Authors: Karina Halle
Nothing more.
Then, out of nowhere:
“You looked beautiful tonight, by the way.”
Oh jeez. Be still my fucking heart.
I try and swallow, his words, the sincerity in his voice rocking my world off-balance. “Which part? When the power went out or when Jacob went upstairs to fight a demon?” I joke. But I joke because I’m feeling this a little too much.
“All of it. You know why I call you princess?” he asks, his tone graver than before, like he’s letting me in on a very deep secret.
“Because I’m a spoiled brat?”
“Because you’re beautiful.”
Well that shut me up. The sentence hangs in the air, larger than life.
He clears his throat and goes on and I have to fight against the urge to roll over and face him. “You have this way about you. You don’t see it. But I do. Like you’re born royalty. The way you hold yourself. Your walk. The face of an angel.”
Butterflies take flight in my gut, spreading through my veins until my whole body feels like its floating. “Why are you being so nice to me? Am I going to die?”
He laughs softly. “I don’t know why I’m saying these things. Just seemed like the things to say. You’re destined for something great, Ada, I know this. And it’s an honor to help see you through it.”
His words cascade down on me like ashes from a fire. Where they land, I’m ignited.
Jay thinks I’m beautiful.
And more than that, he
believes
in me.
Silence settles over us, stealing time. I hear him breathing in the dark, steady as a heartbeat. He might even be sleeping.
But I can’t even begin to shut down. My entire body, from the top of my scalp, down to my toes, is buzzing with heat and electricity. It’s like everything I felt for him before, everything I try to ignore, is coming out in full force, responding to his words, to his body so close to mine. I can feel the warmth at my back, sinking into my spine, just from his presence alone.
I’m starting to have feelings for him. Not just in a he’s a giant hulking beast who’s here to protect me from the underworld way. But real feelings, slowly creeping into my heart, day by day.
The thought is terrifying in the same way that demons are terrifying.
They both might take possession of me.
They both might ruin me.
And I’m not sure how much of me I’ll have left.
Stop being ridiculous
, I chide myself.
I listen for a moment then say softly into the darkness, “Jay?”
He grunts in response.
“What happens after I reach my potential? When you’re no longer my guardian?”
I don’t know why I’m asking this. I think I want some kind of blow to the tender parts of myself, I want the truth to hurt, to warn me that my sudden stupid feelings are worthless and can only end in heartache or humiliation.
“I go on to help someone else.” His voice is as soft as a cloud.
“Like, right away? Do I get a chance to say bye? Do I get to see you again after? You know, as a friend?”
He goes silent. I almost ask again, thinking he may have fallen asleep but with a heavy sigh he says, “No. As far as I’m aware, my memory is stripped. I start anew. I won’t remember who you are.”
I know he’s said something like that before but for some reason I figured maybe I was an exception.
“Can you not? I mean, can you ask to have your memory for longer. I mean, why would it hurt you? If you go and help someone else, say some kid somewhere, how would staying friends with me interfere with that?”
“I guess because it’s my job to commit to that person 100%. I don’t think we’re allowed outside attachments, other than other Jacobs.”
Like Jacob himself. Forever the only constant in Jay’s life. Would he have to start over getting to know him every single time too?
“I’d come find you, you know,” I tell him.
“You say that now,” he says. “But by the time this is all over, I’m sure you’ll be more than happy to be rid of me.”
I’ve been dreaming about Jay for a long time and I’ve been with him for a few weeks. In dreams, in the waking world, I feel like he’s become as accepted as an extra limb. Awkward at first, ungainly, but later becoming a part of me that’s indispensable. I can’t imagine Jay not being beside me in some shape or form.
And that’s fucked up
, the naggy part of my brain goes.
To feel that attached to him already. That’s not normal.
“None of this is normal,” I say out loud.
“You mean sleeping in a decrepit roadside motel with me as a way to escape the portal to Hell in your closet? No, I wouldn’t say it’s normal at all—for anyone else. You’re going to have to adjust your reality. This is the new normal. I’m your new normal.”
I don’t know how long I ponder that. I think I see the moon pass through the curtains. Outside the highway is silent, no cars finding their way in the middle of the night.
“Jay?” I ask again.
“What?” he murmurs.
“Do you think maybe you were Irish in another life? Like your original life? And that’s why you have an Irish accent sometimes?”
“I have no idea,” he says tiredly. “Is that all?”
“Jay? Remember when you said I was beautiful?”
“Go to sleep,
princess
.”
And so I do.
Jay kissed me in my dream last night.
The details are fuzzy now, the dream draining from my head as soon as I woke up this morning, but the feeling is still there.
What I’m trying to figure out is if it was an ordinary dream where my subconscious conjured Jay up or if it was a dream where Jay inserted himself. I’m guessing that because I can’t quite remember it, it’s a normal one. All the other dreams are lucid to the point of being real.
Not that Jay is acting any different toward me this morning. When I finally woke up (and I’m pretty sure with a smile on my lips) it was because it was 10 a.m. and Jay was standing above me, telling me I needed to get a move on. He’d already showered and packed and was waiting for my sorry ass.
I showered as quickly as possible, shoving my wet hair in a bun since the room’s hair-dryer didn’t work, and decided to do my makeup in the car. I slipped on the same dress as last night—it was either that or wear a bra, and I’m not Carrie Bradshaw enough for that—but knotted it around my hips and added the denim shorts.
Actually it wasn’t a bad look and, as we left the room heading toward the Mercedes, I tried to take a selfie or ten. Lame, maybe, but I hadn’t posted to IG in a few days now and since I actually make money from my account for posting things like my outfits, then it’s something I can’t really neglect, demons or not.
“What are you doing?” Jay asks, leaning across the roof of the car and watching me curiously.
I chuck the duffel bag a few feet from me to get it out of the shot and try another angle, holding the iPhone far above my head. A lone scraggly-haired man in his pajamas exits his room, heading to the vending machine. He looks at me like I have a screw loose. Whatever. He probably takes dick pics so he should know all about getting the right angle.
“I’m trying to get a post to Instagram,” I explain to Jay, refusing to feel self-conscious. “I have a brand to uphold, you know.”
“Do you want me to take the picture?”
I pause, lowering the phone. “Would you mind?”
Normally I don’t like anyone else take the photo because they have no idea what flattering angles are. I’d given the phone to Dex once and he took a photo of my boobs. Perry tends to shoot from angles that give me double-chins and fat arms, something I always suspected was sisterly sabotage.
“I’ll give it a shot,” he says, “no pun intended.”
He comes around the hood of the car and takes the phone from my hands before motioning for me to turn around. “Stand in front of the doors. Look off to the left.”
Huh? Direction. I like this.
I do as he says while he lines up the shot. Now the man by the vending machine is cracking open a Pepsi and watching the parking lot photo shoot. I give him a wink and go back to posing.
“Think I got it,” Jay says when he’s done, handing the phone back to me. “I’ll take more if you want.”
I quickly flip through the photos. I don’t know how the fuck he managed to make this god forsaken place look like an editorial shoot for Vogue, but he has. The dull color of the Mercedes makes the dark green forest on the other side of the highway pop, the filtered sunlight making all the details crisp.
And I look fucking amazing, wet hair, no makeup and all.
I stare up at him in awe. “How did you do this? Are you a part-time photographer along with being a huge Led Zeppelin fan?”
“I said so at dinner last night. I’m a graphic artist. I know what looks good.”
I frown. “But I thought . . .”
“We should get going,” he says and I catch a smirk on his face before he heads to the driver’s seat.
Hmmm. Like I said before. Full of surprises.
Luckily the drive to the coast is only an hour, a peaceful winding journey through thick forests with the occasional clear-cutting and deep streams that race the road. Only it’s not so peaceful because my head wants to focus on the dream, as fragmented as it is, and revel in the afterglow. It reminds me when I was dreaming about Jay before, how I would always wake up happy, with a full heart.
I stare at him, wondering. His large hands wrap around the steering wheel, wayfarers covering his eyes. Not that I would be able to read much from him anyway.
“You were in my dream last night,” I blurt out.
“Was I?”
“
Were you
?”
He glances at me briefly. “Not sure what you’re getting at.”
“You have a history of showing up in my dreams. I’m wondering if this is something you did, rather than something my subconscious did.”
“What was the dream about?” he asks.
I clear my throat. “You tell me.”
He sighs. “Ada, what was it?”
I don’t want to. I want to see if he knows.
“Or are you embarrassed?” he goes on.
“I’m not embarrassed,” I say quickly. “You’re the one who kissed me.”
He grins cockily, eyes on the road. “Oh did I?”
“Yeah.
You
.”
“I bet you kissed me back.”
I clamp my mouth shut for a moment. “The details are fuzzy.”
“Convenient.”
I decide not to push it further. He has this uncanny way of twisting things around and I don’t want to go there, especially after last night when every nerve in my body was begging me to go exactly there.
Please let us have two separate beds tonight
, I think.
When we reach the coast, the highway forking left and right, we turn to the right.
“I thought we were going to Cannon Beach,” I say.
“Checked the hotels this morning,” he says. “All booked up. Peak season, you know. Managed to snag a room in Seaside instead. Right on the beach, with a balcony.” He glances at me. “And yes, double beds.”
“Good,” I tell him, rather spitefully.
I have the feeling he’s rolling his eyes underneath those sunglasses.
It’s still early, just before noon, when we roll down the kitschy cool streets of Seaside. We used to come here a lot when I was really young, my uncle having a house just down the coast, and I always had the fondest memories of the arcades and candy shops. Nothing much seems to have changed, except that maybe it’s more crowded.
We pull into a large hotel at the very end where the promenade begins. It’s nothing fancy but it is right on the beach. The minute I exit the car I feel relief. The ocean breeze rolling off the Pacific is full in my face, a sharp, mineral wash that coats me from head to toe. It blasts away the humidity that had descended on Portland this month, banishes the cobwebs, even the fear.
I close my eyes, even though I’m standing in a parking lot, and just feel it. I breathe in as deep as my lungs will let me, then exhale.
When I open my eyes, nearly teetering off-balance, I catch Jay staring at me. Actually, I felt his gaze even before I looked, that way he can reach right into me like no one’s been able to before. Or maybe it’s around him that I’m finally making myself transparent.
I hold his eyes for a moment, wordless conversations passing through us, conversations I don’t understand but I feel. Then I shoot him a sheepish smile as he holds the door to the hotel lobby open for me.
Being early, the room isn’t ready yet so we park the car in the garage (far less scary than the last time I was in one) and head out to get some lunch.
Though Seaside is small, the main “downtown” area just one or two streets, we’re immediately swept up into the crowd of vacationers. There are families pushing strollers dragging along kids with sticky hands and melting ice cream cones, young couples holding hands and gazing more at each other than where they are walking (which is into me on more than one occasion), groups of Germans holding maps (of what, the one street?).
And then there’s Jay and I, whatever we are.
Jay has a hankering for some clam chowder, and judging by all the shops selling “The Best Clam Chowder in Seaside!” it isn’t hard to find some. We settle on one that has a diner feel with red plastic booths and seagull figurines dangling from the ceiling.
Jay of course gets the chowder while I decide to be extremely boring and get toast. Normally I’d be polishing off the greasiest thing on the menu, but my appetite seems to be diminishing by the minute.
“Toast?” he repeats after the waitress takes our order, a girl no older than me that stopped snapping her gum for just long enough to give Jay googly eyes. I wanted to employ the same “Eyes right here, buddy” technique that Jay used on the hotel manager last night but the last thing I want is a catfight where hot bowls of chowder are scattered everywhere like landmines.
“Not hungry,” I tell him and he frowns at that.
“You should eat more. You’re skin and bones,” he teases.
I give him my most withering look. “You need to work on your compliments, mister.”
“Thought I gave you a pretty good one last night,” he says sincerely.
Right. I was wondering if that moment would ever be brought up again or if he would pretend it never happened.
“And,” he goes on, briefly reaching across the table to place his large warm hand on mine. Fire transfers through me. “I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”
“You sound just like my dad,” I say, trying to sound light but there’s no mistaking the tremor in my voice.
He removes his hand and the fire stops.
“Fair enough,” he says. “You know I’ll always look out for you.”
“It’s your job,” I concede.
“And I’m rather fond of you.”
I stare at him with startled eyes.
The waitress chooses this moment to plunk our coffees down and I immediately mainline mine, grateful for the distraction. She soon follows up with the toast and chowder.
When I’ve finished half the cup of Joe, black as sin, I wipe my lips on the napkin and say, “Speaking of my father. Do you think he’s doing all right?” I’d texted this morning and he said all was well but I need reassurance from Jay.
“I’m sure he’s forgotten all about last night.”
I doubted that. He would brush the scares under the rug as he always does (ask him about the time a pig carcass was found in the kitchen and his office was splattered with blood. Oh wait, you can’t, because he pretends it never happened). But he’s all about impressions ever since mom died. Like he’s picked up the reins. And he probably thinks he failed at his first dinner party. I make a mental note to cheer him up big time when I return. Whenever that is.
“So how does Jacob close a portal? And why doesn’t he just close all of them?”
He picks up the bottle of tabasco and shakes a dangerous amount of it in his chowder, staining it orange. “I don’t know how exactly. He just can. But the moment he closes one, another pops up. It’s an endless cycle. Which is why we need more legs on the ground.”
“Meaning me.”
He stirs the chowder and points the spoon at me. “Meaning you.”
“So why don’t you just create more Jacobs instead of pulling in recruits like me, who don’t know a thing about closing portals and killing demons and would much rather spend their Saturdays at the mall.”
I know I’m testing his patience with all the questions but hell, it’s not like he’s been forthcoming about any of this since I first met him.
“I don’t have all the answers you know.”
I give him a steady look. I’m not sure if I believe him. “Because you don’t even know who you
are
.”
His eyes narrow, a gaze that pins me to my seat. I mean, I physically can’t move and my lungs feel stuffed with cotton. What the fuck is this trickery?
“I don’t need to know who I was to know who I am,” he says. His voice is rough, hard, and for a moment I’m terrified I’ve angered him beyond repair.
“I didn’t mean to be insulting,” I manage to tell him with a broken voice, displaying my palms in a peace offering, even though moving is difficult while he’s staring at me like that. I feel like he’s using some part of him, some type of ability, on me that he hasn’t done before.
He keeps this intimidating gaze on me until he abruptly breaks it and looks down at his chowder. Suddenly I can breathe again. “I don’t have all the answers because that’s the nature of the game. It’s something I live with. Something you’ll have to live with too, no matter how curious you are or,” he pauses, “demanding you get. But I do know that all Jacobs come from somewhere. We weren’t ordinary people to begin with.”
“You’re not? What are you?”
He glances up at me. “People like you. People with abilities. Power. Sometimes power that lies latent inside them their whole entire life.”
“So the person you were before, the person that you have no clue about,” (
or so you say
, I add in my head), “was someone just like me. But obviously not a woman. Why so sexist?”
“Maybe because women are unpredictable,” he says simply.
“Excuse me?” I practically snarl, my hands pressed down on the table. “We are
not
unpredictable. When did you become such a caveman?”