The Spell Realm (The Sorcery Code #2)(73)

I think women would probably consider him good-looking, though it’s not a modest thing to admit.

I am not good at rating the attractiveness of guys—never have been—but some things are common sense. I can tell when a dude is ugly, and this frozen me is not. I also know that generally, being good-looking requires a symmetrical face—and the statue of me has that. A strong jaw doesn’t hurt either. Check. Having broad shoulders is a positive, and being tall really helps. All covered. I have blue eyes—that seems to be a plus. Girls have told me that they like my eyes, though right now, on the frozen me, they look creepy—glassy and shiny. They look like the eyes of a wax figure. Lifeless.

Realizing that I’m dwelling on this subject too long, I shake my head. I can just picture my shrink analyzing this moment. Who would imagine admiring themselves like this as part of their mental illness? I can just picture her scribbling down words like ‘narcissistic.’

Enough. I need to leave the Quiet. Raising my hand, I touch my frozen self on the forehead, and I hear noise again as I phase out.

Everything is back to normal.

The king that I looked at a moment before—the king that I left on the table—is in the air again, and from there it follows the trajectory it was always meant to, landing near the Professional’s hands. The Grandma is still eyeing her fanned cards in disappointment, and the Cowboy has his hat on again, though I took it off in the Quiet. Everything is exactly as it was the moment I phased into the Quiet.

On some level, my brain never ceases to be surprised at the discontinuity of the experience in the Quiet and outside it. It’s almost hardwired into us to question reality when such things happen. When I was trying to outwit my shrink, early on in the therapy, I once read a whole psychology textbook during our session. She, of course, didn’t notice it, as I did it in the Quiet. The book talked about how babies, even as young as two months old, get surprised if they see something out of the ordinary, like gravity appearing to work backwards. It’s no wonder my brain has trouble adapting. Until I was ten, the world behaved normally, but since then, everything has been weird, to put it mildly.

Glancing down, I realize I am holding a three of a kind. Next time I will look at my cards before phasing. If I have something this strong, I might take my chances and play fair.

The game unfolds predictably because I know everybody’s cards. At the end, the Grandma gets up. She’s clearly lost enough money.

And that’s when I see her for the first time.

She’s hot. My friend Bert at work claims that I have a ‘type.’ He even described to me what my type is, after he saw a few of the girls I dated. I reject the overall idea of a ‘type.’ I don’t like to think of myself as shallow or predictable. But I might actually be a bit of both because this girl fits Bert’s description of my type to a T. And my reaction is extreme interest, to say the least.

Large blue eyes. Well-defined cheekbones on a slender face, with a hint of something exotic. Long, extremely shapely legs, like those of a dancer. Dark wavy hair in a ponytail, which I like. And without bangs—even better. I hate bangs—not sure why girls do that to themselves. Though lack of bangs was not, strictly speaking, in Bert’s description of my type, it probably should have been.

I continue staring at her. With her high heels and tight skirt, she’s a bit overdressed for this place. Or maybe I’m a bit underdressed in my jeans and t-shirt. Either way, I don’t care. I have to try to talk to her.

I debate phasing into the Quiet and approaching her, so I can do something creepy, like staring at her up close or maybe even snooping in her pockets. Anything to help me when I talk to her.

I decide against it, which is probably the first time that has ever happened.

My reasoning for breaking my usual habit, if you can even call it that, is very strange. Talk about jumping the gun. I picture the following chain of events: she agrees to date me, we date for a time, we get serious, and because of the deep connection we have, I come clean about the Quiet. She learns I did something creepy and has a fit, then dumps me. It’s ridiculous to think this, of course, considering that we haven’t even spoken yet. She might have an IQ below 70 or have the personality of a piece of wood. There can be twenty different reasons I wouldn’t want to date her. And besides, it’s not all up to me. She might tell me to go f*ck myself as soon as I try to talk to her.

Still, working at a hedge fund has taught me to hedge. As crazy as that reasoning is, because I know it would be the gentlemanly thing to do, I stick with my decision not to phase. In keeping with this unusual chivalry for me, I also decide not to cheat at this round of poker.

As the cards are dealt again, I reflect on how good it feels to have done the honorable thing—even without anyone knowing. Maybe I should try to respect people’s privacy more often. Yeah, right. I have to be realistic. I wouldn’t be where I am today if I had followed that advice. In fact, if I made a habit of respecting people’s privacy, I would lose my job within days—and with it, a lot of the comforts I have grown used to.

Copying the Professional’s move, I cover my cards with my hand as soon as I receive them. I am about to sneak a peek at what I was dealt when something unusual happens.

The world goes quiet, just like it does when I phase in . . . but I did nothing this time.

And at that moment, I see her—the girl sitting across the table from me, the girl I was just thinking about. She’s standing next to me, pulling her hand away from mine. Or, strictly speaking, from my frozen self’s hand—as I’m standing a little to the side looking at her.