assumptions about how your GUT works are incorrect. Aside from the shadow thing with Claire and the rest, has everything else been normal?”
“Yeah.”
I told him about testing the table at the Colonel’s.
“Look, Dante, there’s no manual for our GUTs.” Branwell waved his hand back and forth between us. “We’ve always been in figure-it-out-as-we-go mode. Up until now, maybe you hadn’t met anyone outside friends and family who had been emotionally important to you in other lives. But you probably loved people other than your current relatives and friends in the past.”
“It is possible, I’ll give you that.”
“Possible? No, it’s brilliant. For example, if you’ve known and loved me in all your past lives—’cause, let’s face it, how could you not?—” He shot me a wink. “—then that could explain my missing shadows.”
“Yeah, but Claire is dead air space. Not a trace of a single shadow.”
Branwell just grinned—salaciously, I might add—and rolled a gloved hand. Ergo . . .
I stared at him. Blinked.
“Are you suggesting Claire Raythorn is my woman?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“That I have loved her—Batty Ray Psycho, mind you—life after life after life? Loved her so much that I can’t see the tiniest trace of a shadow?”
A chill chased my spine—the sensation that my words rang with truth .
I shook the feeling away. No way I was getting involved with Batty Ray Psycho.
“Soulmates, brother.”
“That seems so improbable . . . I don’t even know where to begin.”
Branwell laughed, low and wicked.
“I’m not sure I even believe in soulmates,” I grumbled.
I had never experienced any transcendental, soul-esque connection with any of my past girlfriends. It probably explained why I didn’t date much, despite my reputation.
“C’mon, it would be a great story,” Branwell said. “Your eyes meet across a crowded room, instant happily-ever-after—”
“That’s one-too-many Disney movies talking there.”
“No deflecting. Seriously, what’s your take on Claire Raythorn? You still haven’t answered my question.”
I shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”
Despite the almost electric shock earlier when I touched her wrist, I wasn’t sure she was that woman. Physical attraction did not equal emotional attraction.
I preferred women who were more animated and open. Ready to flirt as hard as I did. WYSIWYG women—what-you-see-is-what-you-get.
Which in no way described Claire Raythorn.
I flaked off another bite of cheese. It needed some fruit. I grabbed a pear sitting in a bowl on the table and snagged a paring knife. Branwell’s eyes lit up.
In silence, I sliced into the pear. Branwell reached for the knife, intending to cut some for himself. I waved him away.
He sighed. I ignored it.
I sliced the pear into bite-size chunks, being careful to make as little noise as possible. I arranged the pears on Branwell’s plate.
“Thank you,” he said dryly. “You do realize I am perfectly capable of cutting my own pear.”
“Just helping where I can.”
And then I winced. That was always the wrong thing to say.
“No, you’re going all nonna and coddling me. Barreling into my space. Treating me like I’m somehow less-than.” Branwell gave another hefty sigh and reached for a slice of pear, along with the pecorino .
“Branwell—”
“Broken as I am, I wouldn’t change myself.” He dropped the pecorino/pear chunk in his mouth. “The GUT . . . it’s like diabetes, brother. It’s manageable.”
“You really haven’t hung out with Tenn lately, have you?”
“Point taken.”
“You live in a cage.”
“Don’t we all?” With a roll of his eyes, Branwell reached for more cheese and pear. “Besides, you’re still deflecting about Claire—”
“Who’s deflecting?” Chiara bounced into the room. Our sister was perpetually in a state of bouncy-ness.
“Branwell,” I said.
“Dante,” he said.
Without missing a beat, Chiara strode over
“Yeah.”
I told him about testing the table at the Colonel’s.
“Look, Dante, there’s no manual for our GUTs.” Branwell waved his hand back and forth between us. “We’ve always been in figure-it-out-as-we-go mode. Up until now, maybe you hadn’t met anyone outside friends and family who had been emotionally important to you in other lives. But you probably loved people other than your current relatives and friends in the past.”
“It is possible, I’ll give you that.”
“Possible? No, it’s brilliant. For example, if you’ve known and loved me in all your past lives—’cause, let’s face it, how could you not?—” He shot me a wink. “—then that could explain my missing shadows.”
“Yeah, but Claire is dead air space. Not a trace of a single shadow.”
Branwell just grinned—salaciously, I might add—and rolled a gloved hand. Ergo . . .
I stared at him. Blinked.
“Are you suggesting Claire Raythorn is my woman?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“That I have loved her—Batty Ray Psycho, mind you—life after life after life? Loved her so much that I can’t see the tiniest trace of a shadow?”
A chill chased my spine—the sensation that my words rang with truth .
I shook the feeling away. No way I was getting involved with Batty Ray Psycho.
“Soulmates, brother.”
“That seems so improbable . . . I don’t even know where to begin.”
Branwell laughed, low and wicked.
“I’m not sure I even believe in soulmates,” I grumbled.
I had never experienced any transcendental, soul-esque connection with any of my past girlfriends. It probably explained why I didn’t date much, despite my reputation.
“C’mon, it would be a great story,” Branwell said. “Your eyes meet across a crowded room, instant happily-ever-after—”
“That’s one-too-many Disney movies talking there.”
“No deflecting. Seriously, what’s your take on Claire Raythorn? You still haven’t answered my question.”
I shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”
Despite the almost electric shock earlier when I touched her wrist, I wasn’t sure she was that woman. Physical attraction did not equal emotional attraction.
I preferred women who were more animated and open. Ready to flirt as hard as I did. WYSIWYG women—what-you-see-is-what-you-get.
Which in no way described Claire Raythorn.
I flaked off another bite of cheese. It needed some fruit. I grabbed a pear sitting in a bowl on the table and snagged a paring knife. Branwell’s eyes lit up.
In silence, I sliced into the pear. Branwell reached for the knife, intending to cut some for himself. I waved him away.
He sighed. I ignored it.
I sliced the pear into bite-size chunks, being careful to make as little noise as possible. I arranged the pears on Branwell’s plate.
“Thank you,” he said dryly. “You do realize I am perfectly capable of cutting my own pear.”
“Just helping where I can.”
And then I winced. That was always the wrong thing to say.
“No, you’re going all nonna and coddling me. Barreling into my space. Treating me like I’m somehow less-than.” Branwell gave another hefty sigh and reached for a slice of pear, along with the pecorino .
“Branwell—”
“Broken as I am, I wouldn’t change myself.” He dropped the pecorino/pear chunk in his mouth. “The GUT . . . it’s like diabetes, brother. It’s manageable.”
“You really haven’t hung out with Tenn lately, have you?”
“Point taken.”
“You live in a cage.”
“Don’t we all?” With a roll of his eyes, Branwell reached for more cheese and pear. “Besides, you’re still deflecting about Claire—”
“Who’s deflecting?” Chiara bounced into the room. Our sister was perpetually in a state of bouncy-ness.
“Branwell,” I said.
“Dante,” he said.
Without missing a beat, Chiara strode over
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