****
All I smell when I walk back into the house is blood. I thought my tolerance was getting better, but it slams me like a bolt of lightning. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Only that doesn't help.
For some reason, it gets worse at night, or when I've been away from it and then come back or I'm stressed. Or all three in the present case.
I start to panic, running up to my room and shutting the door. Of course Mom thinks something's wrong and I have to tell her that I'm just in a hurry to get ready for the date. I throw the window open and pace the room, gnawing at my thumbnail and praying Peter gets here fast.
I'm tempted to send out an SOS, using our connection, but I'm trying not to rely on him so much. It's selfish. But I must have called to him anyway, because he's in the window five minutes later. And less than two seconds after that he takes my hand and does the calming thing, stroking my hair and saying things I can't understand in my current state.
And it stops. Peter is a balm to my burning body. Somehow the smell dissipates, fading until all I smell is the leftover pie, my mother's soap and Peter. All perfectly lovely non-blood scents. I want to kiss Peter to thank him, but hold back.
Why does he always have to save me? Why can't I be the one doing the saving?
I want to be the hero. Just once.
“Stop saving me,” I whisper.
“I am not saving you. I am helping.” I'm not having another argument about definitions, so I let go of his hand.
“You should go. You're supposed to pick me up in twenty minutes.” He stands behind me, putting his hands on my waist.
“I will be here in fifteen.”
“Okay,” I say, trying not to let myself melt into him. I'd been far too free with him this afternoon. It wouldn't lead to anything good. Whoever created that saying about temptation being fun, but giving in is better clearly had never been involved with a noctalis.
I think he's going to say something else, but he must sense me pushing him away, even if I'm not doing it physically. He steps away and is out the window before I can breathe again.
I shouldn't have done that. Today had been so much fun being with Peter and laughing and pretending to be human.
My negativity had gotten us nowhere. I'd made a promise to myself to be less negative, and here I was, captain of the SS Negativity. Why did I always do that? Between the possibility of losing him, and the things he'd said the night before, I'm drowning in a well of suckiness.
I paced around the room, trying to get myself out of the deep hole I'd sunk into again. A knock at my door startles me.
“Hey ma fleur, everything okay?” She's got her apron on again. Pretty soon we're going to have to stockpile pies in the basement at the rate she's making them.
“Yeah, fine.”
“You sure?”
“No, not really.” She comes in and closes the door. I want to run to her, to crush myself on her shoulder and cry and have her fix it. But I'm too old for that. Even my mother couldn't fix something supernatural.
“Can I help?” I sigh.
“I just can't seem to stop thinking that bad things are going to happen. That every time something good happens, that something else will come and take it away.”
“You have to have the bad. If you didn't have that, you wouldn't see the good when it shows up. Just let the good happen.”
It was so simple. Let it happen. Go with it. Ride the wave, go with the flow, etc. I could do that. Hell, if she could do it, then I could. All my negativity from seconds ago seemed so childish. Immature. Useless. All it did was make me miserable. Then it would transfer to Peter and we'd be the Debbie Downer couple. I didn't want that.
I believed in our relationship, Peter and me. Somehow we'd been brought together. Before my mother got sick, I believed everything happened for a reason. After my mother's diagnosis, I knew that wasn't true. Still, I had to believe that Peter and I were meant to be. Or that I was meant to help him get free of his bind. Maybe that was it.
It was enough for me.
“See?” Mom smiles after watching my mental process. I'm sure it was written all over my face.
“Yeah.”
“You're my smart child.”
“I'm your only child.”
“Exactly.” I get a hug before she leaves me to get ready for my date.
****
A hour later Peter comes to pick me up in the Prius. I thought about putting on the new sparkly dress on, but settle for jeans and a nice black v-neck shirt with embellishments around the neckline, and a pair of riding boots. I wait until the last possible second to go downstairs. I hold my breath all the way to the door.
He rings the doorbell like a gentleman, and I let him in, taking in his new outfit. A button-up shirt in a blue that almost matches one of his eyes, black pants, a leather jacket and the dress shoes. Atop his head is the fedora, tilted jauntily to the side. He's perfect.
I finally breathe, and the scent of blood claws at me. Peter grabs my hands and yanks me toward him. I'm crushed to his chest as he says, “fight it.”
I try.
Mom and Dad sit in the living room, waiting. Peter tows me in behind him like a puppy on a leash.
I'm having flashbacks from when we did this last time. It didn't go well then, and this time we don't have Aj. At least we have somewhere to be, so there isn't a lot of time for awkward questions. Or is there?
“Where are you going on your date?” is the first question. Please don't say flying or the cemetery, please don't say flying or the cemetery. Peter lets go of my hand, and the loss of contact instantly freaks me out. I'm panicking about having the smell come back to me, and that, in turn, makes me panic more. And then it happens. Visions of how many ways I could kill my father chase each other through my head, one after the other. My pasted-on smile falls and it's all I can do to stay in the chair.
Peter takes my hand again and sends me all he can, but I would need to practically lie on top of him to douse the flames of this attack. It's up to him to do all the talking. He's leaning on the chair I'm sitting in, so this helps a little.
“I thought we could have desert at that diner Ava likes so much and then perhaps a walk on the beach.” I would snort with laughter at this, if I wasn't currently not in a laughing state. It sounds like something we'd do if he could, you know, actually eat. Something that a normal human couple would do.
“Oh, that sounds so romantic.” Mom clutches onto Dad, distracting him for a second. I really need to learn how to do that. Then Peter pulls me onto his lap and I forget everything else. Oh thank god. He wraps me in him and only him and I couldn't be happier, or safer, or anything other than blissfully happy.