Page 18 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
I turn to go, stepping into my foyer, but he reaches for me again, like he did at the gallery, brushing my curls from my eyes, his touch soft and sweet. The ease of it disarms me. Tears erupt from deep inside. In a swift motion, he cradles me in his arms. Any sane man would run, but he stays, stroking my back as the tears come endlessly. The seconds turn to minutes until I’m empty and wrung out.
“I don’t know where to begin,” I say finally.
“Perhaps we can start from the beginning.”
I shake my head, unable to even fathom how I’d explain it all.
“Vivian, I said you could trust me.” I gaze up at him, his arms still wrapped around me. Deep in my core, I know I can. I’m not sure that he should trust me, though. I think of Diego. Sebastian will only endup hurt in the end. Or worse. I study his face, wishing it could all be different. “I’ll understand.”
His promise lingers as I leave his warm grasp. A new resolve fills my heart. I start to walk toward the kitchen, then turn back. “You coming?”
A half smile tucks into the corner of his mouth. I fill the kettle and make us both a cup of tea. He carries the tray into the living room. It is a strange feeling that he seems so at home. He examines each wall painting, remarking on my pieces; then he turns to the shelves to run his fingers across the spines of my books. “You’ve amassed a collection of quite rare books. I thought my library was impressive, but this is ...” He fills the charged silence with praise as he soaks in the details of my world.
He pauses by the open trunk, glancing at me for permission. I wait as he peruses the objects, gently handling the albums of photos. Photos of every version of me. He flips through. “Are these your ancestors?” He flashes one at me.
“No, they’re me.” The words feel distant, but now that they’re out, I can’t take them back. They’re me. They’reme. It’s one of the first true things I’ve said to him since the moment we met.
I watch him marvel, his passion for history bubbling up inside his chest, before a wrinkle of confusion mars his brow. “Period-costume parties? Is that your thing, Vivian? Is that what you were too afraid to tell me?” He chuckles nervously.
My mouth is dry, so I take a gulp of tea. “That’s the thing, Sebastian ... you should know my name’s not Vivian.”
He rubs the ridge of his brow, confused. “So, you’re not Vivian Edwards? Esteemed journalist and writer?”
“Idogo by Vivian, and I wrote all those articles. So, it’s not about that.” I swallow hard, the truth on the tip of my tongue. “It’s just that ... Vivian’s not my original name.”
“So, what is it? A pen name? What do you mean?”
My heart hammers like a bird is trapped in my chest. Once I do this, there isn’t any going back. Despite the cost, I only want to go forward.
“I mean that the answer to your question ... none of it is going to make sense.”
“I’m a historian. I can puzzle together a lot.” His eyes widen with deep trust.
“My name is Nella May Carter, and I was born in February of 1760.”
Sebastian paces around my coffee table. He’s on his fifteenth lap. Hands pressed against his head, soft mumbles under his breath. “This is a prank, right? Is it because I’m new to the history department? Is this some kind of ... initiation?” He glances at me again, searching for the gotcha.
“It’s not.” I fuss with my dress, the nervous energy in my hands looking for an out. “It’s one of the first true things I’ve ever told you. Ever toldanyonethis decade.”
I wait for him to run. A normal person would run or, at the very least, search for the number for the nearest psychiatric unit, but he stays put, staring down at me, his brain, no doubt, trying to reason it all out. “Let me explain.” I shift on the couch to make space for him.
He eases beside me like getting in a too-hot bath, wary, a little fearful. “But ... how?”
I’ve forgotten where to begin. It’s been so long since I’ve uttered it out loud. “Have you ever readFaust?”
His eyes bug out. “You made a deal with the devil?”
“Not thedevil.” I shake my head. “Death. There’s a difference.” It’s subtle, but I understand his thinking. I haven’t met the devil in all my life, but I’ve seen enough evil to believe there is one.
“Okay ... so you made a deal with Death for ... immortality?” He rubs his temples and doesn’t touch his tea.
“I was dying of typhoid, and I asked Death to save me,” I say matter-of-factly, knowing how implausible it sounds.
“Typhoid?” He makes a face. “What is this,The Oregon Trail?”
“Hey!” I say, wagging a finger at him. “It was pretty common back then. You should all be more grateful for clean drinking water and antibiotics.”
“Okay, okay.” He holds up his hands. “I apologize. Typhoid is a perfectly reasonable and respectable way to die.”
