Shadows of Ourselves (2016 Original Edition)

EIGHT: Captured

I was used to fighting with people. The sting of words you couldn't take back, rage rolling around in my chest, the hollowness beneath my ribs, the slam of a heavy door as someone storms away. The rush of it.

When Riley and I got into arguments we would go days—weeks even—without talking, giving each other the cold shoulder for as long as we could manage. And it never hurt with her like this did. Because I knew we would make up. I didn't think I was going to be making up with Hunter anytime soon, and as I started to realize how little I knew about him, my curiosity began to outweigh my anger. We would part ways and there would always be this angry, off-kilter feel to our knowing each other.

Someday, in my old age, would I sit and wonder where this boy was? Would I wish we hadn't left things in anger? I thought about that kind of thing a lot with people.

The girl at the checkout counter of a takeout place, the taxi driver who talks about his kids and what they're studying in school, the guy sitting in the corner at a party, staring at nothing—what happens to them, when they're not in front of you anymore? Where do they go? What will they do?

Real life doesn't give you closure, aging and death, they take that away from us. It's just another part of the people we meet that they steal, a part that you can't capture in photos or seal away inside a coffin. The answers, they never come back. They're just gone.

But damn it, he made me wonder. He wasn't just a guy: he was a way into a world of people like me. People I hadn't ever believed existed.

The knowledge he had, I wanted to soak up as much of it as I could in the short time we would be together. And he was too mad at me to talk.

I was turning into Riley, for God's sake.

By the time I stepped across the threshold of his hotel room for the second time, the two of us had barely said anything to each other.

I inhaled the smell of his cologne and the air freshener, let my gaze drift over the state of things. The room was messier than it had been last night, dirty glasses lined up against the side of the sink, the faucet still dripping. A Chinese takeout cartoon sat open on the table, beef and broccoli spilling out onto the oak surface. Beside it were a paper coffee cup and an opened can of Red Bull. Someone was looking for a boost.

And the sheets where we'd moved with each other, our bodies warm and desperate, fitting together like we were custom made to match, were still tangled. A familiar thirst fogged my mind. I looked away from the bed.

"So," I said, walking over and taking a seat at the table. "What's wrong with my powers?"

"It's a long story."

"So you said. Where's this cure?"

I had no idea what a cure for glitchy magikal powers looked like—or what it would do to me—but if it meant all of this would just stop happening and go away, it would be worth it.

I was cool with being a late bloomer, magik-wise. I was cool with only having one power, or one working one. I really wasn't looking for a level-up.

I wanted to go back home, crawl into bed, and sleep for a million hours. When I woke up I could lock myself in my room for two days, exist on air and water and art. I could already feel the rough texture of the canvas underneath my hands. A lot of things in my life made me feel heavy, and art was one of the few that made me feel light. I held onto that fraction of peacefulness. It brought me more calm than anything else.

Hunter stood just inside the door, leaving it open behind him. Maybe this would be faster than I thought.

Our eyes met, and a look passed over his—not the annoyance from earlier, but a sort of weariness. "There isn't one."