Nightmare (23 page)

And it stops. Peter is a balm to my burning body. Somehow the smell dissipates, fading until all I smell is the leftover pie, my mother's soap and Peter. All perfectly lovely non-blood scents. I want to kiss Peter to thank him, but hold back. 

Why does he always have to save me? Why can't I be the one doing the saving? 

I want to be the hero. Just once.

“Stop saving me,” I whisper.

“I am not saving you. I am helping.” I'm not having another argument about definitions, so I let go of his hand.

“You should go. You're supposed to pick me up in twenty minutes.” He stands behind me, putting his hands on my waist.

“I will be here in fifteen.”

“Okay,” I say, trying not to let myself melt into him. I'd been far too free with him this afternoon. It wouldn't lead to anything good. Whoever created that saying about temptation being fun, but giving in is better clearly had never been involved with a noctalis. 

I think he's going to say something else, but he must sense me pushing him away, even if I'm not doing it physically. He steps away and is out the window before I can breathe again.

I shouldn't have done that. Today had been so much fun being with Peter and laughing and pretending to be human.  

My negativity had gotten us nowhere. I'd made a promise to myself to be less negative, and here I was, captain of the SS Negativity. Why did I always do that? Between the possibility of losing him, and the things he'd said the night before, I'm drowning in a well of suckiness.

I paced around the room, trying to get myself out of the deep hole I'd sunk into again. A knock at my door startles me.

“Hey
ma fleur
, everything okay?” She's got her apron on again. Pretty soon we're going to have to stockpile pies in the basement at the rate she's making them.

“Yeah, fine.”

“You sure?” 

“No, not really.” She comes in and closes the door. I want to run to her, to crush myself on her shoulder and cry and have her fix it. But I'm too old for that. Even my mother couldn't fix something supernatural.

“Can I help?” I sigh. 

“I just can't seem to stop thinking that bad things are going to happen. That every time something good happens, that something else will come and take it away.”

“You have to have the bad. If you didn't have that, you wouldn't see the good when it shows up. Just let the good happen.”

It was so simple. Let it happen. Go with it. Ride the wave, go with the flow, etc. I could do that. Hell, if she could do it, then I could. All my negativity from seconds ago seemed so childish. Immature. Useless. All it did was make me miserable. Then it would transfer to Peter and we'd be the Debbie Downer couple. I didn't want that.

I believed in our relationship, Peter and me. Somehow we'd been brought together. Before my mother got sick, I believed everything happened for a  reason. After my mother's diagnosis, I knew that wasn't true. Still, I had to believe that Peter and I were meant to be. Or that I was meant to help him get free of his bind. Maybe that was it.

It was enough for me.

“See?” Mom smiles after watching my mental process. I'm sure it was written all over my face.

“Yeah.”

“You're my smart child.”

“I'm your only child.”

“Exactly.” I get a hug before she leaves me to get ready for my date. 

****

A hour later Peter comes to pick me up in the Prius. I thought about putting on the new sparkly dress on, but settle for jeans and a nice black v-neck shirt with embellishments around the neckline, and a pair of riding boots. I wait until the last possible second to go downstairs. I hold my breath all the way to the door.

He rings the doorbell like a gentleman, and I let him in, taking in his new outfit. A button-up shirt in a blue that almost matches one of his eyes, black pants, a leather jacket and the dress shoes. Atop his head is the fedora, tilted jauntily to the side. He's perfect. 

I finally breathe, and the scent of blood claws at me. Peter grabs my hands and yanks me toward him. I'm crushed to his chest as he says, “fight it.” 

I try. 

Mom and Dad sit in the living room, waiting. Peter tows me in behind him like a puppy on a leash.

I'm having flashbacks from when we did this last time. It didn't go well then, and this time we don't have Aj. At least we have somewhere to be, so there isn't a lot of time for awkward questions. Or is there?

“Where are you going on your date?” is the first question.
Please don't say flying or the cemetery, please don't say flying or the cemetery
. Peter lets go of my hand, and the loss of contact instantly freaks me out. I'm panicking about having the smell come back to me, and that, in turn, makes me panic more. And then it happens. Visions of how many ways I could kill my father chase each other through my head, one after the other. My pasted-on smile falls and it's all I can do to stay in the chair.

Peter takes my hand again and sends me all he can, but I would need to practically lie on top of him to douse the flames of this attack. It's up to him to do all the talking. He's leaning on the chair I'm sitting in, so this helps a little.

“I thought we could have desert at that diner Ava likes so much and then perhaps a walk on the beach.” I would snort with laughter at this, if I wasn't currently not in a laughing state. It sounds like something we'd do if he could, you know, actually eat. Something that a normal human couple would do.

“Oh, that sounds so romantic.” Mom clutches onto Dad, distracting him for a second. I really need to learn how to do that. Then Peter pulls me onto his lap and I forget everything else. Oh thank god. He wraps me in him and only him and I couldn't be happier, or safer, or anything other than blissfully happy. 

It's always him. We fit together like two mismatched puzzle pieces that couldn't fit anywhere else. Clearly, Dad doesn't think so, based on his horrified face. Peter speaks, the sound reverberating through my eardrum.

“Mr. Sullivan, I want you to know that I cherish your daughter and I would never do anything that she would not consent to. I would never hurt her intentionally, and I will do my best to protect her heart.” Oh Jesus. I'm practically swooning. I feel like he should be on one knee or something and I should have a sword in my hand as he promises to serve me until his dying day. Sir Peter, My Savior. If only I could be his, just for a moment.

Dad's flabbergasted. He opens his mouth and closes it like a goldfish a few times before making a sputtering sound. Mom just cuddles closer to him, gazing at him with adoring eyes. Well-played, mother.

“Peter, that is so sweet. Isn't that sweet, Sam?” 

“Uh, that's very, uh. Yes, it is.” He rubs his hands on his pants as if he's trying to clean Peter's germs off them, even though they shook hands ten minutes ago. I seize my moment of escape.

“On that note, we should get going. Miller's lemon meringue is calling my name.” I stand up,  taking Peter with me. No one else moves. I try to walk, but Peter holds me back. Like he's waiting for something. Permission?

“Once again, it was nice to see you, Mr. Sullivan.” Peter holds out his hand again, holding mine with the other. Dad shakes it like a robot. He's still stunned.

“Well, uh, you kids have fun. Remember it's a school night.” He emerges from his shock.

Peter squeezes my hand. Probably telling me to shut my face without telling me to shut my face. 

“I will have her back by 9:00.” Oohh, an half-hour before my weeknight curfew. Very smooth, Peter.

“Bye Mom, bye Dad.” I don't give them a kiss or anything, but Mom gives me a wink and an I'll-take-care-of-him look about Dad. He's still staring at Peter as if he's not sure he's human. He would be correct.

“Have fun,” Mom calls as I shut the door. A second later I lean my back against it.

“That,” I say breathing out slowly, “was close.”

Chapter Nineteen

Peter

“I'm sorry about that.” She has still not let go of my hand. The bones in her fingers creak as she grips as tight as she can.

“You have nothing to be sorry about. You handled it.” She shakes her head as I open the car door for her. She sits in the seat sideways, not letting go.

“No, you handled it. This is getting worse, Peter.”

“We will have answers soon.” Her eyes plead with me. The moonlight sparkles on her skin, catching all the little hairs that cover her body.

“It might not be soon enough.” I lean down so my face is level with hers and take her other hand. Her skin is blazing hot with anxiety, fear, uncertainty. I cannot fight her demons for her, although I would slay them all, if I could.

“You are strong. You are mine. We are strong. We will be strong together.” Her hands pull me forward, until our foreheads touch. I pull back, letting her emotions take me over. It is overwhelming. Like a crowd of angry bees they swarm. I wait.

Slowly, her breathing evens. Her hands stop holding mine so hard. She focuses on something. Whatever it is, it is working. I wait until the torrent of her emotions has slowed to a swirl, like water down a drain.

She removes her forehead from mine, snapping her eyes open.

“What would I do without you?”

“Be human.” I wish to kiss her, but I pull back and get in the driver's seat instead.

“Dad's face was kinda funny when I sat on your lap.”

“He did not like it.”

“Yeah, I got that. He just doesn't understand. I've never really dated before.”

“I was not what he expected.” She laughs, and it flows from her to me like fire.

“I don't know what he expected. Someone like him. Maybe a math geek who also was on the golf team or something. Mom would want someone who was into plants and maybe artsy. He'd probably play the guitar and make quiche.” She says it without much hesitation. As if she's thought about it. The examples are rather specific. She leans her head back against the seat, turning to look at me. She's settled now. Relaxed.

She hasn't asked where we are going yet, but I want to know what she thought of when she pictured who she would date. “I didn't really have anything in mind. I always thought having a specific type of person you would be attracted to was stupid. What if you meet someone who doesn't meet those specifications? Are you just not going to date them because they don't fit your ideal? So many people have unrealistic ideals anyway.”

I think about that for a moment.

“You're so much more than ideal. I never could have imagined someone like you. So anything I could have had before is irrelevant. I have you now.” I reach out to take her hand. She pulls my arm and folds her body around it. As if she will never let go.

“You're my ideal.” I glance at her and her face is wrapped in a smile. It is impossible to think that anything I could do would make her look like that.

She studies my hand, putting her fingers up to mine. “So where are we really going?”

“To Miller's. I want to take you out on a human date.” She puts our palms together and curls her fingers between mine.

“But you can't eat.”

“I can pretend. For you.”

“And then we're walking on the beach?” 

“If you want.” I reach out to brush some hair behind her ear. Her smile widens and her heart picks up.

“It sounds so human. So ordinary. But really romantic.”

I had thought for a long time about what a teenage couple would do on a date. “I am trying to be more human.” 

“It's working.” She turns on the radio. I set it to the classical station. Sometimes I miss the music of my human life. The soft instruments, the lush voices that hummed with vocal power.

Pachelbel's Canon shivers through the air.

“I love this song. It always makes me think of weddings,” she says as if she were reading my mind. My skin has started to absorb the heat of her skin. Her scent blows around the car, covering up the scent of the dealership.

The music washes around us, drops of it flowing into our ears, making us quiet for the rest of the way. She is lost in thought that I do not wish to disturb. I hope she is not worried. I test the thread that connects us, pulling it a little to see if she is all right. I just get a buzz from her thoughts. Musings. Nothing bad, nothing good. Just even. 

The neon sign over the diner throws orange light onto the hood of the car and onto our skin. She tenses up.

“What if I want them?” Her voice is quiet. 

“I will hold your hand. You can fight it.”

“How?” I consider before answering. 

“Accept that you want it and move on. The only way to get past it to go through it.”

“I guess that makes sense.” I bring her hand to my lips. 

“If you decide that you need to get out, tell me and we will leave.”

“We need a safe word,” she says, tapping her chin with one finger. “How about wings? No, that's dumb. Um, unicorn? No...” she thinks some more.

“Adore,” I say. She turns to me, smiling slowly.

“Perfect. So if I say that, it means I need to get out and you can go all Spiderman and rescue me.” I still have not seen this Spiderman she talks about, but I nod anyway.

Clicking off the radio she says, “you're really going to have pie with me?” I wish I could tell her yes.

“I will sit with you. I will order coffee so I do not look out of place.” I won't drink it, but perhaps I can give it to Ava.

She has to let go of my hand to get out of the car, but she takes it back as we walk into the diner. 

“You're awesome.” Her head burrows against my shoulder and her scent invades me.

“Thank you.” I am not going to debate the status of my awesomeness with her tonight. Tonight we are going to be human. As human as I can get. I want this night for her.

“If we're going to be human, you should open the door for me.” My hand was already going for the handle. I open it an usher her in. 

“Thanks.” She tenses as she takes a breath of the diner. I wait for her to say the word, or for something in our connection. She exhales.

“I'm fine,” she says. And she is. A little tense, but I know she can handle it. She breathes again, smiling in delight. My Ava-Claire. My strong one.