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Chapter Twenty-Two

Bellamy

Another night of staring at the ceiling.

It’s easy to tell myself that the reason I feel so off-kilter is that work has been busy, and it’s taken a lot of effort to keep Sunday at arm’s length. Still, his not-so-casual attempts at clawing back our friendship find the gaps in my defenses. The paper cups of cinnamon-sugar-dusted oat milk that keep appearing on my desk. Fluffy socks and face masks. My favorite chocolate bar tucked into the front pocket of my backpack.

He’s never around when these things appear, but I know it’s him. No one else knows me like he does.

“You are thinking awfully loud again,” Delphine scolds, jabbing me in the foot with a bony finger.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“Perhaps it is best just to say what is on your mind. Otherwise your brain cells will rot and fall out of your ears.”

What a visual.

She’s right though. Bottling it up isn’t doing me any good, and who is she going to tell? Other than her new vampire bestie, potentially.

“I feel split down the middle,” I begin, running my finger over the pattern of the blanket draped over my lap. “I think…there’s a part of me that wishes I never moved here, so I didn’t have to be around him again.”

I don’t say the rest of what I’m thinking. That there’s another part of me that wants to tuck myself against his chest, just to see if his heart still sounds the same.

“But…?”

Intuitive, when she applies herself, my Delphine. I look up at her, heart-shaped face cradled in her hand, listening intently. Serious for once in her afterlife.

“It doesn’t matter. We…we’d never work, right? We’re too different. He doesn’t even believe people like me exist.”

I know my worth. It’s taken a lot of emotional pain to get here, pain that I’m still trying to wade through. I didn’t get the best start in life, and I’ve felt alone for most of it.

The pressure of Delphine’s hand on my ankle drags my attention back to her. “You know what you are. Those gifts that you have are just that: gifts. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, Bellamy. You are a miracle, nothing less.”

Her words are everything I need to hear, enough to put my mind to rest so I can start my evening routine. I’m precious about it, but only out of necessity—it’s the only thing that helps me sleep through the night without waking to the soundtrack of tires screaming over asphalt.

Thudding pulls me from my cozy sleep on the couch. I peel my face off the blankets, cringing at the string of saliva that comes with it. I’m disoriented, sleep still clinging to me, but I shake it off as the pounding continues.

Fear slices through me as I roll off the couch, tugging my lilac shorts down. Grabbing my sherpa fleece robe, I slide my arms into it. If I’m going to be murdered, I may as well be comfortable.

It takes me a moment to realize the sound is coming from the window, and not the door. I brace my hands in a protective position, splayed out in front of me like a shield. My magic crackles at my fingertips, reacting to my fear and the odd mix of energy coming from the other side of the curtain.

“Delph…” I whisper, mentally tugging on our bond. She’s with me in seconds, feigning a yawn. Ghosts don’t even sleep.

“Good heavens, Bellamy. Why are yo—” she starts, but then her head whips to the source of the noise, eyes widening. She’s moving before I can even speak, gliding through the wall before returning with a vaguely disapproving look on her face.

“What? Who is it?” I demand, fingers still aloft, twitching periodically.

“Your knight in broken armor,” is all she says before gesturing toward the source of the noise.

As I approach the window, a strange cocktail of apprehension and serenity washes over me, and I pull the curtain aside to find a man standing outside.

Any normal person might be terrified, but I’m used to being visited by the dead. This man is very much not dead, and very recognizable.

Sunday’s usually tall frame seems shrunken, tension lining his shoulders. His hands are shoved into his armpits, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the dark fabric blending with his blackout tattoos.

“What the hell are you doing?” I whisper-shout, voice still husky from sleep. He has some nerve showing up at my home uninvited. And climbing up the fire escape, too? Are we in a crappy Hallmark movie? Or is he my stalker now?

“Can I come in?” he mouths, his breath fogging the window. Dark sunglasses cover his eyes, an odd choice considering it’s pitch-black outside.