Page 46 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

She chuckles, then her eyes dip down, traveling over my chest, my abs, my hips, and I have to force images of dead animals to the forefront of my mind as her gaze lingers just a little too long on the spot I’m desperately trying to keep the blood from rushing to. Even still, I can’t quell the goosebumps that prickle up all over me at the sight of her drinking me in.

After what feels like the longest moment of my life, she looks up and smirks. “Were you eavesdropping on us?”

I scoff, knowing immediately that the jig is up by the obnoxious sound I just made. “No! I mean . . . not intentionally.”

She smiles a little wider.

“I didn’t realize you were here. Why are you here? I mean . . . How—how are you?”

Her face darkens for a moment before she shakes her head, her smile brighter than ever. “I’m great. Becks invited me over to make scarves for that AIDS charity she volunteers with. Plus she wanted my help proofreading a pamphlet for this new safe sex campaign.”

“Oh.” Why did she have to saysex?

“I saw the article in theChronicle,” she says, but I can’t help noticing the way her eyes shine and how her voice breaks on the last word. “It was glowing. I’m sure it’ll do wonders for you, publicity-wise.”

My mouth twists. She’s happy, but there’s an edge to her voice that catches me off guard. From what I know about Isabella,which admittedly is far less than I’d like to, she would never be unhappy at anyone else’s success. Especially when she helped to create it in the first place. She worked tirelessly to promote us the best way she could. Something she never had to do.

“Itwasgreat,” I say, softly. “But I prefer yours.”

Her cheek twitches and her face softens, the phony smile changing to something more sincere, sweet. More like her.

“How’s it going anyway?” I continue. “At school, I mean. I didn’t see anything written by you in the paper on Monday.”

“You were looking?”

I move to step forward, then remember I’m surrounded by glass. I’m stuck. Where the hell did Becks go to get a broom? Outer space? “Yeah, I always do. Becks brings them home. You’re a great writer.”

Her face turns the most brilliant shade of red, and her arms drop to wrap around her waist. Her posture becomes more protective, like she’s shielding herself. “Thanks. I uh . . . I had an article written for this week but my editor got wind of the piece in theChronicleand—well, he decided not to run it.”

My heart sinks. “Oh. That sucks.”

She shrugs.

“Does that mean you won’t be writing about us anymore?”

The thought of Isabella never coming to a gig again, or never showing up at a recording session, of never reading her words on a page about us and feeling like she knows me—understands me . . . My heart aches at the thought.

Her eyes drop to the floor, where she’s shifting her weight between her feet. The sight makes me want to reach out and touch her. To be fair, most things make me want to touch her. But when she looks back up, her eyes are shining in the late morning light.

“Actually, I won’t be writing anything for the paper anymore.”

I blink, confused. “What?”

“I quit.”

My eyes widen at her confession. “You—”

“Sorry, that took forever. Apparently, Key had the broom outside his window after trying to chase away a noisy pigeon.”

Becks comes back into view and starts sweeping up the shattered glass fragments, the sound of them tinkling against the floor. When I look up, Isabella has turned and is walking back toward where she and Becks were sitting earlier. But even from where I stand, still half naked, I see her wiping her cheeks furiously with the back of her hand.

Almost like theconversation with Isabella never happened, I watch as she smiles and laughs over the Chinese takeout the six of us got for dinner. What is she talking about? She quit the paper? Doesn’t she need that for school? And what would make her quit? Writing is something she clearly has a gift for. Did something happen?

Maybe the story with her editor dismissing her wasn’t true. She didn’t seem genuinely happy about the article, not at all. I take another bite of my Chow Mein and swallow, watching the way she happily chats to James and Becks about their upcoming nuptials.

A reel of film races through my mind. Images of words and pieces of information flipping through like stop-motion as they try to form a coherent thought. Something is off. And that article, it was like . . . like, I don’t know, familiar? Like I’ve read it before. Am I crazy?

The phone rings in the background, and James jumps up from the table to go and answer it. I bite into a spring roll as I watch Isabella drown the rest of her beer.

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