I MADE IT TO MY ROOM WITHOUT SEEING MY grandparents or Georgia, and shut myself in. As I curled up into a corner of my bed, time seemed to stop and stand still. I felt torn between the certainty that I had done the right thing and the nagging doubt that in the space of ten minutes I had ruined any chance I might have had for a bright, hopeful future. For love.
Though I hadn’t known him for long, I felt that if things continued the way they had been I would fall in love with Vincent. There was no doubt about that. And if this were just the starting point, I knew that it wouldn’t be just some lighthearted romance. My heart would be swept away. I was sure of it.
And feeling like that about him, I couldn’t risk the pain of seeing him repeatedly injured, killed, or even destroyed. He had said it was possible: His immortality had its limits. After losing Mom and Dad, I refused to lose someone else I loved.
The old dictum was backward. It should be “Better not to have loved at all, than to love and have lost.” I had done the right thing, I reassured myself. So why did it feel like I had made the biggest mistake of my life?
I wrapped myself in a blanket cocoon and inched deeper into misery. I let the pain consume me. I deserved it. I never should have opened myself up.
Hours later, Mamie knocked to tell me it was time for dinner. I took a second to compose my voice, and then yelled, “Not hungry, Mamie. Thanks!” A few minutes later I heard a gentle tapping on the door.
“Can we come in?” Georgia’s voice came from the other side, and without waiting for a response, my sister and grandmother tiptoed cautiously into the room. Sitting down on either side of me, they put their arms around me and waited.
“Is it Mom and Dad?” Georgia asked finally.
“No, for once it isn’t about Mom and Dad,” I sputtered, half laughing, “at least, not just about Mom and Dad.”
“Is it Vincent?” she asked.
I nodded tearfully.
“Did this . . . Vincent”—I felt Mamie and Georgia look at each other over my head—“do something to hurt you?” Mamie said, running her fingers up and down my back.
“No, it was me. I just can’t . . .” How could I possibly explain this to them? “I can’t let myself get close to him. It feels like too much of a risk.”
“I know what you mean,” Georgia said. “You’re afraid to love someone again. In case they disappear too.”
I put my head on Mamie’s shoulder and breathed, “It’s too complicated.”
Smoothing my hair back with her hand, and planting a kiss on the top of my head, she responded quietly, “It always is.”
I bought a bagful of novels at an English bookstore, and then retreated into the dark cave of my bedroom, telling Mamie I was “hibernating” for the weekend. She understood, and after leaving a platter set with water, tea, fruit, and an assortment of cheese and crackers on my dresser, she left me alone.
I spent the rest of my day in someone else’s story. The rare moments that I put the book down, my own pain returned in burning stabs. I felt like a circus knife thrower’s target. If I held my mind immobile, I might avoid being hit by the blades whizzing by my head. From time to time I fell asleep, but was immediately awakened by dark, tortured dreams that, once I awoke, dissolved without a trace.
I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder at times, wondering if I might see Vincent lurking in the shadows. Does he come to see me when he’s volant? I wondered. He could be floating around my bedroom for all I knew. Or maybe not. Maybe it was a case of “out of sight, out of mind” for him, and my outburst had been effective enough to stop him from trying to see me again. That was what I wanted, I told myself. Wasn’t it?
If I let myself think, that would be the end. So I disconnected my brain and let my body carry on without a mind to steer it. All in all, it seemed like I was pulling it off. I could live without him. I was self-contained. Self-sufficient. Maybe I wasn’t happy, but I wasn’t sad. I was just . . . there.
School was a welcome relief. It helped the days pass by in numb monotony. Finally, returning home one day, I realized in a rare jolt of clarity that it had barely been two weeks since I had left Vincent standing in his doorway. It had felt like months. I had been congratulating myself for completing a marathon when I was hardly past the starting line.
As I climbed the Métro steps onto my street, I was surprised to see a familiar figure leaning against a nearby phone booth. It was Charlotte. When she spotted me, her pretty face lit up. “Kate!” she cried, skipping up and leaning forward to kiss me on both cheeks.
“Charlotte. What a surprise!” I smiled, glancing around curiously to see if she was with someone else.