"Bye, Cal," Abigail whispered into my neck, her head resting cautiously on my shoulder and violet strands of hair flowing down my back. "Will you text me later?"
"Of course," I said, our embrace quickly becoming polluted by secrets that the other already knew. "Get home safe."
The hurricane was over. As many times as Robin carefully suggested we might just be in the eye, Sebastian reassured her that the radar knew more than her; she accepted the conclusion rather begrudgingly. Brunch was served over a presumptuous quiet and Sebastian's fork scraped the plate periodically, the screech grating against my hangover. It only took him a few more pointed glances at Abigail for her to get the hint.
Now, with her bag haphazardly stuffed with clothes that had clearly just been shoved in, I was almost sad to see her go. Maybe it was because she was a buffer—a damn good one, at that—and her absence left Sebastian and I to stew in the aftermath of our civil conversation.
Only we would be freaked out by an exchange of pleasantries but unphased by a life-altering fight, I thought.
Oh, God, the foyer was silent. Robin had already scurried back upstairs to begin restoration preparations for the farm and Demetrius hummed to himself in the lab—I imagined him to be blissfully working away. Maru, who had been M.I.A. for days, was likely tinkering in the basement beneath her room, hiding from the storm and from us.
"What now?" He asked.
"Should we play outside?" I asked, only half joking. I was dying to escape this house—noisy memories clanged in shadowy corners that were getting harder and harder to avoid.
"Should we—what?" He laughed. "Are you kidding?"
"Better that than focusing on how shitty I feel right now."
"I don't know how," Sebastian started. "But I think I'm hungover and still a little drunk at the same time."
"You know what they said is the best cure for a hangover?"
"More alcohol?"
"Well, I was going to say fresh air, but that works too."
"I know you, Callie," Sebastian said. My terrible heart fluttered. "And I know you can't pass up a mimosa."
I could feel my body begging me not to, but a slender glass was already sliding into my hand before I could voice it. Seeing him holding his flute brought me back to the funeral, the golden liquid a stark contrast to the water he had that day. His face had healed since, but he'd never shaken the tiredness now encased within his once youthful features. My head dizzied at the thought.
My mind and my stomach were thankful for the orange juice that masked the champagne, but were still weary of what laid beneath the beauty. I felt the consequences of the evening before—and the entire night—and this morning; it was by no means a good idea to drink again, but maybe—just maybe—it would work out in my favor this time. Better to obliterate our minds than focus on the unspeakable thoughts brewing in them, I decided.
I couldn't understand what was happening, and part of me didn't want to. The animosity, the hatred, the looming knowledge of our past—it had disappeared so suddenly that I almost questioned if it ever existed. Was getting laid really all it took?
My blood boiled at the thought, then ran cold at the memory. "Well, what are we waiting for?" I said, my mouth pulpy and saliva thick. "Come on!"
And he did, and we went outside, and the sun pricked my skin like it used to and my days in that basement quickly disappeared; as the day passed, the years that we lived in silence faded too—it was all a distant memory that begged to be forgotten. Leftover alcohol mingled with the morning's mixed drinks, and the concoction swirled around my stomach as the mud dried into dirt and coated our bare feet. The sky fell into dusk around us—despite our begging the sun to stay—dragging a cool September evening behind it. We layed in the dirt and basked in the starlight.
"Cal," Sebastian said quietly, his tone disrupting the carefree atmosphere. "Would you want to talk about—um...well—what went down?"
"We really don't have to," I sighed, rolling over to look at him. His face was painted with cool light, dark strands of hair tickling his face from the breeze. The night sky danced in his eyes; I almost lost myself in them. "I appreciate you asking, though."
"What if I want to talk about it?" He took a swig from the beer in his hand, and I followed suit—a kick of carbonation following the sip of my seltzer.
"What's on your mind?" I asked gingerly, tipping my head back and allowing the rest of the liquid to cascade down my throat. If last night was bad, I could only imagine the hangover waiting for me.
"I've been waiting to yell at you like that for years," he admitted, staring at the ground. "I thought it would help, that it would make all of the feelings valid."
"Okay." There was nothing else to say.
"It didn't. So then I thought, 'let me do something even worse,' so I did. I did it because I was horny and—probably above that—I wanted you to hear. I wanted you to know that if you didn't want me, there was someone else who did. But after the fact, I felt nothing but shame. Shame that I used Abigail's body as a pawn in our little mind game, shame that it meant something to her and nothing to me, shame that you heard it and shame that it didn't do what I'd hoped."
"Do you still—" forbidden words danced on my tongue. "Do you still feel something for me?"
The silence was heavy. I could feel it crushing my bones, one by one, as his gaze held mine and something indiscernible flickered within it.
"Does love like that ever really go away?" He asked, almost silently, as though he were only talking to himself.
"No," I whispered. "Sometimes I wish it would."
He nodded, and for a brief moment, the flood gates had opened and we could see each other for what we were: hopelessly fused together.
He hated it as much as I did. The unbreakable bond of childhood innocence, first loves, shared trauma—it shackled us to one another with cuffs that tightened each time we pulled away. We could run and run just to find that, once we slowed—out of breath and sweaty—we were still attached by metal chains and unrelenting regret.
And then he kissed me.
He kissed me, and I felt everything I thought I'd lived a million times over die and be born again. Years upon years of not-so-unrequited love and angst and hatred and lust and a phenomenon much deeper that didn't have a name yet, just an explosion of something that I never wanted to end.
And then it dawned on me: we'd never kissed, never had an embrace more intimate than my cheek resting on his shoulder or his hand in mine. It felt wrong and more than right at the same time; we were drunk and he'd brought my best friend to bed the night before, but it was us. Was there anything more right than that?
His thumb drew circles on my cheek as his lips brushed mine, and they never grew hungrier or even thought about it. It was like a crop's first drink of water after a drought, the sting of sunlight on pale skin. The way he smelled—raw cedar and amber—the scent that had enveloped me at the flower dance and bit my nostrils at the funeral and lingered in the air even when he wasn't around. The sound of his lungs filling and deflating, the gentle caress of his eyelashes against mine. Parts of him that existed only in the back of my mind—parts of him that existed only when I allowed myself to indulge in a daydream, only when hating him became too exhausting.
"We should get to bed," he sighed as he pulled away, turning his flushed face towards the sky once more. We were locked in a silent agreement that there was nothing left to say. "We're both in for a hell of a hangover."
"Don't remind me," I breathed out, already swallowing bile that pooled at the bottom of my throat. "I'll cross that bridge when I get there."
"Roger that," he said, hoisting himself off of the grass and extending a strong hand down to me. We walked in silence towards the house, and at the fork in the hallway, he whispered an unintelligible goodnight and veered towards Maru's room.
I grabbed my pillow and blanket from the floor and walked towards the bathroom, sparing myself from the cursed—and likely inevitable—sprint I had to endure the night before. The ghost of my younger self sat behind me, watching the night unfold with a pained smile.
Nothing lasts forever, she whispered, her aura screaming I told you so. I dismissed her and my thoughts, my cheek pressed against the cold toilet seat and two days worth of alcohol waiting to spill back into the bowl.
Nothing lasts forever, I agreed. And I meant it.