Page 39 of Heathens
“You can’t go home,” I whisper back, pulling her close to me. She settles into my abdomen as I spoon her, her body instantly relaxing at the contact. “But I promise, there is nothing for you there. Here... you’ll make new friends. You’ll have a new family.”
“Are you from Beijing, too?” she whispers, closing her eyes.
“Yes,” I lie, my Mandarin accent perfect. She won’t care one way or another tomorrow. Won’t remember any of this thanks to the cocktail of pills I gave her earlier. It’s all subliminal. “Yes, I am.”
* * *
After I have my way with her—twice—I step outside of the hotel room and pull out my cell phone. My fingers hover over the numbers for a minute before I dial the number by heart. I’ve been waiting for the perfect moment, waiting to open myself up completely, and Mae, the Chinese girl just inside the room, is the answer to everything. She will give us access to networks we only dreamt of—networks that will need to be run without any interference.
Networks that will rely on good people, honest people.
I hit ‘dial.'
He’s already slipping away. I can sense it. Why not show him the door to hell?
An Old Soul
Lily
Present
I am falling in love with Salem.
At least, that’s the only explanation I have for the way I’ve been acting.
Giggling, smiling, skipping, dancing. I’m taking photos nonstop, more inspired than I’ve ever been. I’m sleeping well for the first time in years, enjoying food more than I ever have, and I’m seeing Paris in a whole new light—as the city that shaped and morphed Salem into the man he is.
Thoughtful.
Wise.
Kind.
An old soul, a man not from this time.
And I like to think this city imprinted some of its essence into him.
So when I show up at Notre Dame a few days later, at my normal time on my normal day, I can’t concentrate on anything other than trying to find him amongst the arcane, vigilant walls.
The church is nearly empty, thanks to the Bastille Day parade happening along the Seine today. So, I wander, admiring the open space and the way it amplifies every sound so distinctly. The way it seems to buzz with energy, the way the light pours through the rose window in colorful beams. I run my fingers along the smooth, cherry wood of the altar and look up at the statue of Jesus on the cross. Squinting, I study his face. Whoever carved this—whoever added the thin layer of paint—did a fantastic job. He looks peaceful, tranquil. Considering what he's about to endure, he is undisturbed. Like he's walking into his fate with no qualms.
I turn around and walk down the aisle slowly, clacking my boots a bit too loudly. No one looks up—the three people in the pews hardly noticed when I walked by. But maybe Salem will come out from wherever he’s hiding.
I skirt the outer sides of the pews, poking my head into each alcove. I get a prickly feeling that runs like cold water down my neck and then my spine.
Like someone’s watching me.
I look around casually, but I don't see him. I haven't seen him since the weekend when I awoke wrapped in my blanket and a note that said he'd left some pasta for me in the refrigerator. Jekyll was staring at the closed door, his tail swishing on the wood floor as if he were waiting for Salem to come back. We'd texted every day, but his studies had left him busier than normal, and we hadn't yet spoken today.
God, I am becoming a lovesick puppy.
Shaking my head, I’m just about to turn and leave, saving myself from embarrassment, when I see him striding out of an office, a look of dark calm on his face.
“Let's go,“ he says through clenched teeth, walking past me and through the front doors. I don't even hesitate before falling into step behind him.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, wringing my hands together and practically jogging to keep up with him. Maybe—maybe he’s telling me he can’t see me anymore.
That’s I’m not worth the trouble. I swallow.
