Francis is doing this stupid thing where he's suddenly checking in with me twice a day. When he calls me, his voice is laced with fake, honeyed concern, almost masked by his self-created accent. When he texts, he acts like he's worried about me. I swear, I'll never understand what goes on in that man's head.
I'm still mad. Francis and I have never been very close, and we probably would have killed each other (figuratively) a thousand times if Antonio weren't here to keep us calm.
On Saturday, he calls me at 11:42 AM. I've been ignoring him for the past few days, but I'm so nervous about meeting Matthew I actually pick up my phone. Talking to Francis is better than nothing, but I keep a careful eye on the clock resting on the mantelpiece.
"Hello," I spit out.
"What are you doing today?" he asks pleasantly. If you didn't know the whole story, you'd think I was just being mean.
I hesitate. "I'm going to Quebec."
"Christmas is in a week. Aren't you celebrating?"
"I don't celebrate Christmas," I say. This is a lie. I like Christmas. I'm a bit of an agnostic, because who the hell really knows what goes on in the Beyond? If there's a god, I'm certainly not going to contradict that. But if there isn't, it doesn't matter to me. Besides, I was around before Christmas or Hanukkah or whatever the popular thing is these days. I mean, Greek gods died out over the centuries, and people really believed in those. But it's still a nice season. And I really respect people who can stay faithful to whatever religion they believe in. I always have.
Francis sounds surprised. "Oh? Pourquoi...? Why, Death, I've seen you hanging lights outside your house around the holidays and I've seen you—"
I hang up.
I grab my jacket—Canada's kind of a cold place, I believe—and leave for Quebec.
He's standing outside a little restaurant, and I find him immediately. I know I surprise him, because he jumps when he sees me. "How did you know I was here?"
"Want to get something to eat?" I inquire, gesturing at the building in front of us. It's decorated festively with a wreath hanging on the door. I forgot how quickly the Christmas season always approaches, but it makes me kind of happy.
We sit down at a booth near the back and the waitress hands us two lunch menus. Matthew smiles, but I stare at the wall, my heart beating rapidly. I know I must sound confident, but I don't know if I can do this. If things don't work, I can always kill Matthew, but he's not supposed to die yet, and it isn't good to alter a previously set fate.
I jump back to reality when I feel Matthew gently kicking me under the table. The waitress looks a bit annoyed, and I realize that she's been asking me what I'd like to drink for the past minute.
"Water, please," I say automatically, turning red.
She leaves the table and Matthew sighs. "So, Gilbert..."
"Yeah?"
"Who are you actually? It's been two weeks since I met you and I've mostly gathered myself. After Alfred and everything. So tell me." He leans on his elbows with a determined look on his face, like he's not leaving until he gets an answer. I admire that.
But his eyes really bother me. They're a very unique color but they remind me of something—or someone—I can't quite place.
"You keep spacing out," he says gently.
"I'm just busy," I say. "Aren't you?"
He looks startled. "Well yes, but school just got out for break... I told my parents I was visiting my grandmother, who still lives here. That's why they let me leave Philadelphia for a few days. So no, my schedule isn't too packed at the moment. But enough about me. Come on, Gilbert. You have to understand, I need to know."
I take a deep breath.
And I tell him.
I disclose that it'll sound impossible and that this must stay a secret. He nods, his irregular-hued eyes wide. I talk to him about Death and Life and Love and how I don't have parents, just Antonio, and I was possibly born from a supernova. I tell him about my dagger and the Spirit Trail and how even though I'm Death, I don't know what happens when you die because living people can't go into the Beyond and I'm still alive, even if I'm immortal.
"I'm not sure if I believe you," he says when I'm done. But he isn't screaming and he hasn't run yet, so things are looking okay.
"That's absolutely fine," I say. "I know it's a lot to take in. It'd take someone as awesome as me to get it all at once."
"So you've met every person who has ever died?" Matthew queries in a tone of wonder.
I tell him about hand-killing and how I don't have to guide everyone to the Spirit Trail. I explain it like it's a natural phenomenon, because to me, it is.
Matthew still has that stunned, dazed look, and even when our food shows up, he doesn't touch it. He just quizzes me about a slew of historical figures and whether I met them. The answer is yes to Anne Frank, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Martin Luther King Jr., Beethoven, Mozart, and Albert Einstein. No to Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, and most famous war figures. I don't have much interest in meeting those kinds of people.
"But you chose to 'hand-kill' my grandfather and Alfred? What made them special?"
"Well," I say, taking a bite of my sandwich, "I honestly don't remember your grandfather. I'm sorry. And Alfred... I came to Maine with Antonio—err, Life—because he wanted to meet this little American baby. He said she'd be the 'modern-day Shakespeare.'"
"So they weren't important to you?" Thankfully, Matthew doesn't sound hurt, just puzzled, almost as if he's trying to solve a math problem he's never seen before.
"No," I say quickly. "I have a theory that everyone is important, you know? Not necessarily to me or you or anyone in this city. But to someone."
"Like a story," Matthew says. "I read a story like that once. The main character killed herself because she thought no one loved her, when all along, the person she was meant to be with was in another city. So they never met, even though they were supposed to. Just later in life."
I can't stop the snort that escapes my mouth.
Now Matthew actually looks hurt. "Eh? Weren't you talking about your friend Francis and how he's Love? He exists. You can't deny that love isn't real."
"It's real, but it's the worst thing in the world," I press. Then I try to backtrack because hurting Matthew's feelings makes me feel shitty.
And I realize something. Something bad.
I genuinely enjoy Matthew's company. I don't like hurting his feelings. I don't want this conversation to end because Matthew asks such insightful and entertaining questions, and he seems highly intelligent. I'm a little disbelieving of the fact that he's only seventeen.
I tell myself that this is just friendship. This is what friendship is. I've only met Matthew twice, and it's just a natural friendship that's growing.
Content with that answer, I continue to answer Matthew's brilliant questions—some of which I've never even considered myself. And as I pay my half of the check, Matthew says something about meeting up to talk again whenever it's convenient. I agree to it immediately.
Matthew gives me his phone number, and I find myself saying, "Let's meet tomorrow, if you're still going to be in Quebec."
"Okay," Matthew says. "I'm going back to Philadelphia on Monday, though. Where do you live?"
We take the conversation outside, and I tell him about Berlin and how I can essentially go anywhere in the world at any time.
He still looks a little unconvinced, so I switch out of human form and, in his eyes, I disappear. I don't leave. I just stand there and wait, wanting to see what he'll do.
Matthew looks surprised for a moment, but recovers quickly. He grins and waves. I wave back, even though I know he won't see.
After a second or two, he turns and walks in the other direction, looking less depressed than when I met up with him at noon.
In fact, he looks sort of happy.
