Chapter Thirteen #2
“No,” I sigh, but my grip wanders. I squeeze at the spot above her knee. Drag my thumb over the arch behind it. “Your pants are just—really soft.”
“They’re jeans.”
“Soft jeans.”
Darcy flips over onto her back with effort, staring up at the ceiling. She drapes her leg over my shoulder, the outside of her thigh pressed to my ear. I don’t have the strength or desire to move.
“How much have we had?” she slurs.
“Enough.” Even as I say it, I hold out my hand for the bottle. She slaps it into my palm, and I tip it to my mouth, taking another heavy pull. I can taste her lipstick against the rim, and I hold my mouth there, right where hers was pressed a minute ago.
If I’m clingy, then she’s enthusiastic. Affectionate. Her smiles are easy to earn and easy to keep. It’s endearing and maddening in the same labored breath—a juxtaposition just like everything else seems to be with her. My thoughts are foggy at best, but I try to chase the thread.
Maybe, I tell myself, she’s not what she seems.
Maybe she never has been.
“Is that a tomato?”
“What? Where?”
“There.” Her nails drag along the top curve of my bicep, right beneath my sleeve. “Tomato,” she says.
I rotate my arm to look. “Oh. Yeah, I guess it is a tomato.”
She hums. A happy, mindless sound. “My grandmother used to keep tomato plants on her porch in those big cages. She’d wander out and pluck them off for when she made marin—mari—marinara.” She hiccups. “I miss marinara.”
“You can still have marinara.”
“It’s not the same,” she whines, kicking her legs, sending my body rolling to the side. She stills herself with a laugh. “Is there anything you miss? From when you were alive?”
“Don’t know,” I grumble, closing my eyes and nuzzling further into her knee. “Don’t remember.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mean I don’t remember,” I almost slur. Christ. I don’t want to know how much alcohol I’ve consumed tonight. “It fades. The older you get, the more you lose.”
Sometimes I’ll have flashes of what my mortal life must have been. In sleep, mostly, when I let myself fade into unconsciousness. White-washed stone and the sun hot against my neck. Children laughing somewhere close by. Wooden bowls strewn haphazardly across the table.
It hurts to remember something from so long ago, so I try not to.
“That’s sad,” she whispers.
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s—” She tugs on my sleeve, and I tip my head back, catching the frown on her face. “That’s really sad, Gabriel.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Good thing we have wine.”
She lets go of my sleeve with a little huff, her fingers drifting up my shoulder, along my neck to the ticklish skin behind my ear.
My leg kicks as she strokes there absentmindedly, then sinks her fingers into my hair.
She scratches through my wild curls, nails dragging across my scalp.
I make an unholy sound, and the dog splayed across my couch like he owns the damned thing gives me a look laced with derision.
Spud hasn’t been pleased since he set foot in my apartment.
I flick him off. He huffs and turns on the couch, burying his nose in a pillow.
“Have you ever noticed …”
The rest of Darcy’s questions drifts. I’m still staring at her, but now all I can see is the curve of her chin and the slash of wine-stained red across her lips. My attention sticks there. Holds for an indeterminate amount of time.
“What?” I mumble.
She rolls her head against the floor, looking down at me with hazy, unfocused eyes. “What, what?”
“You were about to ask a question.” I think. It’s hard to articulate when it feels like my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth. I tap her leg and roll to my stomach, ignoring her pout. “Notice what?”
“Oh, yeah.” She sits up with her knees pulled to her chest. Her hair is falling out of her braid, loose tendrils that frame her face. She looks messy and soft. Achingly small. “The mortals. They gather. Have you noticed that?”
“Like … in the streets?”
She huffs, frustrated. “No. I mean—they always sort of drift together. People with people. I think it’s in our—” She stops.
Shakes her head. Starts again, each word dulled at the edge like it’s been whittled away over time.
“I think it’s in their nature to want to be close to one another, you know?
The cities they’ve built are stacked on top of one another, and yet they continue to grow.
They’re always moving closer, even when they say they want space.
It feels inevitable. Like the—like the tides, almost. Like magnetic fields. ”
She plucks at her bottom lip, thoughtful.
“It’s nice, is all. The way they’re always drifting back to one another.
I think that’s what I miss the most about being human.
Being close.” Her eyes lift to mine and hold.
They’re wide and luminous. A little wet.
“Don’t you miss that?” It takes me too long to answer.
Her face falls, a little line between her brows.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever noticed,” I say, wishing I had a different answer.
Wishing I knew how to fix whatever feels wrong for her.
Of course, Darcy has noticed.
How long has she been this lonely? And why does it feel like I want to save her more than any of my lost souls?
Her lashes flutter against the tops of her cheeks. “Yeah.” She grabs the bottle and takes another drink. “It was a silly thought.”
“No.” I take the bottle back and my fingertips brush against her knuckles. “It’s an honest one.”
She stares at me. I stare back. Tension unspools between us, growing with every labored breath. The colors of the room are muddled, swipes of a thumb through wet paint. But Darcy is crystal clear in the center of it, watching me with heavy eyes.
“Gabriel,” she whispers.
My gaze trips to her mouth. The press of her tongue at the corner of her lips. “Yeah?” I rasp.
“I think I need some chips.”
I laugh and I shake my head. That heavy, thick thing breaks and I’m left feeling more than a little lightheaded. I could use a task.
“Then I’ll go get you some chips.”
I weeble-wobble my way over to the kitchen with herculean effort.
I bang open one of the cabinets and stare too long at the contents.
Coffee mugs. Measuring cups. Half a box of stale cereal.
I sort through the disaster until I find two serviceable bags of chips I must have bought the last time I went to the grocery.
I add a box of Girl Scout cookies on top, just because.
By the time I return, Darcy has moved so her back is against the couch, her long legs in front of and her arms stretched above her head so she can pet the dog. I catch a glimpse of pale skin at her middle. The cute poke of her belly button.
She grins. “You think my belly button is cute?”
I blink. Shit. I did not mean to say that out loud.
“No,” I mumble, cheeks burning with embarrassment. “M’drunk. I don’t know.”
“Sure,” she laughs.
I sigh and toss her a bag of Bugles. She catches them and stares at the picture, curious. “Are these … tiny hats you can eat?”
“You’ve never had Bugles?”
“Bugle.” She sounds out the word slowly. Her eyes squint. “Buuuuu-gleeeee. What a strange name for a tiny hat.”
“It’s not a hat, it’s a—”
She unrolls the top of the bag and rummages around. Her face brightens and then she holds up her hand, fingers spread wide. On the tip of her pinky finger is a Bugle. “Look! A finger hat!”
I shove a handful of Doritos in my mouth. “Yeah. People do that.”
She quickly adds a Bugle to the rest of her fingers, wiggling them like she’s suddenly sprouted claws. “I can see why mortals like them so much.”
“They taste pretty good, too.”
I lean forward and bite the Bugle on the tip of her index finger, tugging it into my mouth. I lean back, and Darcy stares at me, scandalized.
“What?” I laugh, chewing. “You don’t want to share?”
She holds her hands closer to her chest. “Not particularly, no.”
“Too bad.”
It’s hard to believe she’s the embodiment of death and destruction when she’s like this—loose and happy and making tiny Bugle hats on each of her fingers.
“Why did you become a Reaper?” I ask, the question tumbling out of me before I can second-guess it.
The alcohol has obliterated the wall between things I should know and things I want to know.
We’ve had an unspoken agreement so far tonight to not bring up work, but it seems I’ve reached the state of drunken oblivion where I no longer care about repercussions.
Darcy scowls. “What was it you said? Oh, yeah. I am well suited to the end of beautiful things.”
I glance down at my hands, feeling another hot rush of regret. I pride myself on my control and my goodness, and neither of those things have been on display with Darcy. “Why do you think you became a Reaper, I mean. And not, I don’t know. A Malevolent Spirit.”
“Your perceptions of my character are awe-inspiring,” she deadpans.
“What? I know plenty of Malevolent Spirits that are good people.”
“Yeah?” She snaps her teeth around another Bugle. “But Reapers can’t possibly be good, right? Love how that logic works.”
This is why we haven’t talked about work. I don’t know how to get around what she is. Her role, and all the things she’s meant to do.
Her expression slowly shifts from resentment to frustration. “I don’t understand. Why do you hate Reapers so much?”
I shake my head, the wine making everything feel fuzzy and thick. She looks so sad now. I did that to her. I keep doing that to her.
“I don’t hate Reapers.”
“Okay. You don’t trust Reapers.”
“Well, yeah. Of course not.”
She sets the bottle to the side and crawls across the rug toward me. She wobbles to the left, and I reach out to steady her. Somehow my hand ends up on the side of her neck, my fingers beneath that infuriating braid.
“Why don’t you trust Reapers?” she asks, hovering in front of me.
I lick my lips. She’s so damn close. “Because.”
She reaches for the collar of my shirt, her fingertip tracing the edge of a scar. I go still.
“Is it because of these?” she asks.
The alcohol makes the decision for me.
“Yes,” I whisper, watchful.