“No.”
“Are you always this easy to talk to?”
A second passes with him watching me closely, before he responds, “I wouldn’t know.”
“What do you mean? You don’t know how you usually talk to others?”
“Idon’ttalk to others.”
“Not even where you’re from?”
“Especially not where I’m from.”
My eyebrows lift. “Is that by choice? Or by circumstance?”
“Circumstance.”
Wow. Not a single person he can talk to? I hardly even notice when I take a step toward him, tilting my head to the side and softening my voice. “But . . . never?”
He tenses, almost like he’s not sure how to react. For a moment I wonder what made him more uncomfortable—me inching closer or the gentle way I asked the question. Eventually, he replies, gentling his own voice in return. “No. No one other than you.”
I’ve almost closed the gap between us now. He’s barely breathing, his chest completely still before me. I hardly know him, this man with soulless eyes, yet somehow, a piece of my heart aches for him. I feel it, pulling at my chest, twisting deep. I thought I knew what it meant to be lonely. How long has it been since he’s spoken to anyone but me? How much loneliness has he endured? My face falls, my own recent feelings of desolation so small in comparison.
I keep my gaze locked on his when I whisper, “I can’t even imagine.”
He doesn’t respond. With his imposing height, taut muscles, and stone-like stature, he is a solid wall. Impenetrable. And yet, I don’t miss the green shimmer that glints behind his eyes. It’s only there for a second, almost fleeting enough for me to think it’s a trick of the light. Except I’ve seen the color swirl there before, and there’s no way I could mistake such a vibrant emerald blaze.
Whatisthat? I almost ask him, but I quickly recall the last time I mentioned it, the way he’d retreated immediately. I don’t know why, but right now, I don’t want him to retreat. I want to keep him talking to me. I want to glimpse that emerald fire again.
“Do you have a name?”
His eyes narrow just a fraction, as though he’s trying to comprehend why I’d ask such a question. Or perhaps it’s the question itself that has him confused.
“Something I can call you, other than Death?”
“You don’t need to be calling me anything.” His response is commanding, a crisp slice through the air, but it doesn’t deter me.
“But I do.” I don’t want to tell himwhyI do—that I find myself thinking of him so often I need something else to refer to him as. So instead I go with, “You know my name. It’s only fair that I know yours.”
He gives a slight, rigid shake of his head. “I have no name.”
My focus wanders from his eyes down to the smooth curves of his lips when he pulls them into a tight line. Realizing how dry my own lips suddenly feel, I lick them without a thought. When I shift my gaze back up, he’s honed in on my mouth. My stomach flutters before tightening at the intimacy of his stare, and it takes me a second to find my voice again. When I do, the shakiness betrays me. “I’m going to go get changed. Make yourself . . . comfortable . . . I guess.”
I don’t wait for a response. Turning my back to him floods me with an odd and confusing mixture of relief, loss, and caution. I swipe the clothes off my dresser and step inside the bathroom, closing the door without looking back.
Just breathe, I tell myself, grasping the counter’s ledge and inhaling slowly.
It’s not the first time I’ve spoken to him. Been alone with him. I’m a grown woman, and I’ve faced more than many others my age have.I can handle this.
I force my body to move, pulling my top over my head before unzipping my jeans, sliding them to the ground. The bathroom’s insulated cool air bounces off the tiles, skimming my bare skin. I’m all too aware of the fact I’m standing almost completely naked with nothing but a thin door separating me from him. I know he can’t see me, but that doesn’t prevent a cluster of tingles from chasing my spine. After slipping on the snug pair of pajama bottoms and the loose top, I grip the door handle, swallow hard, and twist.
He’s standing before the window, his broad back toward me as he gazes down at the brightened shops below. The deafening silence only betrays each creak of the wooden floors, not to mention the loud thumping of my heart, so I walk quietly toward the nightstand and retrieve the TV remote. I flick the power on, paying no attention to the channel, and soften the volume until it fades to a hum filling the background of my room.
“Can you show me?” I ask.
He whips his head around at the sound of my voice, as if I’ve just yanked him away from some serious train of thought. “Show you what?”
“What happens when you try to leave.”
