damn us
all, but I want to take.
I want it so
fucking badly my hands shake as I lift my coffee.
“Where did you go?”
she asks.
“Why were you crying,
the other day?” I counter.
Her eyes go dark
for a heartbeat and she looks down. Away. Then she smiles and shrugs. “My
brother is dying,” she says, her voice light, and it’s the first time she’s
lied to me. I hate it, immediately.
The words are true
but the way she speaks them, like they are small and trite and meaningless.
That is wrong, and I growl, low in my throat.
“Tell me.”
“Why?” she asks,
and her voice is bitter. It feels like glass shards and the strands around her
twist and warp, darkening.
“Iris,” I whisper.
She stares at me
and her eyes gleam with tears. “Who are you?” she whispers.
“Someone who can
help,” I say softly. “But only if you tell me.”
And so she does.
The boy is named
Heath. Iris’ twin. (I like that she has a twin, but I hold that thought to
myself, to examine and delight over another time.)
He was an athlete.
A good one. Got a scholarship to Mizzou and everything. They—her sister and Iris
and their grandmother—were thrilled for him. So damn proud she couldn’t’ even
be upset that he was moving away and leaving her behind.
We are told to say
that. That we don’t mind. But we do. It always hurts to be the one left behind.
I think that is
why, even now, Artemis is so close to me. Neither of us can bear to be left by the
other.
It was in the
middle of his first race when he fell. His leg was splintered in two and he was
screaming, and they thought, panicked, that his career was over.
When the doctors
came, they realized it was worse.
Bone cancer had
eaten through his body. The leg shattering wasn’t the
the actual fuck do they expect me to even pretend to be sane if they won’t
provide my drug of choice.
I could have
stopped in any gas station, though. Or even a store, for a bag of beans and a
little machine before I retreated back to that cloud - covered house in
the suburbs.
I didn’t though. I
drove the hour it took to take me into the heart of the city and when I found
myself slowing the motorcycle, I knew this was the place I was coming all
along.
I park the bike and
Del noses at my neck, a silent question that I ignore as I watch the shop.
She’s there.
Dancing as she cleans a counter, and I want to hear the song in her head.
I want to be the
song she hears. Every moment of every day, I want her dancing to my song.
I haven’t wanted
this since I released Del, centuries ago.
I haven’t wanted to
break a girl the way I broke her.
But standing here,
watching her dancing, and the way her gaze darts to the clock, and back to the
counter, I want it.
I stretch my Sight,
and let myself stare at her. At all of the threads of possibilities, a thousand
lifetimes and choices and one that gleams, golden bright and shining, the one
that matters.
The one that will
be.
It ties her to me.
I let out a breath,
and I push off the bike, and enter the coffee shop.
Iris looks up, a
little bit of frustration bleeding into her eyes, when I push open the door,
and then a smile, sweet and artless twists her lips.
“You,” she murmurs,
softly. Her red
hair is pulled up today, and she’s wearing a summer dress, dark green, that
sets off her pale skin and freckles, and she’s smiling, her eyes warm.
Inviting.
Mine.
“Me,” I agree. “Did you miss me, sweetheart?”
“Should I have?”
she asks, turning away to pour my coffee—cold - brewed, black, topped up with a straw. I
take it from her and add a splash of milk, watching the coffee instead of her
as it turns creamy and I take the first sip.
“Yes,” I say
simply.
She blinks, and a
smile curves her lips up, wide and amused.
Gods, this girl.
She has no fucking filter, no masks that she hides behind and flirts with.
She’s just raw emotion, honest and there for the taking and it may well damn us
all, but I want to take.
I want it so
fucking badly my hands shake as I lift my coffee.
“Where did you go?”
she asks.
“Why were you crying,
the other day?” I counter.
Her eyes go dark
for a heartbeat and she looks down. Away. Then she smiles and shrugs. “My
brother is dying,” she says, her voice light, and it’s the first time she’s
lied to me. I hate it, immediately.
The words are true
but the way she speaks them, like they are small and trite and meaningless.
That is wrong, and I growl, low in my throat.
“Tell me.”
“Why?” she asks,
and her voice is bitter. It feels like glass shards and the strands around her
twist and warp, darkening.
“Iris,” I whisper.
She stares at me
and her eyes gleam with tears. “Who are you?” she whispers.
“Someone who can
help,” I say softly. “But only if you tell me.”
And so she does.
The boy is named
Heath. Iris’ twin. (I like that she has a twin, but I hold that thought to
myself, to examine and delight over another time.)
He was an athlete.
A good one. Got a scholarship to Mizzou and everything. They—her sister and Iris
and their grandmother—were thrilled for him. So damn proud she couldn’t’ even
be upset that he was moving away and leaving her behind.
We are told to say
that. That we don’t mind. But we do. It always hurts to be the one left behind.
I think that is
why, even now, Artemis is so close to me. Neither of us can bear to be left by the
other.
It was in the
middle of his first race when he fell. His leg was splintered in two and he was
screaming, and they thought, panicked, that his career was over.
When the doctors
came, they realized it was worse.
Bone cancer had
eaten through his body. The leg shattering wasn’t the
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