Inspire (19 page)

I can’t stop my tears because this … this simple moment is something I never would have let myself even dream of, and it’s opening doors that have long been closed, and it aches in the best possible way to feel the dust being blown away.

This is what it’s like to just be. To exist at the very pinnacle of the present. To exist not for another person or a purpose or because of some bigger plan by fate, but for my own fulfillment. When I held onto the inspiration, when I let it take me over, I’d thought
that
freeing. I remember thinking that I felt truly alive for the very first time. I was wrong. This. Here. On this lumpy couch, I know better than I ever have what it means to live.

I let them both sleep a little while longer, alternating between watching the movie and watching the siblings. Gwen’s hair is lighter, finer, but it curls the same way Wilder’s does. His other hand, the one not resting against my neck is strewn over one of Gwen’s ankles. They’ve got the same skin color, only his is marked and decorated with black and colored ink.

Finally, I decide that Gwen is completely out, and that she’d be better off in her bed. Besides … I can’t stay all night. Even if I want to, even if could spend days just soaking up what it feels like to be with them. I don’t want his mother to come home and find me here. And if I’m honest, I don’t know how safe it is. The energy in me is at low, definitely manageable levels. But it should be nearly non-existent after my last connection with Jack only hours ago. I don’t know what it is, but something about Wilder calls not just to my heart and my spirit, but to my ability too. It rises faster when he’s around. And before I know what that means, I shouldn’t spend prolonged, unnecessary time with him.

Carefully, I slide an arm beneath Gwen’s legs, and another around her shoulders. I maneuver her as gently as I can into my arms. She doesn’t stir, and it takes all my core body strength to stand up smoothly. I kick off the blanket that clings to my feet, and walk her back through the hallway in the direction of where I think her room is. Luckily the first door I nudge open with my toe is definitely hers. Small pink twin bed in the middle. Toys and stuffed animals strewn about. Messy, slept-in sheets.

I lay her down as gently as I can, but it’s hard to control the limp weight of her body, and I end up having to adjust her into a comfortable position. She must be exhausted because she stays sleeping through the entire thing. A lamp is on near her bed that I assume is her night light, and I leave it on just in case. Tucking the blankets up to her chin, I push a few blonde curls back from her face.

She’s such a pretty little girl. Vibrant and enthusiastic, and I think I might love her already. Somewhere in the back of my mind, warning bells go off.

It’s not smart to love mortals. 

They’re vulnerable and breakable, and they age and die. All things I knew going into this, but I hadn’t expected my reaction to Wilder and his world would be this potent. If this is how I feel after one night, how will I feel in a week? A month?

Unease prickles along my spine, but when I make my way back into the living room and lay eyes on a sleeping Wilder, it's replaced by the shivering excitement he always seems to induce in me.

Even though I had planned to go, I find myself sitting down beside him again. The need to feel close to him is stifling, but I meant what I said to him in the kitchen. I can't just dive into something serious with him. The pull toward him is serious enough, to add in sex on top of that, especially when I'm still not sure how all of this is going to work … not a good idea. But it won't hurt to just lay beside him for a while, right? He's asleep. And I made my stand in the kitchen even though I was terrified of what he'd say.

Most of my relationships with artists have been about sex. It's the only truthful kind of intimacy I could ever have with them. And I've spent my entire existence knowing the worth of my beauty and my gift. I had been afraid that without my ability and without sex … I might not hold as much interest for Wilder.

Now I feel stupid for that niggling fear. When he'd held my face in his hands, and pinned me with his eyes … gods, he made me feel like the world revolved around me. Like I was the sun, and everything else existed in relation to me, depended on me.

Carefully, I slide a little closer, and without putting too much of my weight on him, I lean into the crook of his arm and rest my head between his heart and his shoulder.  His scent and heat surrounds me, and I let myself fall a little deeper into him. His arm drops from the back of the couch, draping along my side and curling around my hip. I tense, and look up, but other than a slight shifting of his body, sinking farther into the cushions, he doesn't appear to be awake.

I stay for another hour, flirting with the edge of sleep in his arms, but when I find myself beginning to replay the night in my head again, I decide I've lingered long enough.

But he apparently isn’t quite as out of it as his sister. He groans and shifts when I climb out from under his arm. While I slip my shoes back on, he blinks sleepily at me, looking almost confused.

“I have to go,” I whisper. “Gwen is in bed. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you.”

The fog in his eyes clears, and he wipes a large hand over his face before standing. He wobbles slightly, so I assume he's still a little drunk. I would be too if my body didn't reset at midnight.

“You were just going to sneak out again?”

“I was going to leave you a note.”

He crosses the gap between us, and his hand slides around my neck, pausing to rub a circle around my nape before tangling his fingers in my hair. His grip is claiming, possessive, but his nose nudging against mine is sweet and playful. “New rule. We never leave without a proper goodbye.”

A smile sprawls unbidden across my mouth.

“And what does a proper goodbye involve?”

His nose rubs against mine again. “It involves me thanking you for spending time with me, and reminding you of why we should do it again soon.”

He kisses me then, slow and still a little sleepy. His mouth moves against mine with a laziness that feels easy and gentle, and like an introduction to a new part of us. This is what it's like to touch with no endgame, no destination. This is a kiss that doesn't ask for anything, it just
is
. This kiss is closeness and comfort, and when it's over, I'm battling the same urge to cry that had gripped me when I watched him sleep.

Who would have thought that at my age, I could still experience a new kind of intimacy from a mere kiss? Something altogether different from everything I've ever experienced.

“Thank you,” I whisper when he pulls away.

One corner of his mouth lifts in a devilish smile.

“I think you're confused. That kiss was
me
thanking
you
.”

“I know. But still.”

“Well, now I have to say you're welcome.”

But instead of saying it, he kisses me again, his tongue sliding against mine with a little more force, a little more urgency. I have that falling sensation I sometimes get in dreams when he pulls away, and I stare at him for a few long moments before I remember that I'm supposed to be leaving.

“When can I see you again?” he asks as I shuffle toward the door.

My immediate response is to say tomorrow, but I stop myself. I should wait and see how I'm feeling tomorrow, where my energy levels are at.

“I'm not sure. How about you call me, and we'll figure something out.”

I have to give him my number because he doesn't have it, and when I'm done rattling it off, I'm tempted to make another excuse to stay. But he yawns again, and I know I should let him get some sleep. I say a final goodbye and head out the door. He stays on the porch, arms crossed over his chest to fight off the cold, waiting until I get in my car and pull away.

You’ve got time
, I tell myself, and resist looking back through the rearview mirror. Time to see him, time to figure out how this will work, time to explore the happy hum of the connection I feel between us. But in the back of my mind, I can't help but think that time is relative here. Wilder is human. Which means I've never been lower on time than I am right now.

He calls the next day, and I make an excuse as to why I can't see him. It hurts, because all I want to do is find out where he is and run straight there. But I was right … my energy levels are higher than they should be. I should have been good for at least another day before needing to expend some of my influence, but there's a restless churning in my chest that tells me otherwise. Normally, I would probably be fine to go a little while longer, even with my energies this high. But what if I saw him again like this? What if the level spiked, and there was no one else around, no other option? What if I lost control again like I did in that club? What if Gwen was there when it happened?

I feel physically ill at the thought. No. I need to be smart. Safe.

I start a journal to chronicle my experience, trying to make sense of it. I can't very well write the truth of what I'm feeling where someone else could find it, so I settle on a number system.

Today is about a five on a scale from one to ten. It’s manageable, but worse than I'm comfortable with. I wonder if it could be connected to time? I spent, let's see, about four hours yesterday, two to three of which contained a high level of exposure. But I … relieved some pressure … about halfway through that time. What number would I be at if I hadn't done that?

For now, I think I should cap myself at five hours. And go in as calm and close to zero as possible. That should keep me at a comfortable level.

He calls again the next day, but I haven't been able to get any time alone with anyone in Lennox's friend group. My friend group. Most of them work a day job on top of their craft or schoolwork, and they're working pretty heavily now since there's no school and the holidays are busy.

“I'm sorry,” I murmur into the phone. More sorry than he could possibly know. “But I can't today either.”

“Do you have to work?” he asks.

I consider telling him the truth, that I don’t, but it would be nice to have a ready-made excuse for situations just like this one. Not because I want to lie to him, but I don't see any other way around it. A job would definitely be convenient, though I've not had much use for a real one in centuries. That's one benefit of immortality. It's easy to build up wealth when you've got centuries to do it, and when knick-knacks and other objects from your past are old enough to be worth millions to the right collector or museum. Every few decades, I start over as a new version of my self, new birth certificate and identity and all that jazz. And that new me is always the sole beneficiary of my wealth when the old me “dies.”

“Yes, I have to work,” I lie.

“Oh. Okay. Where do you work?”

Damn.
Damn
. Where can I say? It has to be somewhere that he can't actually drop by to see me. Or … where he can drop by and see me, but it's under my control.

“I work from home.”

“Really? Doing what?”

“Uh, just some online stuff. Nothing all that interesting. But I'm pretty backed up because of the holidays, and I need to get it all done before the end of the calendar year.”

“Online stuff? So you're some kind of tech genius?”

“Hardly.”

“So, since you work from home, does that mean I can swing by sometime? Maybe distract you with a lunch break? Or a foot rub? Or maybe you get carpel tunnel?”

I laugh. He sounds so cute and eager on the line, and I wish I could see his face right now. I wonder if he's shaved yet, or if his facial hair would be even thicker than the last time I saw him. I wonder if he’s wearing his glasses or if he’s giving responsible Wilder a break.

“Not this time,” I tell him, but I soften my tone and hope he can hear the smile in my voice. “I've got too much to do. But maybe soon. I'll see what I can do.”

He sighs on the other end, and rather than letting him go like I should (especially considering how much
work
I supposedly have), I keep talking. “How are Gwen and your mother?”

“They're good. They've both asked about you actually.”

“Really?” I'm a little frightened to know what his mother asked.

“Yeah. They'd both like to see you again, but I told them they'd have to wait. I want some time with just us before we have to watch another Disney movie with my sister.”

“I don't mind Disney.”

“Of course you don't. You're like a real life version of one of those princesses.”

I scoff a laugh. “I'm not a princess.”

“You look like one.”

“I have eyes too large for my face and a waist disproportionate to the rest of my body?”

He chuckles, the sound low and deep on the other end.

“No, your eyes are the perfect size for your face, and I happen to
really like
your proportions.”

I lean back against the pillows on my bed, and laugh. A little too loud. A little too eager to hear him keep talking.

“So I'm
not
a Disney princess.”

“Maybe not. But you're definitely beautiful enough. And Gwen is just as obsessed with you as she is with
letting it go
.”

“I like her too.”

“I'm glad.” He suddenly sounds serious. “I told you that she's a big part of my life now. She and my mom both. When classes start back up again, I won't have much free time left between those, work, and my family.”

“Are you saying I might have to help babysit if I want to spend time with you?”

“Not always.”

“I wouldn't mind. I like your family, Wilder. I like your life.”

A beat of silence stretches between us and then he asks, “I know you said you're estranged from your sisters. But do you have any other family? Parents? Cousins? Aunts? Uncles?”

I've got a tremendous amount of family, really. I mean my sister muses are the closest ties by far, but all the gods are connected to each other in some way. But it's been a long time since I've seen any of them. The only ones who still walk the Earth are my sisters, the furies (who are also dependent on humanity to satisfy their need for justice and punishment), and the watchers, the sons of Argus.