Three Days. It sounds so very simple when you state it thusly. Even quantifying it in time, it's just seventy-two hours, four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes, two hundred and fifty-nine thousand two hundred seconds. It is point zero zero seven nine one eight nine zero three five eight percent of my existence on this planet. How can it possibly feel like the inverse is true!?
I left Ben early that morning, knowing that I was going to spend the majority of the day in the woods outside of school. I arrive at school around the time I usually do, out of habit, only I do not leave the trees or come where any mortal might see me. I sit and listen and wait.
Ben arrives and parks as he usually does. He slept well the night before, much more restful, but now he seems a little anxious somehow, jumpy almost, but also eager. He spends the time walking to the school looking around quite a bit, and it is then that I realize that he doesn't know I won't be in school. I watch through the course of the morning as his veiled enthusiasm dwindles and ebbs until he makes his way to lunch. As soon as he sets eyes on our empty table, he seems to implode. But then, he whips around, looking at the table where I was sitting on Friday. Again, he slumps as if in defeat.
I am practically ripping up trees in my distress. I didn't know it was possible to be so completely two things at once, elated at the fact that he is so bereft without me there and miserable at his misery. I want him almost as much as if I was smelling him that very moment. I consider going without bathing or changing clothes for a few days, just so the scent from my nights will stick with me, helping to ground me and keep him with me.
"Hey," says Jesse, who's mind I happen to be listening through at the moment. "Movie, tomorrow. You in?"
Ben looks over at him, "What?"
"Movie?" Jesse repeats as though checking for a head injury. "Tomorrow? After school? Port Angeles? Are you wanting to go?"
Ben considers for like two seconds, "Absolutely."
Huh, that's odd. I thought I might have to play it up more.
"Just so you know," he warns, "Lauren is going."
"Don't care," says Ben, shaking his head, looking around the cafeteria.
Really? Huh, what is up with that guy today.
But, unfortunately for Jesse, he doesn't care enough to pay attention or ask further. Doesn't he know what a gift he has!? He gets to sit next to Ben and speak to him and ask him questions and TALK TO HIM! I would literally pay the value of a month's salary for every job in Forks to be able to ask Ben one question in that moment and have an honest response. I would pay that and more, gladly.
If I was hoping my day would improve, I was sorely mistaken
Hey, Little Miss Fake Tits isn't here! Now is my chance! Ask him out! Ask him out!
That time, I did rip a tree out of the ground. It wasn't a big tree.
Her voice quavered as she walks up to him and says, "Heya."
He looks to her briefly, smiling and saying hi before going back to watching the doorway, hoping to see me before the bell rings.
He's waiting for her, isn't he!? I need to head this off fast before she gets her hooks into my Benny.
The tree might have been in many pieces by now. Enough that it was no longer recognizable as a tree.
"Edwina isn't here today?" she asks rhetorically, her feigned concern enough that I am contemplating how much trouble I might be in if I left her brand new Dodge Neon up on the school roof.
"I guess not," Ben says piteously. I wish I had a pillow to scream into. Given my current level of distress, I might combust a pillow. I would need something more substantial to press my face into. Like granite.
"I'll keep you company," she says.
He smiles, "That's very kind of you Mickie, but that's okay. Really."
"I don't mind," she insists. God, what does he see in her? Hell, with that much money, I could buy pretty too.
Would you look at that? There isn't any more air left in any of her tires. How on earth did that happen?
He tolerates her until the bell rings after which Mrs. Banner ushers her to her seat. I might have enjoyed how much this irritated her.
"Enjoying yourself?"
I turn to see Alice walking towards me, and old style picnic basket under one arm, a parasol draped across the other, Jasper at her side, wincing as he approaches. Suddenly, a wave of utter serene relaxation flows over me. I am fine. Everything is alright with the world.
I laugh, "Was it really that bad?"
Alice grins, "It was either Jasper to calm you down or Em to hold you down. This one involved less property damage."
It is my turn to wince.
"I appreciate this option as well," Jasper said a bit teasingly. "I was starting to feel you at home. If you need support, just ask. We are all in this together."
Keeping my thoughts purely clinical and without emotion, I carefully sift through their thoughts. Alice is trying a new tact, in which she helps show what doing for other might benefit them. Apparently, Jasper is feeling more and more unsettled by what is going on, and is having trouble empathizing with me and Ben and has turned from considering preemptive strikes to considering preemptive retreat. I am grateful, genuinely, and not just because I would miss them both terribly. I respect the ingenuity of helping both of us at once to get what we want. Jasper understands why she is asking him to do this and he accepts it and her. He understands that doing what is best for those he loves is not always what they want or what he can stand. I can relate to that.
I give Alice a knowing look, and she just beams, pulling a picnic blanket from the basket and walking to relatively flat space surrounded by trees but clear overhead. We three sit and she curls her feet girlishly under her, opening the parasol and basking in the dull sun that is still enough to send shards of light dancing off her skin.
"These three days are going to be tough," I say aloud. Alice continues basking and it takes me a moment to turn to Jasper.
"Tough for whom?" he asks.
I think about it, "For me and for him, I believe. From every indication I have witnessed, he misses me too, if not as deeply."
He shrugs at me, "Missing someone isn't an emotion, so I wouldn't be able to tell. Even so, emotion is more ephemeral. Magnitude means little. Either something is felt or it is not. The range of my sense has more to do with my attachment to the individual. Some strength might be attributed to how attractive or repulsive the sensation is, but that has so much more to do with what the emotion is in the first place. I can't tell you if he misses you. What I can tell you is that the emotions you were displaying have little to do with the fact that you miss him."
I look at him, momentarily taken aback.
He looks at me, "Do you know how many basic emotions there are?"
Ekman came to mind, "Six; happiness, sadness, fear, disgust, surprise, and anger."
He smiles and shakes his head, "Two."
I raise an eyebrow at him.
"Of course the others exist," he said, "and they are vitally important, but at the root, there is only two. Love and pain."
I start to understand what he is expressing.
"They color everything you do," he says, reaching to take Alice's hand. "If you feel love, you won't act unnecessarily in self-defense. You won't see your options as binary, evil and less evil. You won't attempt to control or to keep to you everything you fear to lose. Events won't cause you nearly as much distress as they would have otherwise. Things are much easier if you feel loved."
He kisses Alice's proffered cheek and she strokes his hand. I get an intriguing notion.
"Can you make others feel loved?" I ask.
"Oh, no," he laughs. "I can't get that deep. I can help with higher emotions, but I can't increase or decrease love, or pain."
I get what he is saying. I am in pain. Not a lot of it perhaps, but enough. I am not sure what is causing, but I know what I am afraid of.
"I am afraid of not having Ben," I say. "I am so used to being a monster who isn't worth anything, I believe that I can't have him. I could, but I am so afraid that if I don't do this right, I will never happen."
"You want it to be real," says Alice. "So much that you are willing to overlook your own actions for what they really are."
I think about it. Wanting Ben does not benefit him. Vandalizing Mickie's car doesn't benefit him. Tearing up trees didn't benefit him. It was all about me, and not because I am inherently selfish. I am acting as such because, deep down, coming from a place of pain, I truly believe that I won't ever be with Ben because people in pain don't get to be happy or loved.
"What can I do?" I ask, oddly calm and content for something that would normally make me feel raw and vulnerable at the very least.
Alice hands Jasper her parasol and scooted up to me, putting her small arms around me.
"Remember that you are loved," she says.
Jasper shifts to my other side, and while he is not an affectionate brother, he places a hand on my shoulder and I feel soothed and open.
"I thought you couldn't make anyone feel loved," I point out.
He smiles, "I can't. I can make it easier for you to feel loved, but that isn't the same as creating love. We love you, whether or not you can feel it. The love is there, and I can tamp down the worry and the fear and let you have the room to feel it. Rest easy, sister. We know it is hard, but you needn't worry so. We're here. We support you. The more we can do to help you, the less Ben will need to do. You can let him be him, doing what he will do. You won't need to depend on him."
I think about that. "But, how can I love him if I don't need him?"
Alice squeezes me a little, "What do you want from him? Really, thinking about it. Be honest."
I think. Hard. "I want him to love me. I want him to look past the fact that I am a monster. I want him to join with us, be one of us. I want him forever, even if it costs him his soul."
She nods, "And if that isn't what he wants?"
"But, he will-"
Alice shakes her head, "Nope. You know how my sight works. If you really chose to leave, you could. If he really decided that he didn't want you, he could. Any number of unforeseen things can come here and change the course of the future, simply because someone does not yet have all the information they need to make their own choice. What if that isn't what he wants?"
I consider, "Then, I would be hurt."
"Why?" Alice asked, earnest. "How exactly would he hurt you?"
My eyes go wide. The lesson I learned with Emily flashes into stark relief, "It wouldn't hurt me. I would just feel the pain I already have, that I feel deep down, because it would prove that I am right and if I am hurt badly enough, he might see that and change his mind."
"Yes," said Alice.
Heaving a deep breath, I let go. Ben gets to decide what he wants. I cannot allow myself to get in the way of that. He owes me nothing. I owe him nothing. If he is going to be with me, it will be by choice, and by choice alone, not because I tricked him into it. I start to understand why so many of these children trade with each other. They don't know any better, and because not doing so is hard. It makes me feel vulnerable and imperfect and very well might result in me not getting what I want. And, the very idea of me being okay with not having Ben love me back scares me more than the idea of him rejecting me.
We stay where we are for several hours. I lose track of time, of everything, content to bask in the sun and in the adoring acceptance of my adopted siblings. Long after night has begone to fall, we go home.
I hug mom and dad. I tell them that I love them, and they tell me the same, Emanuel especially bursting with the gesture that he returns in kind. I let Emily swing me around and spend a few minutes with Rory in the garage, though he studiously ignores me, trying desperately to hide just how much he enjoys the attention. Finally, I go see Ben.
He is tossing and turning, saying my name over and over, as though searching for me. Without thinking, I kneel beside his bed and take his hand. His heart rate and breathing momentarily spike, but he remains asleep. He settles, eases back down, and I remain as I am. I let go when his turning draws him away, but as soon as he is searching for me again, I move to reclaim his hand. Before I leave, I gently lean in to kiss his hair, knowing that I will talk with him again, be with him again, and that he will be free to do whatever he will. I feel just how much more meaningful it would be for him to choose me of his own free will and realize that it is truly what I want, even if it scares me, even if it means risking him saying no. I love him so much.
When I leave him, I am thrilled. I am not worried. I don't need to follow him anymore. I check in on him from time to time, but it is only to see what he is up to, to know what has been going on. The next morning, when I see Mickie approach him, finally getting up the nerve to ask him out, I go and find Alice, who kicks a slightly annoyed Jasper out of their room while she sits me down and does my hair for me, soothing and consoling me as she combs out my locks and carefully puts it in a simple yet immaculate french braid.
"Heya," she says as I listen through her mind, tuning out any negative thoughts she might have about me. I am surprised that I can still pick out her thoughts from the house. It takes a lot of effort, so much so that I start to feel tired, but I can still do it.
"Hello," says Ben pleasantly, yet his expression seems somehow strained. She doesn't notice.
"I was wondering," she edges in carefully, "What are you doing tonight?"
"I am going out to the movies with the guys," he says conversationally, completely unaware of what she is getting at, which is just as soothing as Alice is at the moment.
"Oh," she says, as defeated as if he had just told her that going on a date with her is the last thing he would ever do. "I was going to ask you out."
Ben looks at her, and he seems to be trying to make a decision. I can tell that he is amping himself up for something undesirable. Finally, he says, "Mickie, there are several reasons why that isn't a good idea."
She feels rather huffy. I feel rather floaty.
"Name one!" she says, a little testily.
He makes an expression like the answer is obvious, "You are already going to the dance with someone else."
"So?" she said. "I would have gone with you if you were going. That doesn't mean we still can't go out."
He sighs, "Yeah, it does."
"Why?" she asks.
He waits a moment, as though he is giving her the opportunity to get there on her own. From inside her head, I can attest to the fact that she has no chance. None.
"Okay, look," he says. "Do you think that there might be the faintest, more remote possibility that your date might mind?"
Why would he-? Wait, what? I'm confused.
"Seriously, Mickie," he says, again, as though it were obvious, "are you blind?"
Wait... Jesse? Wait, what!?
I tune her out as she starts a line of rather vulgar and distasteful fantasies, the same she usually had about Ben, but this time with Jesse in place of him. At the last moment, catch one of her with the both of them, and I shiver. Human predilections can be so strange sometimes.
I spend the rest of the day reading, studying how to cook in detail, understanding foodstuffs and how heat and pressure affect them. I finish a few dozen books that I hadn't gotten to while listening to a few albums that I hadn't heard yet, and then continue working on the lullaby at the piano, with Ben's sleeping form swimming in my mind's eye. I swing by Ben's house to see him off to the movies, just in time to hear Jesse call him and let him know that the movie plans were canceled so that he could go out with Mickie. They reschedule for the following night. I just hope that this will lead to Mickie leaving Ben be, though I don't hold my breath.
I am surprised just how much Ben seems to be disheartened by the cancellation. He spends a lot of time looking over what sounds like school books, doing some spot cleaning, doing a lot of sighing and huffing. I am not sure what is wrong and I am thinking about going to knock on his door when his mother comes home. They have their meal, and I decide to go for a run and swing by the house to change before coming back once he is asleep.
I spend the night much as I had the night before, a routine forming. I don't join him on the bed again, not until he asks me when he is awake. But I take his hand every time he is restless after he withdraws from me. Tonight I notice that it takes longer for him to pull away, and there is a reluctance to it. Also, he becomes restless almost immediately afterward. He says my name not only as though he is searching for me, but with relief when my hands are on his, contentedly. I decide that being separated has gone on long enough. Wednesday, the last night we must be apart, I will orchestrate bumping into him at Port Angeles. From there, I will offer my number, email, any means that he might want to have contact with me, and I will speak with him, ask him my questions, spend time with him as I want to so desperately, and will confirm my return to school the following day.
Wednesday feels somehow longer than the other two days put together, but I find ways to pass the time. I hunt and I chat with Emanuel. I spare with Jasper and Emily, I let Alice fix my hair back into the French braid, and I dress in the yellow silk empire dress that falls to the knee and tan leather jacket, with gloves in the pockets, and simple black Italian boots. Alice dutifully assures me that all is well.
"The sun will still be up when you get there," she says, "but that won't last too long. After that, you are free to go chat him up. Have a good time! Let me know how it goes."
"Won't you be watching?" I ask.
She shakes her head, "No, I want to hear all about it from you. Love you!"
I get in the Mercedes, driving after the four boys, Ben, Angelo, Lauren and Jesse as they drive to the city. The way is familiar, so while I drive, I have no problem focusing a large quantity of my attention on them. Ben is in the back seat with Angelo, while Jesse is driving and Lauren is given nearly free rein with the radio, which is loud and uninspired. Ben exchanges pleasantries with Angelo, asking about his little sisters and about his date. Turns out that he is going stag, as it were. This strikes me as very odd indeed, considering his mind is so pleasant, even enjoyable to use when looking after Ben. There must be something I can do about that.
I am considering a few possibilities when Ben completely derails my train of thought.
"Do you know if the Cullens have left or something?" he asks covertly. They both glance towards the front, towards Lauren. He has not overheard.
Angelo really surprises me. He doesn't latch onto the question. He doesn't consider it as a bit of gossip. He doesn't consider the reasons behind it. He considers it a question from a friend, and nothing else. I further cultivate plans to figure out who he could possibly want to go to the dance with.
"No," Angelo says. "But they disappear just about any time the weather is nice. Hiking and camping and all that. I've seen them in at the Newtons' store. I swear, they owe like have their annual revenue to the Cullens."
This explanation is one that could have saved Ben a lot of worry, methinks. Why didn't I think to say anything before I left Friday!?
Ben considers this, his head tilting in something like relief.
"But they're still around?" he asks, his head coming up again. "They haven't left or anything?"
"No, not that I've heard," replies Angelo, willing to leave it at that.
I owe more to Angelo than I can easily repay. But then Lauren turns down the music. His mind is vindictively slanted towards the rumors the Taylor has been propagating, with heavy inclinations towards blaming Ben for her interest. I suppress a hiss.
"So," muses Lauren. "What's up with you Ben?"
"Nothing much," he replies, sounding more cordial than Lauren deserves. "How are things going with you, man?"
He gives Ben a contemptible look. Ben looks as though he is trying to reserve judgment until Lauren fires the first shot.
"Nothing?" he asks snidely. "You have nothing going on? You are nothing?"
"Dude," Jesse objects. "Don't be a dick!"
"I'm not being a dick," Lauren says with almost singsong defensiveness. "I just find it hard to believe that he has nothing going on, that nothing is happening with him, that his life is so insignificant that nothing ever happens to him."
"I never said that, Lauren," Ben says, he tone dropping almost as though he is a parent trying to console a tantrum. I chuckle.
"So, you admit that there is something going on with you?" Lauren retorts.
"Why don't you tell me what you think is going on?" Ben says, still managing to remain rational. It occurs to me that the information he is about to receive is not only very likely to have him apoplectic with embarrassment, but I get to watch it from at least two angles. My anticipation is almost palpable.
"You're going to prom with Taylor," Lauren accuses.
For a long moment, Ben looks as though he has forgotten how to comprehend English. Then, his face flushes as the implication of what is going on seems to crash over him. I am having trouble staying on the road. I am glad there isn't anyone else in the other lane or I would have to pull over.
"I'm doing what now?" he asks, utterly chagrined.
"I told you it wasn't true," Angelo defends him. "Ben wouldn't do half the things she was talking about."
I have to slow down. His face!
"'Half the things'?" Ben asks, so completely perturbed, he can barely speak. "What things? What half?"
"Stupid things," Jesse informs him, now starting to feel bad now that Ben knows and is so upset by it. He is more sympathetic now that he understand just how unpleasant it could be to have such unwanted overtures directed at him.
"Things like you were taking a dance class," Jesse goes on, "you were helping her buy her dress from an international designer, you were going to get her flowers from some fancy florist in Seattle, things like that. She also said not to talk to you about because you were embarrassed."
Ben looks particularly indignant.
"You guys believed her?" he nearly cries.
"A lot of other people do," Jesse says defensively.
From his expression, I think Ben believed that only their friends knew of this. Now, he has realized that the audience might be larger. I have to pull over. The car is shaking.
"Wait!" he clamors. "Wait wait wait! 'Other people'?! How many people did she tell!?"
"About half the school," says Lauren, still accusing.
"The female half," affirms Angelo.
"And they told the other half," Jesse says, perhaps unnecessarily.
"Well, no one told me!" Ben cries, his voice cracking its way through two octaves. "Not even Taylor!"
Jesse finally laughs, but it is as much about the way he said it as what was said. Angelo smiles a bit sheepishly, thinking he should have mentioned it sooner. Lauren is still as resentful as ever.
"I swear," Ben says, his jaw tight, "I never knew anything about this. Hell, she almost killed me with her van, the only time I can recall talking to her was when I turned her down for that stupid dance. I don't know where she got the idea that meant we were going to prom, but she didn't get it from me."
I stay where I am, going over the memory again and again, and it is just as funny as it was the first time. I am rocking and crowing with laughter every time I recall it. The sun is still high and there isn't much I can do, so I laugh and I wait and I give them a head start. Long before my amusement has waned, I head out, looking to catch back up with the group.
To my surprise, Ben is gone. They have dropped him off near a bookstore. I know of the store, though I am not sure why Ben would like to go there. I pull up, realizing the sun is still too high. I will have to wait a few more minutes. I sit in my car and think about Ben, fighting down any anxiousness I might feel at our pending reunion. I want to expound upon it in my own head, fantasize and theorize, but I really have no idea how it will go. I simply will have to wait and see.
The sun is low enough that I can sneak inside in the shade. I step out of the car and walk quickly to the bookstore. It takes me longer than usual to realize the problem. Ben isn't here. No scent inside. No one in the store is thinking of him. Where is he?
I begin searching minds in the area, but no one is thinking about him or is seeing him either. I am wondering what could have happened and internally berate myself. The owner of the bookstore is coming over to ask me if I need help, but I ignore him, returning to my car. Someone must have seen him!
I begin doubling back between here and the movie theater. No luck. The others still haven't seen him and are unconcerned, which helps me to relax but doesn't stop me from continuing my search with vigor. Finally, I get lucky.
"-seemed like a decent guy," someone was saying, speaking to a young woman who was thinking of Ben's face. I am surprised by a flash of jealousy as she thinks about his number that he gave her, the way he gallantly slipped his arm through hers. Who is this?
"Yeah," says the young woman in turn. "I am just glad nothing bad happened. Those guys... well, let's just say that I don't think they would have minded hurting me at all. Who knows what they could have done. I was just glad Ben was there to help."
The police pull up outside her building. I pull up across the street. I listen as the two office walk upstairs and talk with the young woman, Nancy. She recounts how she was hassled on the street by a group of men who seemed as though they were going to assault her when Ben arrived, pretended that he knew her and walked her here.
He must still be nearby. I begin searching. I am about to call Alice, suddenly realizing that she would be the best chance at me finding him at speed, then freeze as my mind finds what I had been looking for.
"Come on," he hisses. "They couldn't have gotten very far."
"But don't you think the cops-"
"If they were going to show, they would've by now."
"I don't know man. This is just hinky."
"Shut up! I am in charge here. I-"
They round a corner. There is Ben.
"NO!" I scream in time with my tires.
I knew this mind. The leader, this creature; I have felt minds like this, so ready to hurt, so dismissive of life, disregarding, callused, a murder through and through.
"There he is!"
I nearly hit two cars and a pedestrian. I am not going to make it in time.
He runs, and they run. The chase is on, the prey is running!
"NNOOO!" I howl.
He makes it less than a block before he trips. I moan. They circle him in before he finds his feet, bind him without holding him, toying. It is arrogant. They might leave me enough time.
"Help," Ben calls, not loudly, as though getting the attention of a specific person. It is enough to get the murder and his companions to come up short, to turn, and find no one there. When they turn back, Ben is running again.
He is buying me time. I will get there. I will get to them before they can even touch him! I will show them pain! I will show them the folly of trespassing against the likes of me!
This time, they close with him. He is on the curb... the curb of this street! I am almost there. I just need a little more time! Just a little more time!
They hear my engine. Ben slips their bonds. They are frightened, cowardly now that the unknown has befallen them. I rev the engine. Ben is in the road, unaware that it is me, ready to flag down a passing car. They don't go for him. He goes too far! He is going to step in front of the car. I pull the car around, sliding to around to bring the passenger door closest to him. In the fading light, I can see that he doesn't recognize the car. I open the door.
"Get in," I try to make my voice sound human. I am not sure how well it comes off. All I have to do is get him in the car, park, and lock it, then I will be free to have my way with them. Even now they are running, believe that they can escape me. I will hound them. I will kill them slowly, by inches, careful not to let them bleed. All except the last. I will take the killer into me, letting it strengthen me, allowing me to become a more efficient killer of killers. He will... he will...
Ben's face is clear to me in the gloom of dusk. As soon as my voice, even vile and rasping as it was, registers to him, he relaxes, completely. His heart rate drops and begins returning to normal, despite the adrenaline not doubt burning in his vessels. He doesn't think twice, simply entering my vehicle, with nothing but relief and trust upon his face.
I... I can't do it. How can I leave him alone, how can I go off and do such works when he is here, when he is looking at me as though... as though there is nowhere he would rather be, than here, with me? I remember who I am, and what I want. It doesn't make my anger any less, but it keeps me in the car. Focus, calm. Need to drive. Need to keep him safe. Focus on the road. Drive!
"Are you okay?" he asks me.
Am I okay? Am I okay?!
"I..." I begin, but I can't form the words without showing just how truly angry and vengeful I am. I can't do that. I can't show him the monster that I am. Not here. Not like this. I don't want to scare him. I want him to be safe and happy. Be calm. Do it for him.
"...am fine," I finish. "I am driving. I am not going to go back there and-"
I got away from myself. I want to go back! I want to make them pay! It would be so good! The power! The blood! The revenge! So easy...
I inhale, wanting to taste them, wanting to track them. My throat burns, and I... don't kill Ben. I breathe again, deeper, fuller. I turn and look at him. He is staring back at me, not a flicker of doubt upon his face. He has faith in me...
I need to be distracted until I can calm down, really calm down. I need... I need him.
"Tell me something," I say.
"What?" he asks confusedly.
"Just talk," I say, returning my gaze to the world before us. "About anything."
He casts around for an idea. Then he seems to find it.
"Have you heard of any rumors going around school since the accident?" he asks.
"All of them," I reply. With my ability and memory, it would be hard not to.
"Why?" I ask.
He is quiet for a moment, too short for a human to easily notice.
"All of them?" he clarifies. "Without exception?"
Oops.
I keep forgetting that he doesn't, in point of fact, know me and what I am. Now that I have said what I did, I cannot so easily redact my statement. Nor do I want to.
"Yes," I admit. I wait, wondering how he will react.
"Taylor was lying," he positively yelps in protest. "I never agreed to anything! She made it up! I'm not going to prom with her! I'm not going to prom at all!"
I try so very hard not to react. My lip twitches. Damn it. I pick out one of the numerous facts I have heard over the weeks, one that I am sure will ruffle his feathers.
"You aren't taking dance lessons then?" I ask
He looks like he wants to hit something, "Argh!"
It worked. I am calm. He is here. Now, to keep him here with me.
I pull into the theater parking lot, where the boys are waiting. Enough time has passed that Angelo is starting to worry. Lauren is already inside, indifferent, and Jesse doesn't want to miss the beginning of the movie, though he remains out front in solidarity.
Ben opens his mouth to speak but then closes it, almost smiling to himself, as if somehow relinquishing something I don't understand over to me. What does that MEAN!?
He sees his friends waiting for him.
"Just let me out at the curb," he says, trying to mollify me by his tone.
Absolutely not!
"You don't need to-" he begins, but I park, saying nothing. I am not letting him get away. It is not going to happen.
As we get out of the car, I consider how to comport myself. I want him with me, at my side, and to stay that way. I consider the thought of him beside Nancy and realize that it will work nicely. I fabricate an idea, a story of him coming to my aid as he did hers, finding that I sincerely wish that it was true. I feel a bit covetous again, and without wondering if he will reject my affectation, I slip my gloves on and my arm in his, though keeping my distance more than I would prefer, not wanting him to feel my lack of warmth.
"Hey guys," he says, somewhat apologetic. I cannot let that stand; the apology must be mine.
"I'm sorry for holding Ben up," I say, affecting the teenage girl persona, though perhaps a bit more likable and vulnerable than I usually portray her. "I was shopping after getting back today from camping when I got a flat and had to stop in a really bad part of town. Ben saw me and helped me. I insisted on taking him out to dinner to say thank you, but he didn't want to break off his plans with you. Is it alright if I steal him away from you? I will drive him home afterward and everything."
I am aware of how manipulative I am being. Ben has the right to say no. I am not really giving him much of a choice, but he doesn't seem to mind at all. His heart rate peaks a little when I mention stealing him. I wish, certainly not for the last time, that mine could do the same in response to him.
Ben looks a little amused, an odd sort of vindication that I don't completely understand, touched with something like sympathy. I turn my attention back to the boys. They are both trying to remember how to speak.
"Sure," says Angelo, able to find his voice fast, not so totally enthralled by my face. I am liking him more all the time.
"Um," he continues, "we already bought your ticket, though."
Ben doles out cash, and I feel a pang of wanting to do it myself. I shouldn't push it, though. He won't like it if I do.
"Get a refund if you can," he explains. "If you do, you can get my cash back to me tomorrow."
"Okay," smiles Angelo. "Have fun."
"Do you want to see the movie?" ejaculates Jesse, as though he must before he loses his nerve.
I smile thankfully and fabricate instantly.
"That's very kind," I say, affecting embarrassment, "but I haven't eaten all day. I really should get something in my stomach or I'm going to pass out."
I want Ben to myself, selfishly and immediately. I will accept nothing less.
"Go!" Jesse exclaims, and Angelo pulls him back towards the theater.
"Have a good night," Ben says as we retreat as well. I keep his arm, wondering momentarily if we can get into the car without me letting go. I sigh too quietly for him to hear but then have an interesting thought. This behavior seems somewhat old-fashioned, at least where Ben is concerned. I wonder what other old-fashioned habits he might have at his disposal.
We stop at my door. I pause for a moment and look at him, just long enough that I can still play it off if he does not understand. Alas, he does not open my door for me. I smile and slide into the car. There will be plenty of time for such things later, should he choose to learn about them. As soon as he is in the car as well, I pull off onto the road.
"Where would you like to eat?" I ask, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious. While I am driving, especially in such a densely populated area with so many people and cars and changing topography, I am loathed to take my eyes off the road with him in the car, while he may look upon me as he wishes. I envy him that.
"You don't have to take me-" he begins to protest. I will have none of it.
I do just as I had been thinking; I look at him, though sharply.
"That isn't the name of a restaurant," I point out. He is done protesting.
"Okay, okay," he says with a sigh. "But I don't know the area at all. Why don't you choose?"
I run through the restaurants in town. The closest is Bella Italia. Does he even like Italian food?
"Alright," I say, not too sanguine with my choice, but deciding that if he would like to go somewhere else, he can speak up himself.
I park and as we are walking towards the entrance, he steps to my side again, at roughly the same distance as before, giving me the opportunity to take his arm again. I cannot help the smile the blossoms across my face. He wants me. He is choosing me. The monster who almost ended human lives rather than being here, with him. I am sobered by my own thoughts. But no. I can do this. I just need to be careful, in control. No mistakes. Fourth Option.
I take his arm and we make our way inside. The host greets us, but I am looking upon Ben. I only let myself be distracted from his face long enough to ask for a more out of the way table which feels more intimate and to thank the host as he pulls out my chair. Other than that, I am entirely focused on the beautiful boy that is before me. I have missed him so ardently, I couldn't satisfactorily put it into words. I measure every difference. The flush of his skin. The length of his hair. The almost imperceptible elongation of his features. The slight strain on him by gravity. The subtle relaxation that I have never seen in him before. The undeniable jealousy he tries to suppress at the attention the host shows me. But there is something I can't quite discern in his expression. So, I do what I have been waiting so very long for.
I ask; "What does your expression mean?"
"Nothing," he says quickly, trying to hide it, trying to relax his features, embarrassed.
I am much better at hiding my expression. My irritation is both petulant and playful, but I am not going to be so forthcoming when I know he is not. But that doesn't stop me from wishing that we both were being honest.
"Why won't you tell me?" I ask.
"Why does it matter what I am thinking?" he counters, and I can tell that he is being dramatic to cover his embarrassment. I don't really care. I want to know him!
"I want to know," I say calmly and evenly.
He snorts, more than a little derisively, "What if I don't want to tell you?"
The thought is agonizing. I am fully prepared to beg, to be persuasive, but I am not really to give up on letting him make the choice. Would that be so hard for him?
"Why don't you want to tell me?" I ask, keeping the dismay out of my voice.
He turns away. I almost run across the room at the speed of his turn, to keep his face and gaze.
"Are you always so intrusive?" he asks, his voice distance.
It suddenly occurs to me that he is being defensive for a reason. I am sitting here, trying to persuade him to tell me his thoughts, to be honest with me, when I am not willing to do so. I am being unfair, and I think that he knows it, even if he cannot put it into words.
His eyes rove back to me as I consider this and what to say next. He looks at me, his gaze unfettered, moving across me, my clothing, and at last, coming to the menus the host has placed before us. His eyes came back up to mine. If I wanted him to be honest, then I must be honest first. We were speaking of my intrusiveness, so I will tell him.
"It is easy for me to know what is going on in other people's minds," I say honestly, if not wholly. I go on, determined to be honest. He already knows so much. As long as he doesn't know it all, know the important facts, he will be safe. I won't need to worry of the Volturi or...
"It's..." I say, searching for palatable words, "I suppose the best term would be a skill that I have. But with you, I can't. I get nothing from you."
I smile to myself. The truth, and the whole truth.
"It's ironic really," I let slip, almost cathartically. "There isn't a person in existence whose mind I would want to know more than yours."
I watch as the expression slowly leaves his face, as his thoughts turn. I feel nervous and yet stronger for my words. I wait for him to speak with at least the appearance of patience.
"Do you think the reason that you can't read my thoughts might be the same reason you want to know them the most?" he asks.
I sit straighter. That wasn't at all what I was expecting. But, of course, whether he means to or not, he suggests with his words that the only reason I might want to know what is going on in his mind is that he is a mystery to me.
"There was a time that might have been the case," I say to my truest love. "But that time is long past."
The waiter arrives. Ben looks simultaneously annoyed and relieved by the interruption. I laugh silently to myself.
"Hello, I'll be your waiter this evening," The waiter says, his thoughts nearly dismissing Ben completely. "Anything to drink?"
I only have eyes for Ben. I wait for him to answer, "Soda."
"Which kind of soda?" The waiter asks politely, though internally it is more condescending.
"Don't care," Ben says, as though he is already tired of the waiter's presence and just wants him gone. The waiter picks up on this and decides to give him something odd, two or more mixed sodas that aren't in any way complementary, hoping to bring out some unlikable qualities in Ben, so that I might leave Ben and seek solace from him instead.
I smile. As though such things were so easily done.
"I'll have the same," I say, as much because Ben will be the only one drinking at this table tonight as to derail any tampering by our most gracious waiter. He tries to cover his improper thoughts with a more congenial smile before taking the drink order to the kitchen.
I watch Ben for a long moment. He looks pensive, disheartened somehow, as though caught between two impossibilities. He looks as though he wants something that he knows he can't have.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask him. I am getting better about letting him say no if he wishes.
He looks around to see that we are alone, but that doesn't seem to relieve him. He looks suddenly nervous, unsure.
"Um," he says, searching for words. "I was just thinking that I'm selfish too."
He is talking to me! He is opening up! He is being honest! I want to sing with joy!
"You?" I ask, keeping my tone just this side of playful. "Selfish? I find that hard to believe."
He takes the time to find more words, more precise words. I am learning to love watching him do this. He considers and weights, wanting to be understood, wanting to be heard for who he is, not for what others might judge his words to be. He is trying to find a way around words' own imperfections. He wishes to be a purveyor of earnest truth.
"I don't like how some of the guys look at you," he says, then reconsiders. "Well, all of them, really."
How strange. I don't really understand what this means to him.
"How does that make you selfish?" I ask, wanting to know more. I want to know everything he is willing to say.
"Because," he says, "it doesn't really matter to me."
It suddenly occurs to me that I am so caught up in his words and that he is saying them that I am not paying attention to what he is actually saying. He is confessing jealousy! I am rather embarrassed by just how much this pleases me, and how much I can relate to it. I want to laugh, but I will embarrass him. But then his final words sink through my elation and I am unable to entirely hide my disappointment, though it is dwarfed by my intrigue as I ask, "It doesn't?"
He thins his lips, as though wondering if there is any way around his next words.
"Well, it does actually," he confesses. I am humming with delight.
"But that's my point," he says, "it doesn't matter."
Now, I am thoroughly confused. I also can't seem to care. Nor can I be concerned with speaking myself. He is really talking to me!
"What I mean to say," he continues, "is that I get no say in what other people do, especially when it involves them doing it to other people who aren't me. It doesn't affect me at all if people do or do not leer at you. Me wanting them not to is selfish."
He is too much! He really is. He is almost berating himself because he isn't selfless enough to not care when men are attracted to me. He has no idea what a rarity it is for him to care enough to even consider his own behavior as he does. But then, I have a moment of my own selfishness, one that I can't deny. Even if I am being underhanded about it, I really would like to know to what degree he thinks of me in such ways.
"Does it really bother you so much?" I inquire quietly.
"Would it bother you if girls leered at me?" he says back quickly, his expression suggesting his own surprise at his words. I have to fight back laughter. It isn't that he is looked upon admiringly by girls around him regularly; it is that, whether he knows it or not, he seems to have caught on to what I was truly asking, and has turned the question around to ask me the same thing!
"Who says they don't?" I reply, amused.
He looks even more surprised.
"They don't," he says, dismissively, but then asks almost boyishly, "do they?"
I raise an eyebrow. He doesn't really seem as though he wants an answer. Is it possible that it isn't something he just dismisses out of hand, a denial? Could it really be that he doesn't even see what is so obvious before him? How can he be so intuitive about so many things, and yet not this?
"Imagine if they all did," he says, "with the same intensity and frequency that men do you."
I think about that for a moment. I have to tune out the fantasies of men so regularly that I hardly notice it unless I have to. I take a moment to recall the men around me, from the waiter on back through time, allowing myself to see the lewd images that they fill their thoughts with at my sight. Then, I consider that quantity of lust and desire expended towards Ben, by every woman who comes in sight of him. I feel momentarily unwell. The amount of jealousy I feel starts to edge my thoughts towards avenues in my brain that I came dangerously close to using earlier this night, avenues that lead to murder.
"Fair enough," I say, having to hold the thought of his smiling sleeping face as he speaks my name to the forefront of my mind in order to calm me down and bring me back to him.
He smiles, his tone ironical, "Would it really bother you so much?"
Naturally, it is my turn to be glad to be interrupted by the waiter, as well as annoyed.
"Are we ready to order?" he asks.
I am not eating, so I allow Ben his turn. He looks to the first entree and orders that. This makes me laugh quietly. I guess he isn't here for the food.
"Nothing for me," I say, handing back my menu, wanting to be alone again as much as him. So, of course, his first question shocks me back into feeling off-footed.
"Do you eat?" he asks curiously, as though it is such a normal question.
I find his eyes. There is no jest there, and no judgment. Still, the question is enough to get my old defenses in place.
"Of course," I reply, all thoughts of honesty forgotten. Though, it is true that I do eat. When I have to. I cannot digest it, but that is neither here nor there.
He makes an effort to sound casual, "I've never seen it."
What is he asking? What does he want? How can I handle this situation? My family will not be safe if he knows too much. I won't be safe. He won't. What can I do? How can I make the right decision when there are not right answers?
"Don't worry," he says, his voice unusually reassuring. "I'm not going to tell anyone."
"I'm not concerned about that," I admit. It's true; him telling other humans isn't very likely at all.
He bobs his head a little, as though not wanting to say too much, but still says, "I'm not walking away either."
I cannot fully contain my astonishment.
"Oh?" I ask. "What makes you so sure?"
He bites his lip, not looking sure at all.
"What makes you so sure I'll leave?" he retorts lightly.
I take a long breath, breathing in the most desirable scent I will ever encounter, wanting to rip out his throat, here and now.
"If you knew..." I say. The pain of his leaving is too much to think about.
"If I knew what you are," he says, "it might not matter to me."
If the world burst into flames, I might not have known it. How? HOW!? How could he know this? How could he know my one truest hope? Does he have any idea that he just dangled it before me, how unfair it is, how much I want it, want him!?
"No," I say, dismissively. "I can't think about that."
"Why not?" he asks, sounding entirely petulant.
"Because," I sigh, "as much as I might..."
I have to fight, to push past pain and fear and doubt, pushed by selfishness and desire, pulled by conscience and duty.
"want you to be... with me," I say, a struggle for every word, "it wouldn't be fair. It wouldn't be right."
He sighs in turn.
"You know," he says, sounding almost exasperated, "as much as you keep telling yourself what you can't have and what you shouldn't want, you could just tell me and trust that it will all work out."
I was wrong. I was so, so wrong. He sees everything! How could he understand so completely? How could he possibly know so much? He is amazing, wondrous. How could such a creature ever exist? He is my antithesis, the gnomon to the shadow that is me, the angelic to my monstrosity. How could I ever, ever stand beside him?
"I can't," I say, my voice even but my exponential despair churning upon my face.
"I get it," he says, and I can't but believe that he does. He must understand.
"But the thing is," he goes on, his tone rife with hard-won truth, "you can't hide the truth forever. Sooner or later, it's going to come out. I'm not exactly stupid over here."
I don't laugh, but I do smile.
"Or unobservant," I concede.
"I guess," he says, and I roll my eyes, managing not to guffaw in pique.
"I mean," he reiterates. "I do notice things from time to time. Like you eating. Or not eating, rather."
I have the most powerful bout of curiosity I can remember having. I am practically leaning across the table, trying hard not to reach out and grasp him in my own convictions.
"What else have you noticed?" I ask.
"You're telepathic," he says, unable to meet my eyes. He gazes at the bread, as though longing for a distraction. I allow him his wish, sliding the basket closer to him.
"Please," I say graciously, "eat."
He eats for a moment. I watch him. He seems unsure. Such as a silly, convoluted, lovely boy.
"Am I right?" he asks after he swallows, quickly returning to eating after the words are out.
I consider answering. But then, I realize, this wouldn't simply end here. He would ask more, and more, and he already has noticed so much. It wouldn't take too much more before he might start asking the right question, coming to the correct conclusions. I can't abide it.
"I wish you wouldn't," I say, almost sadly.
"Wouldn't what?" he asks in return.
"Try," I say pointedly, letting the single word fall away before I continue, "try and figure out what I am."
"Oh," he says. He looks at the food, seriously and deeply considering his next words. What reply could take such careful consideration?
"And..." he says, at last, drawing it out, letting me know there is more.
"And?" I ask, since it is clear that is what he wants me to do.
"And," he repeats for emphasis, "what if I already do?"
My mind goes blank. I cannot comprehend his words.
"Do what?" comes from out my mouth, without my consent. No, no, no! This can't be true! It can't!
"Know," he says.
I want to scream. I want to run. I want to disappear. I want to leave and never come back. At that moment, I would gladly give him up, give up any future we might have, to undo all of this, to have never met him, never know him, to protect him from what I am and what dangers I have brought to his life, simply by being a part of it.
"I'm not sure," he says quickly, "and I don't know all the details, but I have a pretty good idea."
It is the exact thing I need to hear to relax back to sanity. Of course, he can't know. How can he know? Whatever he knows, I must know it too. I shouldn't be so menaced by what might be, only.
"Tell me," I demand.
He looks suddenly anxious, unsure as he did before. He is scared, but more that he might be wrong than he might be right. Again, he casts about for a distraction. His eyes settle on my hands, below my chin, a human gesture that allows me to lean forward with the intent I desire without drawing attention to the fact that my neck is not straining.
"Why are you wearing gloves?" he asks, as though no conversation of any import has just taken place. "Are you cold?"
As though I could ever be cold. As though I could be anything but cold! I take off the gloves.
"I thought it would be easier," I say.
For some reason, my response sparks some bit of ire in him. A deep passion burns in him, low but intense.
"I'm not going to tell you," he says.
I sit back, shocked.
"Look," he says, his words coming fast. "I want to make something clear. I... I like you. But, I'm finding it really hard to accept the fact that you don't trust me."
He is right. He is oh so right. I say that I trust him, want to even, but I am not honest. I can't be, completely. I don't even want to tell him everything that I reasonably could. For all my decisiveness, the pep talks and support I received from my family over the last five days, I am still afraid that he will leave. He was right before; I am a coward.
He sighs.
"I'm sorry," he says, sounding it. "I don't regret what I said, but it's still true. I don't know what's going to happen. But right now, there seems to be only two ways your way can go. Either you don't tell me, and I never figure it out, and no matter what else happens, there will be this wall between us, this distance that will never go away. Do you want that?"
The way he phrases it, it is undeniable. I still want to deny it, but it is true. Should he never know what I am, he will never know me. I don't want that. I want to be honest. I want him to accept me. I just don't understand how he ever could.
Despite my misgivings, I shake my head.
"Then," he says, "there is the other. You don't tell me, and I do figure it out, which means you might as well just tell me anyway."
I look into his eyes. What passion! I am overwhelmed by him. How could I not be scared of him? He is so far beyond anything anyone could ever deserve.
"Alright," he seems to conclude. "Alright. I'm not going to tell you what you should do. Honestly, you might be right that we would be better off if we both walked away right now. But I'm not psychic; I don't know the future. I am not going to tell you what to do. All I know is..."
He takes a deep breath. I freeze.
Slowly, as though as unsure as I am, but with determination, he reaches towards me. Carefully, he takes my wrist, bringing it gently into his grasp, holding my hand with both of his, a gesture of thanks, of compassion, of reverence. My heart, though long dead within me, twists. He feels my hand, shifting fingers across it, in examination as well as admiration. The sensation is so marvelous, so appealing, I feel at a complete loss. It is a wonder that I am not writhing in my seat, moaning with the simple pleasure of it, the low and ingenuous hum, visceral and undeniable, that is washing through me, informing me that I am here and he is here and that I exist.
And, as though I could endure any more, he brings my hand close to him. I have been pliant in his grip so far. I consider pulling away as I realize what is coming. I have spent so long living in a world where I have tried to deny myself everything that I could possibly want for fear of my own devious nature. I want to let go, but I am afraid what it could mean if I do, if he should keep to me and truly glimpse what I am. I don't want to risk living in a world where he knows for sure that I am not human. My pain is too great to allow me to believe that he will accept it. But the possibility still exists that he might, that is might be a good thing. I let him. I let him kiss my hand.
The warmth, the rush that I feel is poignant, so desirable, so intrusive in its ability to cause such a sensation in me, I feel afraid by what I might do to sustain such contact, what I might blithely cast into his life so that I might have a chance at this again, and more! I let slip a whispered moan that I pray he does not hear.
But, he doesn't press. He doesn't let go either. He holds to me, his eyes finding mine, and in them is such a fervor, an undeniable look of heartfelt gratitude and of appreciation, and though my emotion is no less strong than it was a moment before, pleasure has been replaced by his thanks, his concern for me, his care, his value for me. It is the most powerful thing that I have ever felt.
"All I know is," he repeats, his voice firm, low, deep, full of meaning, "that I'm happier near you. I want you in my life. I want to be near you. I don't know what that means yet, but I want to figure that out."
Slowly, reluctantly, I take back my hand. I have never felt so conflicted. I couldn't possibly have expected this from him. I want to tell him everything. I want to forget the fourth option and take the third, take him and have him forever! I want everything to be as he suggests it, as he makes me want to see it! I want not to be the monster I know I am, to be the person he so obviously deserves, the one he might someday love. But I can't deny the reality of the situation. I am not as he sees me. He does not know me. There is only one avenue I can think to take. I must let him know me. I know I cannot reveal all my secrets but there is more that I can tell him. More I want to tell him. I know not what he will do, but the informed decision must be his.
The waiter appears and places a dish before Ben. He sips his drink, as the waiter asks if we need anything else and I shake my head. I watch him as he drinks down his entire drink in nearly a single pull. He looks adorably surprised and I resupply him with my own beverage, from which he drinks as well. He has been so caught up in me, in us, that he has forgotten his own needs.
"You have thoroughly dominated the conversation," I say with charisma. "Why don't you eat and I'll talk awhile?"
"About what?" he asks, his voice muffled a bit by his meal.
I drop my head in self-indication, "Myself."
He sits straighter.
"Eat," I all but laugh, "or you get nothing."
He begins to eat with an abandon that nearly has him choking. I dampen my concern. He is here and will come to no harm whilst I am with him. I focus on my own words. The truth, as totally as I can. I let go of all fear, as best I can.
"The secret," I begin, slowly but without pause, "our secret, is not one I could divulge at the moment, even if it was solely my own. We have a drive home ahead of us, and while I think it is unlikely that you will react poorly, I don't want you to be forced into enduring my presence if you no longer wish to and having to find a way to get home. But, I do not wish to tell you. Do not misunderstand me, I want you to know everything about me. Absolutely everything. It isn't that I mistrust you; it is knowing would mean one of two options if the wrong people found out. Neither are options I can tolerate. If a third option was possible, I would tell you as soon as you had the option to leave my company without inconvenience. But it isn't. As it is, I cannot be sure that you would be safe with me."
Knowing means death or vampirism as far as the Volturi are concerned. I cannot deny it.
"How?" he asks into the slump. "How can you know how this will all go? Can you see the future too?"
"No," I say, thinking of Alice, wondering if in two words he will understand. "I can't."
He thinks about it, then a knowing expression fills his face. I am pleased, but am again, wrong.
"Alice?" he asks.
I am utterly shocked. Who is this boy!? What I wouldn't give for a moment inside his head!
"And yet," he says around sipping coke, "here you sit."
I find that my mouth has fallen open in my shock. I close it and realign my thoughts with the conversation before his question. When thinking about it in retrospect, it is almost funny how poorly I failed at keeping myself from him.
"I know," I admit, "I know. I can't keep away from you. It was lucky that I found you tonight. I don't want to think of what would have happened if I hadn't."
I rush back to the moment in my thoughts, thinking of them without invitation, knowing that I would still gladly kill them if I had but the faintest excuse.
"Why were you here?" he asks, his tone almost purposefully distracting.
"I told you," I reply, feeling diffident. "I can't keep away from you."
To my sheer amazement, his cheeks color, going red as he attempts to hide his face.
"Are you blushing?" I ask, unbelieving.
"No!" he nearly shouts his denial, blushing all the more.
I giggle. I can't help it. His face! It is too hilarious! I file the memory away as my new favorite as he ferociously begins eating again.
I relent, my mind returning to my telling, the memory of what had happened having me instantly somber.
"I've never tried so hard to observe a single person before. It wasn't an easy thing, looking for someone I could not hear, knowing that you had separated from your friends and not gone to the store you had said you would be at. And I couldn't get to you or leave my vehicle to find you until later."
"Why?" he asks. This, alas, is something I cannot tell him. I content him with a smile and simply continue. He does not protest.
"It's hard for me not to rely on my other sense. I have spent so long with it as a part of myself and so universal, I've never needed to hone skills in the event of its absence. But, I've had some practice with it, from the weeks we weren't speaking, so I was able to track you down. Once I had, there was just enough time to get to you."
My anger is too vast not to make it upon my face. He seemed unwilling to let me stay so unhappy.
"I'm the only person who's thoughts you don't know?" he asks.
It is still hard for me to openly admit such things, but I do, "Yes."
"How does it work?" he asks with an eagerness to which I can easily relate. "Is it like a sense wholly different from your others, or is it like being in someone else's head or what?"
"I can hear others' inner monologue," I explain. "I can almost press into someone's mind, then I can see and hear what they do. The better I know a person, the more familiar they are, the easier it is to pick them out of the general hum."
"Hum?" he asks.
I nod, "It's like background conversation or white noise, like I can hear everyone's mind, all over the world, but it is so quiet, can't pick anything out. If someone is close enough, I can hear it. I can hear a member of my family maybe a couple of miles away, but with others, not so well."
"So," he draws out, seeing that his meal is almost finished, "you have to track me by, what, looking in everyone else's mind until you happen to see me?"
"Exactly," I affirm. "It takes time. I don't know who might actually see you, and after a while keeping track of so many minds is tedious."
"You can do that?" he asks, sounding astounded. "Keep track?"
I think a moment as I nod, deciding that I can tell this much without worry.
"I have perfect recall," I allow. "I remember everything. My thoughts are faster than... the average persons'."
He nods as he quickly finishes the last few bites.
"Do you want to head back?" he asks me.
The request twists something in me, inexplicably.
"You want to go?" I ask, undeniably hurting.
"No!" he shouts. The waiter notices us and processes our bill.
"No," he says quieter, a bit flustered. "I mean, as much as this food has been nice and all, it might be... easier to talk if we're alone. Like alone, alone. In your car."
He wants privacy. He has more to say. I want to hear it.
"Very well," I say. The waiter brings the bill. I pay in cash with a forty percent tip, rounded up to the nearest twenty. Leaving the money, I stand. He offers his arm. I take it and we walk out of the restaurant, into the unknown.
