A smile sprawls unbidden across my mouth.
“And what does a proper goodbye involve?”
His nose rubs against mine again. “It involves me thanking you for spending time with me, and reminding you of why we should do it again soon.”
He kisses me then, slow and still a little sleepy. His mouth moves against mine with a laziness that feels easy and gentle, and like an introduction to a new part of us. This is what it's like to touch with no endgame, no destination. This is a kiss that doesn't ask for anything, it just is. This kiss is closeness and comfort, and when it's over, I'm battling the same urge to cry that had gripped me when I watched him sleep.
Who would have thought that at my age, I could still experience a new kind of intimacy from a mere kiss? Something altogether different from everything I've ever experienced.
“Thank you,” I whisper when he pulls away.
One corner of his mouth lifts in a devilish smile.
“I think you're confused. That kiss was me thanking you.”
“I know. But still.”
“Well, now I have to say you're welcome.”
But instead of saying it, he kisses me again, his tongue sliding against mine with a little more force, a little more urgency. I have that falling sensation I sometimes get in dreams when he pulls away, and I stare at him for a few long moments before I remember that I'm supposed to be leaving.
“When can I see you again?” he asks as I shuffle toward the door.
My immediate response is to say tomorrow, but I stop myself. I should wait and see how I'm feeling tomorrow, where my energy levels are at.
“I'm not sure. How about you call me, and we'll figure something out.”
I have to give him my number because he doesn't have it, and when I'm done rattling it off, I'm tempted to make another excuse to stay. But he yawns again, and I know I should let him get some sleep. I say a final goodbye and head out the door. He stays on the porch, arms crossed over his chest to fight off the cold, waiting until I get in my car and pull away.
You’ve got time, I tell myself, and resist looking back through the rearview mirror. Time to see him, time to figure out how this will work, time to explore the happy hum of the connection I feel between us. But in the back of my mind, I can't help but think that time is relative here. Wilder is human. Which means I've never been lower on time than I am right now.
He calls the next day, and I make an excuse as to why I can't see him. It hurts, because all I want to do is find out where he is and run straight there. But I was right … my energy levels are higher than they should be. I should have been good for at least another day before needing to expend some of my influence, but there's a restless churning in my chest that tells me otherwise. Normally, I would probably be fine to go a little while longer, even with my energies this high. But what if I saw him again like this? What if the level spiked, and there was no one else around, no other option? What if I lost control again like I did in that club? What if Gwen was there when it happened?
I feel physically ill at the thought. No. I need to be smart. Safe.
I start a journal to chronicle my experience, trying to make sense of it. I can't very well write the truth of what I'm feeling where someone else could find it, so I settle on a number system.
Today is about a five on a scale from one to ten. It’s manageable, but worse than I'm comfortable with. I wonder if it could be connected to time? I spent, let's see, about four hours yesterday, two to three of which contained a high level of exposure. But I … relieved some pressure … about halfway through that time. What number would I be at if I hadn't done that?
For now, I think I should cap myself at five hours. And go in as calm and close to zero as possible. That should keep me at a comfortable level.
He calls again the next day, but I haven't been able to get any time alone with anyone in Lennox's friend group. My friend group. Most of them work a day job on top of their craft or schoolwork, and they're working pretty heavily now since there's no school and the holidays are busy.
“I'm sorry,” I murmur into the phone. More sorry than he could possibly know. “But I can't today either.”
“Do you have to work?” he asks.
I consider telling him the truth, that I don’t, but it would be nice to have a ready-made excuse for situations just like this one. Not because I want to lie to him, but I don't see any other way around it. A job would definitely be convenient, though I've not had much use for a real one in centuries. That's one benefit of immortality. It's easy to build up wealth when you've got centuries to do it, and when knick-knacks and other objects from your past are old enough to be worth millions to the right collector or museum. Every few decades, I start over as a new version of my self, new birth certificate and identity and all that jazz. And that new me is always the sole beneficiary of my wealth when the old me “dies.”
“Yes, I have to work,” I lie.
“Oh. Okay. Where do you work?”
Damn. Damn. Where can I say? It has to be somewhere that he can't actually drop by to see me. Or … where he can drop by and see me, but it's under my control.
“I work from home.”
“Really? Doing what?”
“Uh, just some online stuff. Nothing all that interesting. But I'm pretty backed up because of the holidays, and I need to get it all done before the end of the calendar year.”
“Online stuff? So you're some kind of tech genius?”
“Hardly.”
“So, since you work from home, does that mean I can swing by sometime? Maybe distract you with a lunch break? Or a foot rub? Or maybe you get carpel tunnel?”
I laugh. He sounds so cute and eager on the line, and I wish I could see his face right now. I wonder if he's shaved yet, or if his facial hair would be even thicker than the last time I saw him. I wonder if he’s wearing his glasses or if he’s giving responsible Wilder a break.
“Not this time,” I tell him, but I soften my tone and hope he can hear the smile in my voice. “I've got too much to do. But maybe soon. I'll see what I can do.”
He sighs on the other end, and rather than letting him go like I should (especially considering how much work I supposedly have), I keep talking. “How are Gwen and your mother?”
“They're good. They've both asked about you actually.”
“Really?” I'm a little frightened to know what his mother asked.
“Yeah. They'd both like to see you again, but I told them they'd have to wait. I want some time with just us before we have to watch another Disney movie with my sister.”