Blue Moon (12 page)

Damen.

Just thinking about him makes my heart swell with such longing, such all-consuming ache—my head grows dizzy and my whole body sways. And as I grab hold of an elaborate wood cabinet, grasping its fine detailed edge, my eyes search the room, reminding me that I'm not nearly as alone as I think.

Everywhere I look his image surrounds me. His likeness perfectly captured by the world's greatest masters, matted in museum-quality frames, and mounted on these walls. The Picasso in the dark somber suit, the Velázquez on the rearing white stallion—each of them depicting the face I thought I knew so well—only now the eyes seem distant and mocking, the chin raised and defiant, and those lips, those warm wonderful lips that I crave so bad I can taste them, appear so remote, so aloof, so maddeningly distant, as though warning me not to come near.

I close my eyes, determined to block it all out, sure that my panicked state of mind is influencing me for the worst. Forcing myself to take several deep breaths, before trying his cell phone again. His voice mail prompting yet another round of:
Call me . . . where are you . . . what happened . . . are you okay . . . call me
—messages I've left countless times already.

I slip my phone back into my bag and gaze around the room one last time, my eyes carefully avoiding his portraits while assuring myself there's nothing I missed. No blatant clue to his disappearance that I might've overlooked, no small, seemingly insignificant hint that might make the
how
and
why
a little easier to grasp.

And when I'm satisfied I've done all I can, I grab my purse and head to the kitchen, stopping just long enough to leave a short note, repeating all the same words I said on the phone. Knowing the moment I walk out the door my connection to Damen will feel even more tenuous than it already does.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, picturing the future that just yesterday seemed so sure—the one of Damen and me, both of us happy, together, complete. Wishing it was possible to manifest such a thing, yet knowing deep down it's no use.

You can't manifest another person. Or at least not for very long.

So I shift my attention to something I
can
create. Picturing the
most perfect red tulip—its soft waxy petals and long fluid stem the ideal symbol for our undying love. And when I feel it take shape in my hand, I head back to the kitchen, tear up the note, and leave the tulip on the counter instead.

 

I miss Riley.

I miss her so much it's like a physical ache.

Because the second I realized I had no choice but to inform Sabine that Damen wouldn't be making it to dinner (which I waited to do until ten minutes past eight when it was clear he wouldn't show), the questions began. And they pretty much kept coming for the remainder of the weekend, with her asking stuff like:
What's wrong? I know something's wrong. I wish you would talk to me. Why won't you tell me? Is it something with Damen? Are you two in a fight?

And even though I did talk to her (over dinner when I somehow managed to eat enough to convince her that I really and truly do
not
have an eating disorder), trying to assure her that everything was A-OK, that Damen was just busy, and that I was overtired after spending such a long, fun-filled night at Haven's—it was clear she didn't believe me. Or at least not the part about me being fine. She totally believed the part about me staying at Haven's.

Instead, she kept insisting that there had to be a better explanation for my constant sighing and mood swings, the way I went from morose to manic to mopey and back again. But even though I felt bad for lying to her—I stuck with my story. I guess it seemed easier since lying to Sabine made it easier to lie to myself. Fearing
that
retelling
the story, explaining how even though my heart refuses to believe it, my head can't help but wonder if he might've purposely ditched me—might somehow
make
it come true.

If Riley were here, things would be different. I could talk to her. I could tell her the whole sordid tale from beginning to end. Knowing she'd not only understand, but that she'd get answers too.

Her being dead is like an all-access pass. Allowing her to go anywhere she wants merely by thinking about it. Making no place off limits—the entire planet is fair game. And I've no doubt she'd be far more effective than all of my frantic phone calls and drive-bys combined.

Because in the end, all my disjointed, clumsy, ineffective investigating really amounts to is: __________ (nothing).

Leaving me just as clueless this Monday morning as I was on Friday night when it occurred. And no matter how many times I call Miles or Haven, their answer is always the same—
nothing to report, but we'll call you if anything changes.

But if Riley were here, she'd close this case in no time. Getting quick results and in-depth answers—she'd be able to tell me just exactly what I'm dealing with, and how to proceed.

But the fact is, Riley's not here. And despite her promising me a sign, seconds before she left, I'm starting to doubt it'll happen. And maybe, just maybe, it's time I stop looking and get on with my life.

I slip on some jeans, slide my feet into some flip-flops, pull on a tank top, and chase it with a long-sleeved T—and just as I'm about to walk out the door and head for school, I turn right around and grab my iPod, hoodie, and sunglasses, knowing I'd better prepare for the worst since I've no idea what I'll find.

 

 

“Did you find him?”

I shake my head, watching as Miles climbs into my car, throws his bag on the floor, and shoots me a look filled with pity.

“I tried calling,” he says, brushing his hair off his face, his nails still sporting a bright flashy pink. “Even tried to swing by his house but didn't get past the front gate. And trust me, you do
not
want to mess with Big Sheila. She takes her job
very
seriously.” He laughs, hoping to lighten the mood.

But I just shrug, wishing I could laugh along with him, but knowing I can't. I've been a wreck since Friday and the only cure is to see Damen again.

“You shouldn't worry so much,” Miles says, turning toward me. “I'm sure he's fine. I mean, it's not like it's the first time he's disappeared.”

I glance at him, sensing his thoughts before the words leave his lips. Knowing he's referring to the last time Damen disappeared, the time I sent him away. “But that was different,” I tell him. “Trust me, that was nothing like this.”

“How can you be so sure?” His voice is careful, measured, his eyes still on me.

I take a deep breath and stare at the road, wondering whether or not I should tell him. I mean, I haven't
really
talked to anyone in so long, haven't confided in a friend since well before the accident—before everything changed. And sometimes, having to hoard all of these secrets can really feel lonely. I long to get out from under their weight and gossip like a normal girl again.

I look at Miles, sure that I can trust him, but not all that sure if I can trust me. I'm like a soda can that's been dropped and shaken, and now all of my secrets are rushing to the top.

“You okay?” he asks, eyeing me carefully.

I swallow hard. “Friday night? After your play?” I pause, knowing
I've got his full attention. “Well . . . we, um . . . we sort of made plans.”

“Plans?” He leans toward me.

“
Big
plans.” I nod, a smile hinting at the corner of my lips, then instantly fading when I remember how it all went so tragically wrong.

“How big?” he asks, eyes on mine.

I shake my head, gazing at the road ahead when I say, “Oh, just your usual Friday night. You know, room at the Montage, new lingerie, chocolate dipped strawberries, and two flutes of champagne . . .”

“Omigod, you
didn't
!” he squeals.

I glance at him, watching as his face falls when he realizes the truth.

“Oh God, I mean, you
really
didn't. You didn't get a chance to, since he . . .” He looks at me. “Oh Ever, I'm
so
sorry.”

I shrug, seeing the devastation I feel so clearly displayed on his face.

“Listen,” he says, reaching for my arm as I stop at a light, then pulling away when he remembers how I don't like to be touched by anyone other than Damen, not knowing that it's only because I go out of my way to avoid any and all unsolicited energy exchange. “Ever, you're gorgeous, seriously. I mean, especially now that you stopped wearing those dumpy hoodies and baggy—” He shakes his head. “Anyway, I think it's safe to say that there's no way Damen would have
willingly
walked out on you. I mean, let's face it, the guy's totally in love, anyone can see it. And believe me, with the way you two are constantly going at it, everyone
has
seen it. There's just no possible way he could've bailed!”

I glance at him, wanting to remind him of what Roman said about Damen speeding away, and how I have this terrible feeling
he's somehow connected, maybe even responsible—but just as I'm about to, I realize I can't. I've no evidence to go on, nothing to prove it.

“You call the police?” he asks, his expression suddenly serious.

I press my lips together and squint at the light straight ahead, hating the fact that I did indeed call the cops. Knowing that if everything turns out to be fine, and Damen shows up unscathed, he's going to be pretty unhappy about my drawing that kind of attention his way.

But what was I supposed to do? I mean, if there
was
an accident or something, I figured they'd be the first to know. So Sunday morning, I went down to the station and filed a report, answering all of the usual questions like:
male, Caucasian, brown eyes, brown hair . . .
Until we got to his age and I nearly choked when I almost said:
um . . . he's approximately six hundred and seventeen years old . . .

“Yeah, I filed a report,” I finally say, pressing hard on the gas the second the light turns green and watching the speedometer rise. “They took down the info and said they'd look into it.”

“That's it? Are you kidding? He's underage, he's not even an adult!”

“Yeah, but he's also emancipated. Which is like a whole other set of circumstances, making him legally responsible for himself, and other things I don't quite understand. Anyway, it's not like I'm privy to their investigation techniques, it's not like they filled me in on the big plan,” I say, slowing to a more normal speed, now that we've entered the school zone.

“Do you think we should pass out flyers? Or hold a candlelight vigil like you see on the news?”

My stomach curls when he says it, even though I know he's just being his usual overly dramatic, though well-meaning self. But up
until now, I hadn't imagined it ever coming to that. I mean, surely Damen will show up soon. He's
got
to. He's
immortal
! What could possibly happen to him?

But no sooner do I think it than I pull into the parking lot and see him climbing out of his car. Looking so sleek, so sexy, so gorgeous—you'd think everything was perfectly normal. That the last few days had never occurred.

I slam on the brakes, my car lurching forward then back, causing the driver behind me to slam on their brakes too. My heart racing, my hands shaking, as I watch my completely gorgeous, up until now MIA boyfriend, run a hand through his hair so deliberately, so insistently, and with such focused concentration you'd think it was his most pressing concern.

This is not what I expected.

“What the
hell
?” Miles shrieks, gaping at Damen as a whole slew of cars honk behind us. “And what's he doing parked all the way over
there
? Why isn't he in the second-best spot, saving the
best
one for us?”

And since I don't know the answers to any of those questions, I pull up beside Damen, thinking he might.

I lower my window, feeling inexplicably shy and awkward when he merely glances at me before looking away. “Um, is everything okay?” I ask, wincing when he just barely nods, which is pretty much the most imperceptible acknowledgment of my presence he could possibly give.

He reaches into his car and grabs his bag, taking the opportunity to admire himself in the driver's side window as I swallow hard and say, “Because you sort of took off Friday night . . . and I couldn't find you or reach you all weekend . . . and I got kinda worried . . . I even left you some messages . . . did you get them?” I press my lips together and cringe at my pathetic, ineffective, wuss-laden inquiry.

You
sort
of took off? I got
kinda
worried?

When what I really want to scream is:

HEY  YOU—IN  THE  SUPER-SLICK  ALL-BLACK  ENSEMBLE—WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?