Alyson Noël - Night Star

He meets my gaze, obviously preferring not to answer, but correctly assuming I won’t give up until I hear it from him, he says, “All you need to know is that she never repeated herself.” He sighs, face solemn and grave. “Probably because she enjoyed it too much, enjoyed thinking up inventive, new ways.” He winces. “And I suppose she didn’t want me to get suspicious. But listen, Ever, even though what you saw was unbelievably tragic, in the end, I loved you, and you loved me, and it was wonderful and glorious for as long as it lasted.”

I look away, determined to absorb it, to take it all in. But it’s a lot. Too much for right now, that’s for sure.

“So, will you show me someday?” I face him again.

Seeing the promise in his gaze when he looks at me and says, “Yes, but first give me some time to edit it, okay?”

I nod, seeing the way his shoulders droop, the way his jaw loosens, and knowing that that was pretty much as hard for him as it was for me.

“But for now, what do you say no more surprises? Why don’t we go somewhere happier—better— funner , if you will?”

I sit there for a moment, feeling so alone with my thoughts it’s as though he’s not there.

Soon roused by the sound of his voice at my ear, saying, “Hey look, they’re getting to the good part—what do you say we become them?”

My gaze switches to the screen, where a very different version of me smiles radiantly. My glossy, dark hair sparkling with a collection of pins and jewels made specifically to match my beautiful, hand-sewn, emerald green dress. Seeing the way I hold myself with such confidence—so sure of my beauty, my privilege, my right to dream all I want, to obtain all I want, to claim anyone I want—including this dark, handsome stranger I’ve only just met.

The one who makes the whole string of suitors I left back inside seem dreadfully dull in comparison.

A version of me that’s so opposite to the one I just saw a moment ago it hardly makes sense. And even though I’m determined to revisit that other me again soon, for now it can wait.

We came here to have a last bit of summer fun, and I’m going to make sure that we do.

Our hands clasped together, we rise from the couch and head for the screen, not stopping until we merge and meld, and become one with the scene.

My Parisian dress instantly replaced by an emerald green gown made especially for me, my lips nipping at the hard edge of Damen’s jaw, flirting, teasing with the tip of my tongue, before spinning on my heel, lifting my skirts, and leading him deeper and deeper into the darkest part of the garden, to a place where no one can find us—not my father, not the servants, not my suitors, not my friends…

Wanting nothing more than to kiss this dark and handsome stranger, who always seems to appear out of nowhere, who always seems to know what I’m thinking, who thrilled me with his tingle and heat from the very first look.

The very first moment he peered into my soul.

“Shouldn’t you be thinking about leaving for school soon?”

I twist the top from my bottle of elixir and glance toward the kitchen table where Sabine sits. Seeing the way her shoulder-length blond hair is tucked snugly behind her ear, the way her perfectly coordinated makeup is flawlessly applied, the way her suit is pressed and clean and immaculately put together without an odd crease or stray wrinkle in sight—and I can’t help but wonder what it’s like to be her. What it’s like to live in a world where everything is so orderly, so obedient, so methodical, so tidily arranged.

Where every problem has a logical solution, every question an academic explanation, and every dilemma can be summed up in a simple verdict of innocent or guilty.

A world where everything is black and white and all shades of gray are promptly whisked away.

It’s been so long since I’ve lived in that world, and now after all that I’ve seen, there’s no way I’ll ever reside there again.

She continues to stare, face stern, mouth grim, about to repeat herself when I say, “Damen’s driving me today. He should be here soon.”

Noting the way her whole body stiffens at the mere mention of his name. She insists on blaming him for my sudden fall from grace even though he was nowhere near the store that day.

She nods, her gaze slowly moving over me. Scrutinizing, carefully taking note of every last detail, starting from my head and working all the way down to my toes, before heading back up and starting again. In search of bad omens, flashing lights, hazard signs, anything warning of trouble ahead. The kind of telltale symptoms her child-rearing books have all warned her about, but getting little more than an image of a lightly tanned, blond haired, blue eyed girl in a white summer dress and no shoes.

“I hope we won’t have any more trouble this year.” She brings her mug to her lips and peers at me from over the top.

“And just what kind of trouble would you be referring to?” I ask, hating the way the sarcasm creeps so easily into my voice, but still more than a little tired of her always putting me on the defensive.

“I think you know.” Her words are clipped, her forehead creased, as I take a deep breath and try not to roll my eyes in a way she can see.

Torn between feeling completely heartbroken that it’s actually come to this—the long list of daily recriminations that can never be erased—and feeling completely infuriated by her refusal to accept me at my word—accept what I say as the truth, that this is who I really, truly am, for better or worse.

But still just shrugging when I say, “Well, then you’ll be happy to know that I don’t drink anymore. I gave all that up not long after the suspension. Mostly because it wasn’t working out for me all that well, and even though you probably don’t want to hear this, probably won’t even believe it, it was dulling my gifts in the very worst way.”

She bristles. Physically bristles at my use of the word gift. Having already pegged me as a sad, pathetic, attention-starved phony, who’s obviously crying out for help—she’s really come to hate my use of the word more than anything. Hates that I refuse to back down, that I refuse to succumb to her side.

“Besides,” I say, tapping my bottle against the counter, my gaze narrowed on hers, “I’ve no doubt you’ve already convinced Munoz to spy on me and submit a full report at the end of each day.” Regretting the words the moment they’re out, because while it may be true of Sabine, it’s really not fair to Munoz. He’s been nothing but nice and supportive toward me, and has never once made me feel bad about being the way I am. If anything, he’s seemed intrigued, fascinated, and surprisingly informed. Too bad he can’t seem to convince his girlfriend of that.

But still, if she’s so unwilling to accept me for me, then why should I be so quick to accept the fact that she’s in love with my old history teacher?

Except that I should.

And not only because two wrongs pretty much never make a right, but because, despite what she may think and despite what I may say, at the end of the day, all I really want is for her to be happy.

Well, that, and for her to move past all of this so that we can get back to how we once lived.

“Listen,” I say, before she has a chance to react, knowing I need to defuse the situation from getting any worse than it already has. Before it has a chance to escalate into one of the many screaming matches we’ve had since she caught me giving her friend a psychic reading under the alias of Avalon. “I didn’t mean that. Really. I’m sorry.” I nod. “So, can we just please call a truce here? One where you accept me, I accept you, and everyone lives happily ever after, in joy and peace and harmony and all that?”