Chapter Two
YOU KNOW HOW MOST GIRLS have this incredible talent for telling the difference between cerulean and teal, or green-blue and blue-green? So amazing, right? But unfortunately, that’s just not me.
The best I can tell about his suit is that it’s blue bordering on black. That’s as far as my vocabulary can go. Oh, and its fit is really good. Exceptional, actually, in a way that makes me think his suit is tailor-made for him, literally.
And that...
Yeah.
Right.
Teleportation? Not real.
So this man? Not real either.
And if I need more proof of how not real he is, then all I have to do is to look at his face, and ta-da.
He’s ridiculously good-looking, and I’m allergic to beautiful men like him. I just can’t bear being near them. I know it’s psychological (I paid good money for a therapist to make that official), but beautiful men like him literally make my skin crawl.
And this guy?
It doesn’t matter what your standards are.
His looks are, like, guaranteed to surpass them.
His hair is black as night, falling in short, silky waves that are just long enough to look careless but just neat enough to look like the carelessness took effort.
I wish I could convince myself that he did make the effort to style his hair, but. ..no.
One look at that granite jaw of his, and it’s so easy to tell.
He’s not the type to care about his looks.
With all the men Mom’s dated through the years, I needed to develop a skill on how to read people, just to weed through her boyfriends, find out if it’s safe for me to sleep under the same roof...or if I’m better off spending the night in the local library.
So yeah, me reading people—it’s a skill I had to learn early on to survive, so it’s honestly nothing to be proud of. It’s depressing, actually, but...
This man, though.
How strange.
The gleam in his dark eyes tells me he’s studying me, but that’s it.
Is it because this is all a dream that I can’t read him?
Yeah, that must be it, just like why my skin isn’t itching at his proximity.
I’m dreaming, he’s part of my dream, and now it’s time to figure out what I need to do to wake up and get myself back to the real world.
So, hmm...let’s see.
I look at him again, and...oh no.
This isn’t good.
Mr. Not Real is still studying me, but this time, the darkness of his gaze is starting to make me feel ridiculously self-conscious. Even my heart has started to race like it’s never raced before, and I don’t like that at all.
Hurry up and figure things out, Ti!
I remind myself to be objective and methodical as I look at him again, more detective than fangirl, and, um...okay...
The way he’s sitting, with one ankle resting on the opposite knee, his back against the seat but not slouching like just about every boy in Cornwall—that’s different, that’s all.
It doesn’t mean I admire him or anything.
Because I don’t. I just...I just find it strange not to have my skin itch like it usually does in front of a pretty boy like him, and I’m thinking that maybe, since this is a dream and all—
“I hope you had a good sleep?”
It’s Mr. Not Real who speaks first, and his voice is just so...posh. Every word he’s uttered is just so perfectly pronounced, every syllable perfectly placed, that you just know his speech is the perfectly polished result of a Swiss boarding school education.
“Are you alright? Are you feeling unwell?”
The way he speaks starts reminding me of how my own mother speaks. There are just some words that only rich people feel comfy using, like how rich people ask if we’re “alright” rather than just asking if we’re “okay”.
The only difference is that my mom fakes the way she speaks to get stuff while Mr. Not Real here...
My mind has managed to conjure him up as the real thing.
Even if he’s not real. What I mean is, he might not be real, but if he were real, he would be—oh darn it, I think I’ve just succeeded in confusing myself.
What was I thinking about again? It all started with how him being rich reminded me of my mom faking it while, come to think of it, him being this beautiful—
Oh.
Right.
The reason I’m allergic to pretty boys like Mr. Not Real here?
It’s also because I have hang-ups about my own dad, and I guess that’s why Mr. Not Real is in my dream?
I remember reading something about how nightmares are supposed to be a subconscious manifestation of unprocessed trauma, and how said manifestation is composed of random images that our brains have registered and downloaded by default.
TL;DR—dreams are sometimes meant to help us get some semblance of peace or closure about the bad things that happened. And for the cameo bits in our dreams, our mind just uses a random image we saw, whether it’s real or not, whether we remember or not. So Mr. Not Real here?
He’s real in the real world, but since I can’t remember seeing him, he’s probably someone I saw as a child. Which is too bad since I would love to have met him in person in his dream age, but...anyway, moving on.
“I need to figure out who you are.”
Mr. Not Real gazes at me with interest. “Why not just ask me?”
Huh.
That does make sense, so...
“Are you my dad?”
I end up making Mr. Not Real choke, and I’m not sure why that is.
It’s a perfectly legitimate question since I only grew up hearing stories about Dad.
I never got to see him—not even a photo—since he bailed on us while Mom was still pregnant, and the only things she ever told me about him were that he was rich, she wasn’t, and therefore she wasn’t wife material.
That’s it. That’s the whole story. No name, no photo, no “he had your eyes” or “you have his smile.” Just a one-time acknowledgment from my tipsy mom to assure me of not being a product of artificial insemination. My dad simply didn’t want me—
“Why would you think that?”
Huh.
Why would my mind make Mr. Not Real ask that? Is it because it wants me to say things out loud, to make sure that I’m not in denial?
“I never knew what my dad looked like, and all my mom was willing to tell me about him was that he was rich, my mom wasn’t, and therefore she wasn’t wife material.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
He actually sounds like he means it, and I’m honestly starting to feel impressed with how my mind is so good at making all this feel.
..realistic. Like, this man is only supposed to be a representative figure of my trauma, and yet my brain has gone out of its way to make him feel so vividly real.
Even the way he’s looking at me now is rather expressive, the way you can’t expect a two-dimensional made-up character would be.
His gaze is thoughtful but at the same time rather. ..calculating? It’s almost like—
“But I still can’t quite grasp why you believe I’m your father.”
He’s also trying to figure me out, and it’s just...amazing. How can something my own brain has conjured be such an enigma to me?
“Do I look old enough to have sired you?”
I almost snort.
Classic.
Like, seriously.
‘Sired’ is just a classic choice of word for someone born with a silver spoon...or someone who likes to fake being rich, just like a certain someone—
Stop being so bitter about your mom, Ti!
It’s the thing I hate the most about myself, to be honest.
I know that my therapist is right. My mom is going through her own stuff, and until she’s sorted said stuff out, she’s going to keep faking her way to get what she wants.
That’s her thing, and I just have to live with it.
I can’t let Mom doing the wrong thing cause me to do the wrong things, too.
Otherwise, it’s going to be an endless cycle.
I know all these things.
But it’s just hard, you know?
Easier said than done, ‘Nuff said.
But...whatever.
My trauma about Mom needs another dream. For now, I’ll concentrate on this dream, which revolves around Mr. Not Real here, whom I thought earlier was my mind’s conjured-up image of my dad. But maybe I got that wrong?
“Am I allowed to ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“I thought this dream was supposed to be me coming at peace with my dad, and that’s why I thought you were a younger version of him.”
“Ah.”
“Did I get it wrong?” I ask seriously.
“I suppose it’s time I should introduce myself.”
He wants to introduce himself for what? I’m starting to feel rather impressed by how imaginative my dream is. Maybe it’s time I reconsider my career options?
“My name is Arkane Young.”
Arcane...Young?
How is my mind coming up with all these things?
“Arcane” because this guy is a mystery I’m supposed to solve.
“Young” because this man is obviously based on a random memory from my past, like when I was young.
But just so I’m not reading things wrong...
“You’re saying you’re not my dad, right?”
“Quite so.”
I almost gag, like seriously.
Quite so?
That’s like telling me you’re rich without telling me you’re rich, and it’s just another thing I can easily imagine my own mom using, but...no, we are not letting that get to you, Ti!
I have to stop being mean to my own mom even if it’s just in my thoughts.
“My name doesn’t mean anything to you, does it?”
It’s Mr. Not Real talking again, and I gladly refocus my attention on him and his beautiful looks.
“I’m sorry,” I say honestly. “Should it?”
“No. It shouldn’t.” His lips curve ever so slowly as he says this. “And it’s nice that it doesn’t.”
Oh. My. Goodness.
I finally, finally figure out what this dream is supposed to help me figure out.
Because the way my heart has started racing again the moment I saw his lips curve?
“I finally get it now,” I whisper.
“Do share.”
“You’re supposed to cure me of my allergy to beautiful men.”
“So you think I’m beautiful.”
My hands fly up to my cheeks.
Oh no. Don’t. Don’t you dare.
But it’s too late.
Mr. Not Real, who’s technically a child of my own invention, has actually made me blush, and oh no, oh no—
It doesn’t even end there.
Because Mr. Not Real has just stood up, and he’s so incredibly tall, and the way he towers over me is making my heart skip a beat, and now he’s slowly walking towards me, closer and closer and closer—
Oh gosh.
My breath catches in my throat as Mr. Not Real leans forward, his hands settling on the armrests, and I’m suddenly trapped between his arms, and what used to be this ultra-luxurious and spacious chair now feels like a cage of my own making.
“You...are unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”
I can’t concentrate on what he’s saying. He’s just so, so close that his nearness...
I don’t even know how to explain it.
I’ve never been close to someone and had the closeness itself feel like a thing.
A presence. I can feel the space between our bodies, the exact inches where we’re not touching, and that space is louder than the engines.
Louder than my own breathing, which has gotten shallow in a way I’d rather not examine.
Oh, I just don’t get it anymore!
How is it possible that someone who isn’t real is making me feel things that are equally unreal?
“This...this isn’t making sense.”
The words tumble out in a moment of confusion that’s dangerously close to helplessness, because my brain, which is the one thing I own that’s never let me down, has just stopped working.
“I’m supposed to wake up once I’ve figured out who you’re supposed to be.”
“Very logical of you...” He says this softly even as the glint in his eyes turns rather wicked. Am I wrong to feel that Mr. Not Real is laughing at me? Is that even possible? For my brainchild to laugh at its own creator?
“But since you think this is a dream—”
He’s slowly lowering his gaze as he speaks.
“Shouldn’t you be thinking more along the lines of a fairytale?”
But it only makes sense when he ends up looking at my lips.
Gulp.
I can’t believe Mr. Not Real is making me swallow hard, and my mouth feels so dry, too, that I find myself unconsciously wetting my lips, which makes his nostrils flare, and—
Why is that making me feel all strange and restless?
Why am I suddenly finding it hard to breathe?
Why does it feel like I’m about to...to...
“What do you think, Tiara?”
He knows my name!
Even though I haven’t told him, he knows my name, and that’s proof, isn’t it?
That’s proof that he’s not real, and that’s why—
“What must I do if we want to wake you—”
I don’t even let him finish speaking. I’m already clutching his shirt to pull him close, and I think I heard him chuckle—I’m not quite sure, and honestly, I don’t really care at this point because he...he already gets it, and he more than meets me halfway, with his mouth covering mine, and...aaaah!
This is my first kiss.
Ever.
And it’s not real.
My first kiss isn’t real, but I don’t care because the way he’s taken possession of my mouth is unreal.
The way he’s now cupping my face as he deepens the kiss—it feels like he’s tasting me all the way to my soul, and he’s making it harder and harder for me to breathe, and I just.. .I just don’t care!
This kiss is so, so unreal that I don’t want it to end.
I want him to keep kissing me like this, with how he’s making my heart race so fast, and.
..and...oh my gosh! I’m up in his arms all of a sudden, and my back is against the wall, and there’s no longer any space separating our bodies.
His chest is hard and warm, my legs have wrapped themselves around his waist, and no!
A cry slips past my lips when his mouth leaves me, but this turns quickly into a whimper as his lips move against my skin—
“Relax.”
—just moving lower and lower to the side of my neck, and his warm breath against my flesh has my nails digging into his back. Any time now, any moment now, any second he’s going to do—
Aaaah!
—that.
Mr. Not Real is claiming me as his, and although I know the mark he’ll leave will be as unreal as he is—
I honestly don’t care. I’ve never felt this unreal before. Never felt this free, never felt—
“Ahem.”
I squeeze my eyes shut the moment I hear it.
“AHEM.”
I know it’s coming from the real world.
"AHEM."
But I have no plans of waking up. No plans of letting him go or—
What in the world?
One moment I’m still in his arms, the next moment he’s gently lowering me to my feet, and he’s slowly stepping away, and I find myself staring straight into a pair of blue eyes that’s almost exactly like mine.
Icelle?
“Icelle.”
Her name pops up in my mind at the same time I hear Mr. Not Real drawl her name, and when Icelle actually turns to him like he’s real—
No, no, no!
I spin so fast to face him I nearly lose my balance. Am I still dreaming or is this really happening? Is he actually real even though it doesn’t make sense that—
“Is this why you want to be friends with me?”
It’s Icelle speaking again, and I...I don’t understand. Her voice is her usual calm voice, but why does her RBF suddenly look like it’s about to crack?
“Because you want to date my stepbrother?”