SHE WASN'T ASLEEP.
Maybe I was being a complete creep by listening at her door, but when I heard the shuffle of her footsteps – to the bathroom, I imagined – I rapped on the door a few times before pushing it open.
It was unlocked, and I felt the slightest sense of relief that she didn't feel the need to lock her door. Lock us out. Lock me out.
"What do you want?" she demanded from me, standing beside the bed.
She was wrapped in a white, fluffy towel, and her hair hung past her shoulders in sopping wet ringlets. There was a pair of white cotton pajamas – no doubt courtesy of Marcus's thorough preparations – set at the foot of the bed. I stared too long, probably made her feel uncomfortable, but Simone had no idea how much she looked like her aunt. It was uncanny. Disturbing.
"I don't want to leave things the way we left them downstairs," I said, wringing my hands. I felt hot behind my neck. Unsure of myself. It felt like picking the wrong words would place me on a landmine, but that no matter what I said, the words would always be wrong.
Simone didn't mask the hostility on her face. If looks could kill... "Oh, you don't want to, huh?" She huffed out a loud breath, squeezing her eyes shut. "You know what?" she said, her eyes snapping open. "I don't want to do this. I'm over it. I'm a fucking adult. Do you mind leaving so that I can get dressed?"
I was nodding, but I was frozen in place. It was like I had just waded into a pool of wet cement, unable to move a muscle. Or, more accurately, Simone's anger and hatred had seared me to the spot. I could practically see the steam leaving her ears, and it wasn't fucking fair that all of her anger was solely directed at me when she didn't even know the circumstances. What if Marcus had made me give her up? She didn't know for a fact that he hadn't, but I got the distinct feeling that if he were standing here instead of me, he wouldn't be facing her wrath the way I was. It was as if he were completely absolved of everything, simply because he was the one who'd sought her out.
I took a deep breath. "It's just... I don't know what to say to make things better. I don't know if I even can. But I want to, Simone. Please believe me when I say that I want to."
She pulled her damp hair into a ponytail, silent. Why had she had to ask that specific question? Everything had been a semblance of okay before that. Before she'd wanted to know why.
"In my world, I have the ability to take someone else's pain and make it my own." My eyes were on my sock-covered feet just then. When I looked up, Simone's heated gaze was on me. "I do wish that I could take your pain away right now, Simone. I really do."
If I could just do that, perhaps we would end up with a nice, neat, cordial relationship.
She let out a derisive snort. And then, "What do you want from me?"
"Simone..." I shut my mouth when I realized that I had nothing to say to that. Nothing she'd want to hear, anyway. The silence was louder than any scream.
Simone adjusted her towel. "Actually, I'd really like an answer, if that isn't too much to ask. What do you want from me?"
My eyes narrowed. I couldn't help it. "I don't want anything from you. I would never ask anything from you. I know I don't deserve it," I said candidly. "But we're stuck together, at least until we get to our world. Then you're free and safe. From me, from whatever's going on in this place."
"So that's it? You implode my life and then you get to wash your hands off of me again?" she sneered. "Waltz away and live your best fucking life like I don't exist?"
I had to hold my tongue. It felt like I physically had to hold my tongue. Gods above, she was so...so abrasive. For one stupid fucking moment downstairs, I'd thought that maybe things wouldn't be so bad. That maybe reuniting with my daughter wouldn't be such a complete disaster. That we could maybe become friends. But that was all that it had been – a moment.
How fucking naïve of me. Simone was cut from the same cloth that I was: We could hold grudges until kingdom come. Clearly, she had been holding on to this resentment her entire life, and now that there was somewhere – no, someone – to shit it all on, she was going for broke.
"Simone," I said after collecting myself, "you have to see it from my side. It was...it was traumatic, and I know that's not what you want to hear, but it's the truth. There was no way I could've been...good for you."
"Traumatic?" she shrieked at me, taking a menacing step in my direction. "Don't you dare talk to me about fucking trauma, you selfish cunt! You never once asked yourself what the fuck I would think I was? What the fuck my life would look like? Not for a second. I know you didn't. I never once crossed your fucking mind. It was too traumatic to give me a passing thought. Fuck. You. And get out."
I considered telling her that not a single day had passed without me thinking about her, wondering how she was coping in this strange world that hated strange people and even stranger things. I wanted so badly to tell her that my heart had always yearned to know her; that the pain of not knowing where she was, who she was, or how she was doing truly crippled me.
But that would be a bald-faced lie.
The truth was that if Marcus had never sought her out, I would never in a million years have done so myself. That truth was a bitter pill to swallow. Was there something innately wrong with me? Was I not wired properly? Even Marcus the mannequin had it in him to harbor paternal feelings towards this child.
"I'll be next door," I whispered after a moment, but Simone's attention was already elsewhere.
I left her room, a sharp pang in my chest.
Get a grip, I had to tell myself, not for the first time that night.
I would not break because my own child had rejected me. I'd rejected her first, so fair was fair, right?
I stalked into the next room, grateful that Marcus hadn't been at Simone's door, overhearing just how much of a failure I really was. Collapsing onto the hard bed felt like being welcomed into a warm embrace. I yearned to close my eyes and find myself back in my own condo, blissfully unaware about any of this mess.
I pulled up Simone's Facebook profile again, struck once more by how familiar the smiling woman in her photo was, such a contrasting image to the snarling, bitter wildcat in the other room. Her privacy settings were as loose as a goose. I could see every single photo that she was tagged in, every single post that she'd ever made, dating back to when she'd created her account in 2010.
Bill and Susan Fitzpatrick, of Pasadena, California, had been Baptist missionaries, and Simone had traveled the world with them until she'd turned thirteen and they settled in South Africa, building their own church. By that time, they had been almost elderly, and I couldn't imagine what Simone had felt, watching them age and deteriorate before her very eyes. According to one of Simone's posts, cancer had taken Bill first, and Susan followed shortly after with a heart attack.
My mother's heart was broken, Simone had written, an angsty eighteen-year-old who'd had pink and blue streaks in her long hair. Their love will forever beat any sugary novel, any sappy, foolish film – because their love was real. Rest in peace, Mama and Papa.
She'd posted a photo of the three of them – watery-eyed Bill who stood tall and pencil-thin, round-faced Susan with her big, blue eyes and wrinkly neck, and Simone in the middle – grinning at the camera. They were pale and silver-haired, whereas she was the picture of ethereal youth. They looked...happy. Content. Loved.
I shoved my phone under the pillow, as if I could push away reality. The Fitzpatricks had raised my daughter. Sent her to a good university. And...she'd ended up working at an auto shop? I wished I could ask her if she'd felt fulfilled, but perhaps that would've been insulting. A sick wave of guilt washed over me. I'd always thought that I'd done the right thing, the most unselfish thing. But her life could have been easier with me, or even just with Marcus. I had money, and by the looks of it, so did Marcus. Simone wouldn't have had to fix cars for a living.
At some point, Marcus had brought my bag up to the room, and I sifted through it for a pair of yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt that had been with me for over thirty years. The blue cotton had faded so much from wash and wear that it looked white. After finding my bag of toiletries and finishing my bedtime routine in the bathroom, I simply wanted sleep to capture me.
But every time I tried to close my eyes, so desperate for sleep that my head hurt, I saw Memphis's handsome face contorted painfully as rigor mortis set in. And then when I didn't see Memphis, I saw Simone, the liquid hatred in those big, brown eyes of hers hot enough to scald me.
***
I hadn't slept a wink, and it showed. My reflection in the mirror was something straight out of a horror show. I quickly brushed my teeth and washed my face before heading downstairs. Simone's door was still closed, but Marcus's was ajar.
He sat at the kitchen island again, but this time, the suit was gone and in its place, he wore a wife-beater and black sweats. He stood as my footsteps approached, turned around, and I saw how dangerously low his pants were hanging. It had been a long time since I'd seen him close to a state of undress. His shoulders were broad and his arms were muscled, but not in the comical way that most male humans preferred. He probably still worked out.
I swallowed, schooling my face. Stop that. "Hey. Morning."
"Morning," he said, pulling out the stool beside his. "I made coffee."
"Actually," I said, taking a seat, "I'd like something stronger."
"Really, Dahlia?" he said, looking down at me. "At seven in the morning?"
"Don't the humans say that it's four o'clock somewhere?"
He went to pull out the unfinished wine bottle from dinner.
"No glass," I told him, and he raised a dark brow. "No judgment either."
He slid the bottle across the island. "Enjoy."
I pulled out the cork and took a large gulp of the dry wine. "Still teetotal?" I asked, offering him the bottle.
"Still teetotal."
"Can't say I blame you," I said with a short laugh. "Thanks to alcohol, your performance was abysmal, to put it nicely."
He was scowling, but his cheeks were red.
"You're blushing!" I crowed, feeling a childish sense of enjoyment at his obvious discomfort. "You know, we've never really talked about –"
"I'd rather not," he said gruffly.
I mimed zipping my mouth shut before taking another swig of the wine. "Well, in other news, Simone hates us," I said. "Me, at least."
"Us," he stated plainly, still standing across me. "I have no idea why you believe that I'm exempt from her contempt."
"Exempt from her contempt," I echoed. "So poetic."
"You know she has every right to feel the way she feels."
"I know that," I said, more sharply than I'd intended to. "I'm not a monster."
"I didn't say that. Did I say that, Dahlia?"
"No, but I know what you think. You wanted to keep her, and I forced your hand."
"Keep your voice down," said Marcus, his eyes flicking towards the kitchen entrance. His gaze settled on me. "Do you want her to hear that?"
"Maybe she should. Maybe she should know how much of a selfish cunt I really am." I tipped the bottle down my throat once more. I slammed the bottle onto the counter. "That's what she called me, you know. A selfish cunt. I couldn't have described myself any better."
"Stop it." Marcus surprised me by taking my hands in his. His skin was ridiculously soft. I pulled my hands back so quickly, I knocked the bottle down, spilling what little wine was left onto the marble countertop.
"Sorry," I mumbled.
"Don't worry about it."
He instantly got to work wiping it away with paper towels while I sat there watching, feeling foolish because this man had managed to get me hot and bothered just by holding my hands.
"What is Neutralis like right now?" I asked, exhaustion creeping into my voice.
He bit his lower lip, frowning, as if the words were difficult to get out. "Abandoned. Familiar. Gloomy."
"Well, that sounds dismal."
"It is. We'll have to rebuild. Our world has been abandoned for far too long." He paused, his eyes settling somewhere above my shoulder. "But it's still beautiful, Dahlia."
I let out a heavy sigh. "I can see it now. Home."
"Yes." His brow furrowed. "The only thing is... The energy that we used to channel our gifts? I didn't feel it. Almost like it had died."
"Died? But...energy doesn't die. Right?"
"Yes, in theory," said Marcus, "but our world is different. What the Nefari did didn't just wipe their entire race out. It might've affected other things. The system of things, to be specific." He scrubbed a hand down his face. "I don't know. The remaining members of the Council have been trying to figure it out."
I felt an acute sense of loss at the idea that I would never be able to help someone the way I used to be able to. Sure, being a dumpster for people's emotions wasn't always a great time, but it was something. Something I could do. The only way I knew how to help people.
My voice broke when I asked, "And you think it's safer over there than here?"
Marcus still wasn't meeting my gaze. "Your friend wasn't the first death, Dahlia."
My heart stuttered. "Excuse me?"
His eyes drifted to meet mine. I couldn't read the expression on his face. "I didn't want to alarm you."
"Alarm me?" I sputtered. I had the overwhelming urge to smack his arm. "Are you fucking kidding me, Marcus? I asked you for full disclosure!"
He had the gall to look defiant. "You would've panicked if I'd just sprung that on you, Dahlia. There was a massacre. Let that sink in."
"Because you know me so damn well?" I spat at him, but my heart was thrashing painfully at my chest. Massacre. How was that even possible? Who could have done such a thing? Why?
We weren't part of the war between the Nefari and Edenites. We were simply collateral damage. Innocent bystanders. But if someone – or something – was going out of their way to eradicate our already dwindled numbers...
Marcus let out a long-suffering sigh. "Are you telling me you wouldn't have panicked?"
"Stop thinking for me."
"Noted," he muttered. "Are you hungry?"
I shook my head. "I think I'll just take a shower."
"Okay. I'll go see if Simone is up."
"I'm surprised she isn't skulking around somewhere, eavesdropping."
Marcus leveled me with a stern look. "Don't be like that."
"Yeah, yeah. Go get your girl," I said, waving him off.
I considered opening another bottle of wine, but figured that Simone would probably add "alcoholic" to the growing list of points against my favor, so I went into the fridge and took out a bottle of water instead before heading upstairs.
Simone's door was ajar, and I could see how Marcus had his arms wrapped around her in a bear hug, and her head was pressed against his chest. The man had killed her and she was easily able to be all kumbaya with him. I tasted acid on my tongue and told myself to stop being petty. For whatever reason, Marcus fucking Locke was more palatable to Simone than I was.
Feeling like an intruder, I snuck away and crept into my room, closing the door gently behind me.