NOCTE (Nocte Trilogy #1)(13)

“It’s kismet because you seem like someone I might like to know. Is that odd?”

No, because I want to know you, too.

“Maybe,” I say instead. “Is it odd that I feel like I already know you somehow?”

Because I do. There’s something so familiar about his eyes, so dark, so bottomless. But then again, I have been dreaming about them for days.

Dare raises an eyebrow. “Maybe I have that kind of face.”

I choke back a snort. Not hardly.

He stares at me. “Regardless, kismet always prevails.”

I shake my head and smile. A real smile. “The jury is still out on that one.”

Dare takes a last drink of coffee, his gaze still frozen to mine, before he thunks his cup down on the table and stands up.

“Well, let me know what the jury decides.”

And then he walks away.

I’m so dazed by his abrupt departure that it takes me a second to realize something because kismet always prevails and I’m someone he might like to know.

He took my dad’s phone number with him.





6


SEX



Finn





Nocte liber sum Nocte liber sum

By night I am free.

Alea iacta est The die has been cast. The die has been cast.

The die has been f*cking cast.

Serva me, servabo te. Save me and I will save you.

Save me.

Save me.

Save me.



“Hey, bro.” Calla walks into my room, abruptly, unannounced, and I instantly close my journal, hiding my thoughts behind its brown leather cover. “What’s up?”

I smile, swallowing my panic, hiding everything carefully and completely behind my teeth.

“Not much. You?”

“Not much. Just restless.”

She hops onto my bed, sitting next to me, her fingers immediately tracing the letters on the front of my journal. She knows enough not to open it.

I shrug. “We should do something.”

Act normal.

She nods. “K. Like what? Wanna drive to Warrenton beach?”

To see the old Iredale wreck? We’ve seen it a million times, but whatever.

“Sure,” I answer simply. Because sometimes saying fewer words makes it easier to conceal the crazy.

We climb off the bed and Calla turns to me, grabbing my elbow.

“Hey, Finn?”

I pause, staring down at her. “Yeah?”

“You’ve seemed….off this whole week. I thought when you went to group a second time it’d help, but you still seem strange. If something’s wrong, you’d tell me, right?”

Youcan’tYoucan’tYoucan’tYoucan’t. You’re crazycrazycrazycrazy. Don’tTellHerYourSecretSecretSecret.

I swallow back the voices.

Act normal.

“I’m fine,” I lie. A blissful lie to spare her worry, to spare my pride, to spare me the humiliation of being dragged away to a padded room, to a place where keys are thrown away and the crazy people are forgotten, replaced by medicated shells.

“Promise?” Calla is hesitant, her red hair standing out like fire against my white curtains. She almost always accepts my word, but this time, she knows me. She knows I’m lying.

“Repromissionem,” I assure her. She rolls her eyes.

“You know, sometimes, Latin just complicates things. That took you five syllables to say what you could’ve said in two.”

I smile and shrug. “It’s a dignified language. It has character.”

“If by dignified, you mean dead, ok.”

She laughs and I pretend to, because honestly we’re shells anyway, medicated or not. We’re not the people we used to be. We just look like it on the outside.

We clatter down the creaky steps of our house, bickering back and forth, doing our best to seem normal because mom always said fake it ‘til you make it. We’re definitely doing our part.

As we round the corner into the large, elaborate foyer, the distinct roar of a motorcycle splits apart the serene atmosphere of the funeral home. We stare at each other.

We don’t typically get mourners on motorcycles this far up the mountain.

Dad steps past us, eyeing Calla curiously.

“Thanks for referring someone to me for the carriage house. I wasn’t expecting your help with that, considering how much you wanted it for yourself.”

Calla stops still, frozen in place, while she stares at dad.

“He called?”

He?

Her voice is filled with anxiety and happiness and hope. I stare at her. What the hell is this?

Dad nods. “Yeah. This morning. That’ll be him now, to look at it.”

Calla spins around and stares out the window, and I look over her shoulder.

A black, aggressive motorcycle, a Triumph, is parked on the circular drive, as a tall dark-haired guy stands in front of it, removing his black helmet.

Calla is so absorbed in watching him that she doesn’t realize how closely I’m watching her.

She smiles a beatific smile. “It’s been days since I told him about it. I thought he didn’t want it.”

My dad raises his eyebrow. “He still might not. He’s just here to look at it. Really quick—how did you meet him?”