I swallow hard, my gaze fixed on his aura, now beaming a bright shade of yellow. The only assurance I have that he didn’t take the bait—or at least not yet anyway.
“And, I gotta tell ya, she was so convincing in her sales pitch, I told her I’d have to think it over.” He shrugs. “Told her I’d do a little research of my own and get back to her in a week or so.”
I balk, so many words rushing forth at once I have no idea where to start.
But he just bursts into a deep, belly-clutching laugh, shaking his head as he looks at me. “Relax. I’m totally joking. I mean, jeez, what do you take me for—some kind of vain, superficial idiot?” He rolls his eyes, then catches himself when he adds, “Sorry, I meant no offense. But the point is, I told her no. A flat-out, unequivocal no. And she told me that the offer still stands, that if I change my mind at any time, the fountain of youth will be mine.”
I gaze at him, seeing him in a whole new light. Amazed that he would actually turn down an offer like that. I mean, Jude always claims he wouldn’t choose immortality, but then he’s never actually been offered a drink, so who’s to say what he’d choose if it really came down to it? And Ava, well, Ava came really, really close to making the leap, but in the end, she dumped it out. But still, I can’t think of many other people besides Miles and Ava who would turn down an offer like that.
He looks at me, brow raised in mock offense when he says, “What? Why are you so surprised? Is it because you figured someone like me—someone who’s both gay and an actor would surely just jump at the chance?” He narrows his gaze and shakes his head. “That’s stereotyping, Ever. You should be ashamed of yourself for even thinking it.” He shoots me a look of absolute scorn that leaves me feeling so bad I rush to defend myself. But before I can start, he’s waved it away. Smiling triumphantly when he says, “Ha! And that is what you call acting!” He laughs, his whole face lighting up, eyes shining with glee. “Or at least that very last part was acting—the part about the stereotyping. Everything else was totally true. See how much my craft is improving?”
He rakes his fingers through his hair, secures his elbows on the counter, and leans toward me. “Here’s the thing—the only thing I want in the world, the only dream that I have, is to be an actor.” His gaze bores into mine. “A real, dedicated-to-the-craft thespian. That’s my only goal. My soul’s ambition. I have no interest in being some big, phony, glossed-up movie star. A walking People magazine cover. I’m not in it for the parties, or scandals, or multiple rehab stints—I’m in it for the art. I want to bring stories to life, to fully embody a variety of characters. I can’t tell you what it feels like to lose myself in a role, it’s…it’s amazing. And it’s something I want to experience again and again. But I want to play all kinds of roles—not just the young and beautiful ones. And in order to learn and grow and better myself, I need to experience life. I need to experience it fully, in all its stages—youth, middle age, old age—I want it all. You can’t possibly act life if you don’t allow yourself to experience it.” He pauses for a moment, allowing his eyes to search my face. “That fear of death you’ve managed to do away with? I want it. Heck, I need it. It’s one of the most basic, primal, driving forces we have—so why would I even consider ridding myself of that? The experiences I allow myself to have will only feed my craft in the end—but only if I remain mortal. Not if I purposely turn myself into some frozen-in-time, ultra-glamorous himbo who never ever changes, no matter how many centuries pass.”
My gaze meets his and I don’t know whether to be relieved or offended, but in the big scheme of things, I settle on relieved.
“Sorry.” He shrugs. “Seriously, no offense. I’m just trying to explain my side of things. Not to mention the fact that I happen to like eating. In fact, I like it so much that I can’t even imagine going on a permanent liquid diet. Also, I like seeing the changes each passing year makes, the impressions they leave behind. And, believe it or not, I don’t want my scars to disappear either. I like them. They’re part of me—part of my history. And someday, if I’m lucky enough to live to be an old man—one who’ll probably be impotent, senile, fat, and bald, while you all stay exactly the same—well, then I’ll be content with my memories. I mean, providing they’re not all lost due to Alzheimer’s or something. But seriously, before you go defending yourself—” He lifts his hand from the counter and flashes his palm, sensing I’m about to butt in. “Before you go telling me how Damen’s racked up enough memories for us all and how he’s perfectly well-rounded and happy, here’s the real point I’m trying to make: What I want, more than anything, is to reach the end of my life with a solid before-and-after picture to reflect back on. To show I did the absolute best that I could with what I was given and that my life was well-lived.”
I stare at him, trying to find my voice, mumble some kind of reply, but I can’t. My throat’s gone hot and tight, closed up completely. And before I can stop it, before I can switch my gaze to something other than him—the tears begin.
Falling freely down my face and gaining in intensity to the point where I can no longer stop it, can no longer curb the sobbing, the shoulder shaking, and the deep pit of despair that makes my gut curl.
Aware of Miles hurrying around the counter and gathering me into his arms, smoothing my hair and doing his best to calm me, as he whispers sweet things into my ear.
But I know better.
I know the sentiments aren’t at all true.
It really won’t be okay.
At least not in the way that he claims.
I may have eternal youth and beauty—I may have the gift of living forever—but I’ll never again have the kind of wonderful, lovely normalness that Miles just described.
thirteen
By late Saturday afternoon, there’s just no avoiding them. Sabine is in the kitchen chopping up a pile of vegetables for a Greek salad, while Munoz stands beside her, molding ground turkey into generously sized patties.
“Hey, Ever.” He looks up, smiling briefly. “You planning to join us? There’s plenty more where this came from.”
I glance at Sabine, seeing the way her shoulders stiffen, the way her knife hits the board just a little bit harder as she pummels a tomato, and I know she’s still a long way from forgiving me, from accepting me, and I just can’t deal with it now.
&nb
sp; “No, um, actually, I’m about to head out,” I say, barely meeting his gaze, hoping to avoid a stop and chat, since I’m far too eager to make my way out of here.
Making for the entry, just about free, when he finishes with the patties, looks at me, and says, “You mind getting the door?”
I pause, knowing this isn’t just about getting the door. This is about him wanting to talk to me somewhere quiet and private, where his girlfriend can’t overhear. But knowing there’s no good way to get out of it, I follow him outside and over to the grill where he wrestles with the hood, spins the dials, and goes about some serious burger prep.
So engrossed in the task, I’m just about to leave, figuring I completely misread him when he says, “So, how’s school going this year? I haven’t seen you around much—if at all.” He steals a quick glance at me, before he’s back at it again, shaking some kind of secret spice blend onto the meat as I stand there and try to come up with a reply.
Figuring there’s no use lying to someone who can just as easily check the attendance records, I lift my shoulders and say, “Well, that’s probably because I’ve pretty much skipped every day but the first. In fact, other than that, I haven’t gone at all.”
“Ah.” He nods, placing the spice jar on the granite counter before he turns and allows his eyes to graze over me. “Bad case of senioritis, I guess.”
I scratch my arm, even though it doesn’t itch, and try not to squirm any more than I already have. Averting my gaze to the window where Sabine stands watch, the very sight of her making me yearn for escape.
“Usually doesn’t start until the last semester, that’s when it all falls apart. But it looks like you caught the bug early. Is there anything I can do to help?”