“We’ll meet again,” I say, essence threading through my words. “Fate, not luck, will bring us together again. Call for me if you need me.”
“I won’t.”
I drop my hand from his shoulder and nod. Then I let him walk away. Painful tears spike behind my eyes as the bond between us thins so much I fear it might snap.
It doesn’t.
I turn my head again to watch through the window as Cal heads to the trucks, rebuffing Lou as he passes her.
The server scoops up Cal’s plate and half-empty milkshake as she makes a pass by the table. Then the space is truly empty across from me.
I take another sip of my own milkshake, hand trembling as I pointedly don’t watch the two trucks pull away.
It might be a mistake to let Cal go.
He might hate me for it. Forever.
But I’ve had too many choices stripped from me. I couldn’t take this one from him.
I don’t feel like eating, but I force myself to sip the chocolate shake and not reach for the thread between Cal and me as he drives farther and farther away. The aching thought that Presh will be disappointed in me also weighs heavy in my chest. The younger awry wouldn’t have to even open her mouth to convince Cal that she was the best choice. That would have been obvious.
But I remind myself that Presh walks a different path than I do.
I glance up at the camera tucked in the corner, hoping again that Coda has eyes on me — but also knowing it’s not time for that yet.
Three or so years ago, I was sitting in a thatched-roof cafe somewhere in Indonesia with no phone and no money, when the ancient landline had trilled on the wall — shocking the owner and servers more than me. It had taken Coda less than thirty minutes to track me down and get me sorted that time.
Before I was the Conduit.
The younger woman fussing over the older man in the corner booth gets up. After fixing his collar — which wasn’t askew — she crosses through the side hall toward the bathrooms. She clutches her purse to her chest as if it holds the only other precious thing in her life other than the man who I’m now quite certain is her grandfather.
The moment her back is turned, he heaves himself out of the booth and starts toward the front door. Toward me.
Various people, most of them nulls, track him as he moves, but out of concern, not malice. He rests his hand on the tops of the short walls between the booths as he goes, though he’s not unsteady on his feet. He exudes a calm confidence that has nothing, and maybe also everything, to do with the robust essence he wields.
Given his talents, I have no doubt that he felt my energy before I even entered the cafe.
“You need me,” he says with a huff of effort as he lowers himself onto the bench seat across from me. I can’t immediately place his accent. Eastern United States?
“You need me,” I say, smiling at him.
He chuckles, peers at me closely, then nods. “I’m guessing I do. I’m Isaiah.”
“Meaning ‘God is my savior,’ ” I murmur. Because yes, I do on occasion study other religions.
He hums thoughtfully, still smiling at me. “A believer, are you?”
“I believe in a higher power,” I say, in no way prepared for a theological discussion even though I started this one.
He chuckles again, quieter this time. “You’d have to, to be you. Wouldn’t you?”
He watches me for a long while, and I him. No tension between us. He’s not remotely scared of me, nor does he appear just a moment away from falling to his knees in worship. Thankfully.
“What can I do for you?” he finally asks, the smile falling away.
“What can I do for you?” I tease back.
He lays his hand on the table, palm up. “You are gravely wounded, child. Let me help.”
