Darksoul (39 page)

Ash didn’t try to say anything.

My cheeks felt like they’d been drenched from the inside out. “I mean, look. Thanks for the early days, for saving me from those demons and eventually becoming my teacher. You did give great lessons and these bracelets, these rings—they’re the most beautiful things I’ve ever owned.”

“I’m glad.”

I ignored that. “But sometimes I wish I could shove them down your throat and tell you to fuck off and then leave and not think about you again. But I can’t do that, can I?” I lifted my hand and fisted his shirt, yanking him to my level. “I can’t do that when I’ve just found out my whole life was a lie and I’ve lost everything. When the only thing I have left is the angel prince who chose to make me his friend-slash-kissing-slave, and a blonde dude who probably thinks I’m a potato with hair. I can’t leave, and I have to try again. With you. But God knows I don’t want to.” My grip tightened, and more tears spilled. “I’m fucking tired of your shit, Ash, and the thought of giving you another chance makes me want to cut my toes off and use them as fishing bait. I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Right now, I can’t stand the sight of you.”

He reached up and uncurled my fist from his collar.
“That’s the look,” he said softly.

I sniffled.
“What?”

“The look o
n your face.” The side of his mouth tilted up. A faint little thing. “I didn’t know hate could look so beautiful on anyone.”

I froze.

Suddenly, he took a step back and lowered his head in a half-bow. “Thank you,” he said. I couldn’t see his eyes under the swaths of his hair. “For that enlightening rant. I’m sorry for causing you so much trouble. And now, I’ll go and reflect and sit moodily on top of another building while looking pretty.” His voice dipped to a whisper. “Fun.”

“Ash—”

He arched his wings and was gone in a flurry of silver and night.

For days after, I sank into another blur. My thoughts weren’t plagued by him, but rather by her—by Sophia, by my mom—just as they had been for the last couple of weeks. Sometimes an
image of Sumi would flicker in, and it would hurt all over again. It would be as if I were sitting in front of Allie, watching her mouth the words but not really hearing them:
Your life up to this point has been false, Hazel
.

And a week after the thing with Ash, I saw her. I’d been wandering around the park. Doing nothing. Staring at nothing. A cup of coffee was in my hand; I had no recollection of buying it. And then I saw a flash of pink hair. Spilling over the back of a bench. She had a book open and was running a fingertip a
long her bottom lip as she read.

I hesitated. Against my
better judgment, I edged closer and sat down on the other end of the bench. She didn’t look up at my arrival. A couple of pages later, she glanced at me, as if realizing I’d been sitting there for a good ten minutes, and gave me a polite smile. Then she returned to her reading and didn’t lift her gaze again.

I could’ve done lots of things that day. I could’ve turned to her. Said hi. Introduced myself, maybe, but the thought of doing that made
my chest squeeze. So I just sat there, staring into my coffee. My eyes remained dry. The sun crept across the sky, and shadows lengthened across the path. And eventually, she closed her book and sighed, and she rose, and she left.

I stayed there for a long while. Until the stars faded into view. Until there was no one around. And then I, too, rose and left.

That night, I slept at Hunter’s. When he saw me tumble in through the front door, he didn’t look the least surprised. But what the hell was I talking about? Hunter never looked surprised. He simply turned and led me to a room upstairs, which had already been prepared: a towel sat on the foot of the bed, and my box of things were in the corner, untouched. Someone had brought it here. I’d probably done it myself. I mumbled my thanks to him and slipped into bed. A second later, the door clicked shut.

The following morning
, I found it sitting on the nightstand.

A square little gadget. Earphones were already attached to it, and a note was taped
to the back. One word peeked at me, written in comically bad handwriting:
Please.

I held back the urge to throw the whole thing at the wall and smash it to pieces. But the room was silent, and the sunlight so hazy, so faint, like a faraway dream. My mouth tasted like puke and if I had to speak to someone in the next five minutes, I’d probably die. Still, I sunk into the pillows. I closed my eyes.

And I listened.

For the first couple of seconds, there was silence. No music. No cello notes. There was a slow breath, and then a smooth voice seeped through my buds:
“
You were right.”

I opened my eyes.

“No apology is good enough, so I won’t try. But I do want to offer you one last thing. Along with an explanation for my infamous kisses. And…here we go.”

I frowned.
There was the sound of pencil scratching paper. Then:
“‘
Untitled.’”
A pause.
“First one I wrote. About two months after the beginning. Are you listening, Hazel?”

I stayed statue still.

Quietly:
“I hope you’re listening.”

And then, after another breath, he began to read it in soft French. I would’ve been frustrated if it hadn’t been for his tone, for the soothing rise and fall of his voi
ce; I sensed the meaning in the words, even if I couldn’t understand them.

It didn’t last long, and after, he remained silent. Then: “
That was embarrassing as fuck.”

I let out a short, startled laugh.

“
I’m never doing it again. And forget about translating it. Knowing you, you’d puke into a toilet and then puke again. In my face.”
He cleared his throat, and I heard pages flipping.
“Next one I wrote in September. Are you ready to vomit last night’s dinner?”

I wasn’t. But still he read,
anyway, and I closed my eyes. So soothing. So…calm. He read it slowly. His voice was soft. Pages rustled and he continued reciting poems I couldn’t understand. I lay there for what seemed like hours, listening and breathing as the sun crept up in the sky. Ten in the morning. Then eleven. No one came knocking on the door.

And after, when there were no more pages to flip, he took a deep breath. And he said:
“I kissed you because I wanted you, Hazel.”

I didn’t open my eyes.

“I kissed you because the fucking sun rose and set where you stood. And it still does. And I still want you. But you’re right. There’s another person in this equation and he means a lot to me, and you, incidentally, mean—”
He paused and reworked his wording. “
You mean something to him. Maybe not the world. But something. So
I kissed you and wiped your memory of it because I thought I could have two things. You. And then you and him.”

I breathed in and out. Slowly.

“I thought I could kiss you and have you be with him at the same time. I figured it wouldn’t matter that I got what I wanted…if you didn’t remember it. I know, I know. You’re wondering,
Why the fuck is he trying so hard? Why does he want me and Hunter together?” A low, mirthless laugh. “
If you must,
call me Cupid. Shit. Call me whatever the fuck you want. Maybe just Hunter’s personal cupid—I don’t care. But his happiness matters to me, Hazel. Do you understand?”

Sunlight pressed against the back of my lids.

“I didn’t mean to treat you like some kind of prize. Like something I could throw at him. I just thought I could nudge you in his direction. And then, when that didn’t work, I started to investigate myself, see what the hell was going on. Because I know…if you just gave him a chance—”

He stopped before I could pull out my
earphones.

“I’m sorry
,
”
he said after a while. “
I’m doing it again.”

That would be correct.

A long silence. Then:
“I know this is late and probably unnecessary. But about the girls you saw me with
.
They were…”

I waited.

“…very nice girls. Open to sex, laid-back, smart—wonderful women, really, and I enjoyed the time I spent with them. They distracted me for about five minutes.”
His voice softened.
“And then I went right back to you.”

A
hushed click. Silence.

I stared up at the ceiling. The room around me seemed small.

Then I ripped out my buds and threw the whole thing in the trash.

Taking the towel Hunter had given me, I went to the bathroom and spent a good hour scrubbing myself down. I left my hair wet and loose and didn’t bother to put on shoes. Just some loose shorts and a tank top. The fabric still smelled like that house. Like the
detergent she and I had used. But I had to get myself together already. I couldn’t think about Mo—Sophia. It’d been almost a month since I said goodbye to her, and more than a month and a half since the wedding. I needed to…to move on.

For a couple of day
s, I stayed with Hunter. He left me alone. Well, for the most part. Because the third night, I woke with tears on my face and arms wrapped around me.

I froze.

The chest under my cheek rose and fell steadily. Not deeply, as if in sleep, but steadily—the only word that could describe Hunter’s breathing. That could describe Hunter, period. Steady. Calm. His palm smoothed down the back of my hair, a startlingly gentle gesture. He must’ve known I was awake, but he remained silent. I was afraid to lift my head. To do anything. At last, I curled my fingers into his shirt, the corner of my mouth giving a faint quiver.

“Tomorrow,” I whispered hoarsely. “Tomorrow we won’t talk about this.”

I clutched him tighter, buried myself into him, and bit back a sob as the tears began to fall. His hand cradled the back of my head. I thought I heard him whisper a soothing
shh
. But it was lost in the rush pressing against my ears.

He brought Willa to keep us company, though he didn’t take her out and never allowed her to leave the grounds. I knew he didn’t like bringing her to Earth. But having her around cheered me up and kept me busy, which was just what I needed.

Hunter noticed. The
sixth day, he placed a wad of money in my palm and curled my fingers around it.

“If you want to,” he said.

I understood. I went into town and bought lots of dresses and shorts and shirts. When I came back, she and I pretended to have our own mall. The bathroom had a big mirror and she stood on the marble counter, trying things on. The clothes fit perfectly. She clapped her hands and jumped into my arms, locking her legs around my waist.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she
squealed, laughing as she rubbed her cheek against mine.

“You’re very welcome,” I said softly.

Io flashed around us. She’d been with me the whole time. Since the wedding. Since everything had happened. And I’d wanted to turn her away, believe me. After I’d learned how
zokyies
were made, I’d wanted to feel grossed out by her. But she—along with the rest of Hunter’s little creatures—was simply a strange example of the circle of life. Bugs die. They release their nutrients on the soil. They give life to trees. And the
zokyies
were the same way. I supposed.

That was why I’d stayed with her. What she was a product of didn’t matter. She was unknowing and innocent and I
couldn’t handle the thought of leaving her.

Later, when Willa was asleep,
Hunter and I went to chill in the balcony. The night was crisp and cool. Cicadas sung around us.

As I climbed up on the balustrade, I asked,
“How old is she, really?”

He leaned against it and ducked his head to light
a cigarette. “Six.”

“Wher
e’s her…father?” If they only shared a mom…

A long silence. Then: “He’s dead.”

“Oh.” I curled my hand around my bare toes. “I’m sorry.”

Hunter said nothing.

“And yours?” I asked.

He let out a stream of smoke
and immediately brought the cigarette to his lips again. The faraway trees rustled. He wasn’t going to answer, I could tell; even though his expression was even and cool, I’d learned to read the way he smoked. If he took a long drag, it was because he was bothered.

I couldn’t help myself. “What about your—”

He pushed off the balustrade. “Good night, Hazel.”

The French doors gave a faint click as he eased them shut behind him.
I stayed outside for a long time, staring at nothing. When my vision grew tired, I closed my eyes and buried my face into my knees. Hushed stillness pressed against me.

The days at Hunter’s put me in a better mood. Willa was—well, she was something. And half the time, the kitchen was exploding. That mean
t that Hunter was trying to cook and epically failing at it. Willa would be running through the house, laughing as she chased his latest catch, a caramel-colored bunny. He’d be holding a messy spatula and there’d be about three limp spaghettis in his hair as he sternly called her name.