Page 75 of Torn

But is it still true? Is she still everything?

Something in him resists that notion. Something about it feels inaccurate.

She angles toward his hand as if consenting for more, acknowledging the possession and loss of him.

Or she’s merely investigating. Or he’s projecting.

Compassion creases her forehead, like she’s guilty and sorry. Like she wants to explore him, to know what she did to him, and then to apologize. To oblige him, make amends, make him feel better.

It’s the most offensive and bittersweet moment he’s ever known with her.

An inquiry stutters from her mouth. “Who are you?”

If Anger answers, it might cause a domino effect, a shift in events. It’s a chance to tell her, to have faith that she might believe it.

To the contrary, it’s a chance to disturb her life and ruin the Fates, which is exactly what Wonder was trying to warn him about. He runs the risk of forgetting himself and going too far. Replying might soothe Anger, but it might break Love. She might question her sanity, become obsessed with knowing more. She might feel the deprivation of her past acutely.

And he just might rob her of peace. And his people of their existence.

It’s not worth it. It’s not what he wants.

This small exchange, this tiny intermission, is enough. It has to be.

And he’s…he’s fine with that.

Realizing this, a painful pressure lifts. It sighs from his chest, akin to relief.

Anger’s mouth brushes her cheek, as she once did to him. Except, his touch swims through her skin. She gasps, a tendril of sound like she can see him, see the blur of him. His skin becomes effervescent as her gaze trails the outline of his arm, his chin.

She’s almost there, almost to his eyes, almost level with him.

Yes, she had been everything. For a little while.

And for that little while, she could have been his, if he’d been courageous enough. If he hadn’t toggled between his beliefs and hers, between his duty and hers, between everything that had made them different and similar. If he’d been able to reconcile that.

If she hadn’t fallen for someone else.

Someone who makes her happy. Someone who gives her what she needs. Someone who truly sees her.

Someone who’s heading this way.

The mortal rounds the corner. He’s a young man with a lopsided gait, his limp causing a delay between footsteps. Despite the handicap, he’s hale, with shaggy white hair that brightens the corridor and broad shoulders encased in a black, high-collared jacket.

His name is Andrew. And when he sees Love, the rings of his gray eyes shimmer with a thousand moments, a million heartbeats.

With selfless, unconditional love.

Anger understands now. What this human feels for her is eternal, pure yet imperfect. Therefore, it’s real.

The minty scent of sincerity, coexisting with the buzz of impishness and the fluff of affection, radiates from Andrew. Like a sprite—actually, very much like Love herself—he rests his palms over her eyes.

“Guess who,” he teases. “And you’d better be right.”

Just like that, his presence yanks the ground from beneath Anger, stealing her away. The connection snaps like a cord. The jolt makes Anger stumble—one step, two steps, three steps.

Love’s interest in him dissolves, the veil falling into place. Her attention transfers to her beau, an ardent smile splitting her face. “Hmm,” she plays along, a little winded from the aftermath of her trance. “It’s a book worm.”

“Who’s caught a feline,” he adds.

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