47. Chapter 47
Evie
“Okay, but what if I just delete the whole thing and start over?”
I press my phone harder against my ear and resist the urge to scream. “Maddie. We’ve been over this seventeen times. You can’t delete the template. You’ll lose all your data.”
“But what if it’s wrong?”
“Then you fix the individual cells. Not the entire spreadsheet.”
I’ve been sitting at the front desk of the inn for six straight hours.
Maddie called at noon with a casual question about organizing the bar inventory.
Somehow, that spiraled into a full spreadsheet tutorial that consumed my afternoon.
I love Maddie. I’d take a bullet for her.
But surely a functional adult human being can’t be this clueless about basic Excel functions.
“What does the little triangle in the corner mean?” she asks.
“You’ve got a comment or an error. Click on it.”
“I’m clicking. Nothing is happening.”
“Are you left-clicking or right-clicking?”
“There’s a difference?”
At least it’s been a slow day. No guests checking in or crises to manage. Just me, and my rapidly deteriorating will to live.
“Okay,” Maddie says brightly. “I think I fixed it. Wait. No. Everything just turned into hashtags.”
I drop my forehead onto the desk. “That means the column is too narrow.”
“How do I make it wider?”
“Drag the edge.”
“Which one?”
I stay on the phone for another twenty minutes, walking her through column width adjustments and conditional formatting until she finally, mercifully, declares victory and hangs up.
On the walk back from the inn, I rehearse my apology to Milo for being a complete nightmare human being. When I reach the cottage, my speech is ready. I’ll be calm, rational, and emotionally mature about the whole soulmate bomb he dropped in the basement.
When I push open the front door, every single prepared sentence evaporates.
My living room has been transformed into some kind of domestic altar. Candles cover every surface. Milo’s standing in the center of it, looking like he might throw up from nerves.
“What is this?”
“It’s . . .” He gestures around the room. “An apology? And also, maybe a date? I wasn’t entirely sure how to categorize this.”
“Milo, I’m the one who needs to apologize.”
“You don’t.”
“Yes, I do.” My bag drops down by the door. “I was a complete asshole at the festival. I was scared and angry, and you were the easiest person to blame. Then in the basement, when everything was already too much, you told me we’re soulmates, and . . .” My voice cracks. “I couldn’t handle it.”
“Evie—”
“No, let me finish.” I press my palms against my eyes for a second, then drop them.
“I do this. When things get too much, I remove myself from the situation. Convince myself I need space to think, but really I’m just avoiding the hard conversation because if I don’t talk about it, I don’t have to face it.
But all I did was punish you for telling me the truth. I’m sorry.”
“Stop.” He takes a step toward me. “You were right. Krell is here because of me. If I’d never been summoned, none of this would’ve happened.”
“No.” My voice rises. “I don’t give a damn why he showed up.
I care that I made you feel like I regretted you being here.
And that’s not . . . Milo, you being here is the best thing that’s happened to me in years.
I’m sorry I led you to think otherwise because I couldn’t deal with my own emotions like a functional adult. ”
“I don’t want to fight anymore,” he says quietly. “Can we just forget the whole thing? Pretend the basement never happened and just . . . enjoy the days we have left?”
“Yes. I’d like that.”
I make the mistake of looking past him into the kitchen. From here I can see flour coating the counter, and the dish towel has a visible smear of something orange on it. There’s a measuring cup tipped on its side with dried batter crusted along the inside.
“You made a mess.”
“I’ll clean it.”
I’m calculating how long it would take if I did it now. Twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five if I have to soak the pot. I could knock it out before we eat.
“Evie, look at me.” Milo steps into my line of sight, blocking the view. “I’ll wash it tomorrow.”
“If you let it sit too long, it’ll—”
“I’ll handle it.” His voice is maddeningly calm. “I know it’s physically painful for you to let it sit. But let me take care of it.”
My hands are clenched so tight that my nails are biting into my palms.
“Please.” He dips his head. “I want to do this for you.”
The hope on his face cracks through the last of my resistance.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
The grin that breaks across his face is so stupidly happy that I almost forget why I was anxious in the first place.
***
We settle onto the sofa after dinner, our skin still tacky from the face masks we’ve peeled off and Milo’s glasses freshly rescued from the residue along his temples. I’m already reaching for the remote as the ridiculous cream blanket he bought pools across both our laps.
“You can’t leave without seeing Titanic,” I inform him, cueing it up.
“Is it a comedy?”
“You’ll see.”
Within ten minutes, I’ve tried all three popcorn flavors, unwrapped four chocolates, and stolen the one Milo picked after deciding his looked better than mine.
“You said you wanted the hazelnut flavor.” He tracks the truffle all the way to my mouth, watching my lips close around it.
“I changed my mind.”
He reaches into the box and hands me the hazelnut one, too.
I pause, the chocolate melting on my tongue. “You know rewarding this behavior only makes it worse.”
“I don’t care.”
I sink deeper into the cushions. Candle flames throw restless shadows across the walls, and his arm stretches along the back of the sofa behind me.
By the time Rose reaches the bow of the ship, I’ve migrated closer without deciding to. My thigh presses against his beneath the blanket, the heat of him bleeding through the denim.
I reach for the popcorn in his lap. Milo lifts the bowl just as my fingers graze the rim.
“Seriously?”
“You’ve had two bowls already.”
“I’m stress-eating a fictional shipwreck. Give it back.”
He switches the bowl to his far hand, holding it out of reach. I lean across him, stretching, and he moves it again. My hand lands on his chest for balance.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter.
His palm settles at my waist, holding me in place. “You could just ask nicely.”
“I’m not begging you for popcorn.”
“I didn’t say beg.” His thumb draws a slow line along the strip of skin where my shirt has ridden up. “I said, ask nicely.”
His thumb keeps tracing the bare strip of skin at my waist. I’m halfway in his lap now, one knee beside his hip, the other foot still tucked under me, and he’s looking at me like he’s perfectly content to keep me exactly where I am.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Immensely.” His voice drops lower. “You’re welcome to stay right here.”
I lean in, close enough that our mouths are almost touching, and pluck a piece of popcorn from the bowl he’s still extending to the side. I settle my full weight into his lap and feel the thick press of him against me. His hand tightens on my hip, keeping me there.
“Comfortable?”
“Extremely.” Milo’s pupils have blown wide.
For a while, I stay tucked against him beneath the blanket while his fingers work over my scalp, easing through the tension gathered there. Every so often, he dips into the bowl and holds a piece of popcorn to my lips.
On screen, the music swells toward catastrophe, and the ship starts its slow, inevitable tilt into the ocean.
“Wait.” He points at the screen as Jack and Rose cling to the floating debris. “There’s room.”
I sniffle. “That’s not the point.”
“Look at the size of the door versus the man.” His voice climbs an octave. “He’d obviously fit. They could’ve taken turns or shared the space. This was entirely preventable.”
“It’s about sacrifice.”
“It’s poor spatial reasoning!” Milo’s gesturing at the TV now. “I refuse to believe two reasonably intelligent people couldn’t problem-solve a floating door in a crisis. He didn’t have to freeze to death. She could’ve moved over!”
I’m crying and laughing at the same time as I grab the nearest throw pillow and smack him with it. “You’re missing the entire point.”
“The point is buoyancy, and he had access to it.”
“He loved her!” I wipe the tears with the back of my hand. “Some things aren’t about being efficient or logical. They’re just about loving someone enough to let them survive, even if you don’t.”
Milo stops gesturing. The flickering light from the TV casts shadows over his face.
“No. I suppose they aren’t.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then back up.
“Thank you for tonight,” I whisper over the movie’s swelling score.
I could kiss him again, bury the question, and preserve the peace we’ve found. But I’ve spent all day trying to lock that word away, and it’s only grown larger. Soulmates belong in novels and old stories, where destiny arrives comprehensible and nobody has to ask how any of it works.
“What does it mean?”
Milo’s brow furrows. “What?”
“The soulmate thing.” Even now, the words sound absurd in my mouth. “What does it actually mean?”
“We don’t have to discuss it.” The hand at my hip stops moving. “We agreed we could forget I said anything.”
“I can’t,” I admit. “It turns out I’m very bad at forgetting information that rearranges my entire understanding of reality.”
“That does sound inconvenient.”
“It’s infuriating.” My fingers tighten in his shirt. “I want to understand it.”
“Soulmates are two souls bound to one another across lives. They find each other again, regardless of distance, circumstance, or form.”
“I understand the definition.” I shift closer. “What does it mean to you?”
His gaze searches mine.
“You’re a demon,” I continue. “I’m human. You come from a place where souls are traded, punished, cataloged, whatever else Hell does with them.”