I miss him.
There’s just no denying it.
Seeing him like this—with the sun bouncing off his dark glossy hair, as his strong, capable hands grip the wheel—well, it just makes it clear how empty my life feels without him.
But then, just as quickly, I stop—reminding myself of all the reasons why I did what I did. There’s still so much left to uncover about our former lives together, stuff I need to know before we can go any further.
I blink it away, determined to move past all that as I continue to watch.
Seeing Damen brake at the Shake Shack, where he buys Miles a coffee shake with crushed Oreo cookies inside, before leading him toward one of those blue painted benches, the exact same one where he and I once sat. Taking a moment to gaze down at a beautiful beach filled with colorful umbrellas that look like giant polka dots pinned into the sand, at a lineup of surfers waiting for the next big wave, to a flock of seagulls circling overhead, before turning his attention to Miles, who slurps his shake quietly and waits for Damen to begin.
“I’m an immortal,” he says, looking right at him.
Just throws the first pitch without a warm-up, without a batter in place. Just tosses the ball right out there, face patient, still, allowing plenty of time for Miles to step up and take a swing.
Miles sputters, spitting the straw from his mouth and brushing his sleeve across his lips as he gapes at Damen and says, “Scusa?”
Damen laughs, and I’m not sure if it’s the result of Miles’s attempt to speak Italian or Miles’s dramatic attempt to draw it all out and pretend as though he didn’t actually hear what he so clearly did. Still, Damen continues to hold his gaze as he says, “Your ears did not deceive you. It’s exactly as I said. I’m an immortal. I’ve roamed this earth for just over six hundred years, and up until recently, Drina and Roman did too.”
Miles gapes, his coffee shake all but forgotten as his gaze moves over Damen, attempting to make sense of it, attempting to take it all in.
“Forgive me for being so blunt—and trust me when I say that I didn’t put it out there like that to enjoy a little shock value at your expense. It’s just that, if nothing else, I’ve come to learn that news like this—news of the unexpected kind—is best told quickly and bluntly. I’ve definitely paid the price of holding back.” He pauses, his gaze suddenly saddened, faraway.
And I know he’s referring to me—the time he waited so long to tell me the truth behind my own existence—and how he’s made the same mistake once again, by not coming
clean about our shared history.
“And I’ll admit, part of me just assumed you’d already figured it out. What with Roman making sure you’d find the portraits and all. You must’ve drawn some sort of conclusion about them.”
Miles shakes his head, blinks his eyes a bunch of times, and abandons his shake to the table. Looking at Damen with an expression that’s one hundred and eighty degrees past confused when he says, “But—” his voice so hoarse, he clears his throat and starts again. “I mean, I guess—well, I guess I don’t get it.” He squints, slowly taking him in. “For starters, you’re not all pasty white and weird looking. In fact, you’re pretty much the opposite, and ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been rockin’ a tan. Not to mention, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s daylight. Like, ninety-five degrees’ worth of daylight. So, excuse me for saying so, but in light of all that, what you just said really doesn’t make any sense.”
Damen tilts his head, wearing an expression that’s far more confused than Miles’s. Taking a moment to add it all up, before he throws his head back, allowing great peals of laughter to spill forth, until he finally slows down enough to shake his head and say, “I’m not a mythical immortal, Miles, I’m a real immortal. The kind without the burden of fangs, sun-avoiding, or that gawd-awful blood-sucking.” He shakes his head again, musing under his breath at the idea of it, remembering how I once assumed the same thing. “Basically, it’s just me and my trusty bottle of elixir here—” He holds up his drink, swinging it back and forth as Miles watches, transfixed by the sight of it. The way that much sought-after substance, the one mankind has searched for forever, the one Damen’s parents were murdered for, glows and glints in the bright afternoon sun. “Believe me, this is really all it takes to keep me going for, well, for eternity.”
They sit in silence. Miles scrutinizing Damen, looking for giveaways, nervoustics, self-aggrandizement, gaping holes in the story, or any other telltale sign of a person who’s lying, while Damen just waits. Allowing Miles all the time he needs to get accustomed to the idea, to settle in with it, to warm up to a new possibility he never really considered before.
And when Miles’s mouth begins to open, about to ask how, Damen just nods, answering the unspoken question when he says, “My father was an alchemist back in a time when it was not so uncommon to experiment with such things.”
“And what time was that, exactly?” Miles asks, having found his voice again, obviously not believing it really could’ve been as long as Damen claims.
“Six hundred and some odd years ago—give or take.” Damen shrugs, casting it off as though the beginnings hold very little meaning to him.
But I know differently.
I know just how much he prizes that time with his family, the memories they shared before they were so cruelly stolen.
I also know just how painful it is for him to admit it. How he prefers to shrug it off, to pretend he can barely remember it.
“It was during the Italian Renaissance,” he adds, not missing a beat.
Their gaze continues to hold, and even though he doesn’t show it, bears absolutely no visible signs of it whatsoever—I know it kills Damen to have to admit it.
His most well guarded secret, the one he’d managed to hold on to for six solid centuries, now spilling out like water from a busted pipe.
Miles nods, nods without flinching. Forfeiting his milkshake to a curious seagull, pushing it away as he says, “I’m not even sure what to say at this point, except maybe—thank you.”
Their gaze meets.
“Thank you for not lying. For not trying to cover it up and pretend that those portraits were some kind of distant relative or weird kind of coincidence. Thank you for telling the truth. As unbelievable and strange as it may be…”