My shoulders shake and my head bobbles around. Peter comes up behind me, wrapping a thick fleece blanket around me. He starts rubbing my shoulders, trying to get my circulation moving. What I should really do is get in the shower, but I'm too tired to take my clothes off. Peter picks me up, taking me to bed and tucking me in with as many blankets as he can find before making the fastest cup of tea ever. My hands are shaking too much for me to hold it, so Peter tips it to my lips.
“Thank you.”
“I have turned you into a popsicle,” he says with a smile.
I gape at him for a second.
“Good job.” I'd give him a pat on the back if I wasn't buried in twelve thousand blankets.
He tips the cup to my mouth. “I have been working on it while you sleep.” Sometimes he says the strangest things. Taken out of context, I should have him arrested. “Did I say something wrong?” He asks when I don't respond.
“Not at all.” I finish my tea and start to warm up a little. Peter moves closer to me, stroking my hair. That's certainly warming me up. Maybe it's something about my insides thawing that loosens something I've wanted to tell him for a while.
“You know what the worst thing is about having a mother who is dying of cancer?” He blinks, waiting or me to continue.
“One,” I hold up a finger, “you know that you're going to live the rest of your life without her. Two,” I hold up another, “you think about your own mortality. A lot. Like, all the time. You think how horrible dying is. How scary. When you see your strong, unstoppable mother go through that you think, I could never do that, I'm just not strong enough. So I'm scared. I'm scared of death, I'm scared of losing her, I'm scared of losing you.” I fist my hand in his shirt, trying to make him understand.
I'd actually thought more about death in the past two years than anyone my age reasonably should.
His eyes are distant, closed off. He's withdrawing from me again. Shit. “You cannot understand the consequences. You cannot understand what it would be like.” He won't even entertain it. Not even as a possibility.
But I wasn't just doing it for me. If I helped him break the bind, then his life, existence, whatever, would be free. He could do what he wanted. He could even love someone other than me. He could love the whole damn world. My mortality seemed a reasonable price to pay.
“You mean the blood drinking and all that? Yeah, it would kind of suck. Wow, I did not mean to make that pun.” It would be funny under normal circumstances.
“You would kill people. Are you prepared for that?”
“I wouldn't have to. You learned not to do it.” That was one thing I knew I couldn't deal with, even when it came to the reality of it happening.
I didn't want to think about drinking blood. But I figured that I'd get to a point after the whole changing thing and I'd become okay with it. Just, um, like that. Like a light switch.
He looks away from me. “It was not easy.”
“But you did it. That's the point.” It didn't matter if it wasn't easy, only that it could be done. Had been done. “I wish you could just read my mind and see the truth.”
“Ava.”
“Fine, let's not talk about it.” What I want, more than anything else right now is to go to sleep with Peter next to me. My body has finally stopped shaking, so I reach for my tea. There's still tension between us. Caused by whatever he's keeping from me. It's like something is clogging the line that runs between us. I wonder if he feels it.
“You would miss earth-shattering cheesecake,” he comments.
I sip the warm liquid, feeling it seep down my throat and warm me from the inside. “True. But I'd have blood.” I try to sound cheerful, but yurgh. Blood.
“It is not the same.”
“I know that. But I'd give up earth-shattering cheesecake if it meant you got to be free.” I want to reach out to him, to touch is face and kiss him and breathe him in.
I look up at him and he meets my eyes, pulling me in for only a second. Then he blinks and pulls back. I feel like I've been slapped in the face.
“You should get to bed.” He's hurt me again, but I try not to show it. I drain the rest of my tea, trying not to look at him.
“Goodnight, Peter.” I don't wait for him to get his book or do anything else. I just turn over and pretend to sleep.
I feel, rather than hear, him sigh. He picks a book off the top of the stack and opens the cover.
“Goodnight, Ava.”
Peter
She is upset, as I expected. I can always tell now. Images flash through my mind, including one of me. It must be how she sees me. But it is gone before I can study it. She is still a conundrum. Part of me doesn't wish to understand how her mind works. I still like being surprised by her. I don't want that to change. Ever.
I understand that my words hurt her. But I could not let Cal know my true feelings for her. He would not help me if he knew. Ava was right, I should have let her in. I have been alone for so long, I often forget that I have to consider another person. She knows I am keeping things from her. But she does not know why. Perhaps, one day, I will tell her.
I'm distracted from my book by Ava. She's deep in sleep. So deep that I get up and take a shower. A wonderful invention, indoor plumbing.
She's having another nightmare when I return. Her legs twitch and her eyebrows contract, forming a crease that I want to put my thumb in to smooth it away like clay. Her hands are clasped under her chin. She twists them, as if she's trying to hold onto something. I consider waking her. I have done it before. With just a nudge, she would come out of it naturally. But I hesitate. It is not that I want her to suffer. But dreams are mysterious things. Sometimes they tell us things we need to see. My mother always believed in the truth behind dreams. I do not dream anymore, and even a nightmare would be welcome.
She moans a little and rolls so she is facing me. Despite her anger from before, she still turns toward me in her sleep. I do not touch her, but let her pull herself closer to me. Her hands grab at my shirt and she snuggles into my chest. She will move away in the morning, but for now, she seems to need to hold onto me. Her sleeping body doesn't know it, but I put my arm around her, pulling her closer. She sighs a little. The dream has passed. I go back to my book.
In the morning, I sense her mother coming up the stairs and slip out the window and onto the roof. The day is gray, the clouds swollen with rain. I hear the knock at the door, and Ava's confused voice answers.
“Wake up sleepyhead. It's almost eleven.” Ava mutters something in reply.