Bring Me Your Midnight(73)

She is so close, an arm’s length away, but nothing lights in her eyes, not even a ghost of recognition.

I clutch my chest because of the pressure, the pain that’s building there. It isn’t normal, pain like this. Fuck, it feels like every one of my ribs has fractured and lodged itself directly in my lungs.

I want to know if she took the memory eraser willingly or if it was forced on her. I need to know. But if it’s the former, I don’t think I’d survive it.

She walks up the beach and onto the road, stopping when she gets there. She slowly turns around. I hold my breath as she watches me, her eyes on mine convincing my heart to start beating again. Is there the hint of recognition?

I almost walk right up to her, take her face in my hands and tell her she knows me, that whatever she’s sensing in her gut is real. But she shakes her head slightly and turns back to the road, walking away from me. I stand still, watching her until she rounds a corner and I can’t see her anymore.

I stay where I am.

It’s over. But it can’t be over. It can’t be.

Would it be wrong to see her again, to try to make her remember me if she willingly chose to forget?

I know that it would. I know it, but I can’t let her go.

Then we can burn together.

I pick up a rock and heave it into the ocean, yelling as I do. The pain in my chest gets worse, and my yelling gets louder, but it doesn’t fix anything.

God, I’m falling apart. There’s no way I’ll survive this.

You will be the end of me.

Mortana is gone, and she doesn’t remember.

I gasp at the fire in my lungs.

She doesn’t remember.





thirty-two





There is a boy on the shore, standing alone in the pouring rain. There’s a hard set to his jaw, and his hair is messy and dark. His skin is pale, and his eyes are stormy like the weather today. I’m embarrassed to catch myself staring.

But it’s hard not to.

He’s soaking wet and absolutely stunning.

I force myself to look past him and ask if he knows how to find his way back to the ferry. He does, but there’s a strain in his voice that makes it sound like he’s angry.

He says my name, my full name, and something about the word in his mouth makes my insides stir. It reminds me of a dream I’ve been having of someone whispering my full name on the western shore. It has woken me up every night lately, always at midnight. Such an odd dream. No one on this island uses my full name, and yet he did.

He did, and it looks as if his entire world has been ripped out from under him.

I want to ask him if he needs help, if there’s anything I can do, but something stops me. I’m afraid I’ve offended him by not knowing him when he clearly knows me. But we get so many patrons in the perfumery that it’s hard to remember them all.

Though in this case, it surprises me that I don’t. He’s impossible to look away from—I can’t believe I forgot meeting him.

I offer him a smile, but for some reason, it seems to upset him.

I should go.

I walk up the beach to the road, fighting the urge to turn back to him the whole way. When I reach the sidewalk, I finally do.

And when I turn, he’s watching me.

My stomach catches in my throat, and I feel weightless, like that first exhilarating moment when I dive beneath the surface of the water. He’s magnetic—an invisible force pushes me toward him.

I want to know his story.

I shake my head and force myself to look away.

I have my own story, one that’s been written since the day I was born. And something tells me that if I were to read his, it would become my favorite. So instead, I go home and continue to live out the pages my parents have already written for me.

But maybe I’ll sneak in one of my own, a single page about a beautiful boy with stormy gray eyes, that is just for me.





thirty-three





“You look beautiful,” my mother says as I come down the stairs. I’m wearing a pale pink sheath dress, teardrop earrings, and nude evening shoes. I tug at the dress and smooth it down at the sides, but no matter how I fidget, I can’t get comfortable.

I don’t want my hair pulled back so tightly it gives me a headache and my dress so starched I’m scared of putting a single wrinkle in it. I want to feel like myself, with my hair unbrushed and wild, with interesting jewelry and clothing that moves with me. I want to wear dark colors instead of the pastels my coven favors.

I want to be myself in a space that feels like it wasn’t meant for me.

I shake my head and smile at my mother. I’m just nervous.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say.

My dad puts the finishing touches on the table, and it takes my breath away. Candles run the length of it, different heights and shapes, flickering in the dim room. Autumn leaves are crushed and scattered between them with white rose petals sitting on top. The room smells of the roast my dad made, and he puts a bottle of wine over ice just as the doorbell rings.

I jump at the sound of it.

My mother walks to the door and opens it wide. “Marshall, Elizabeth, welcome to our home! It is so lovely to have you here.”

Elizabeth and my mother exchange kisses on each cheek and throw compliments at each other as if they’re petals being tossed down a wedding aisle. Landon trails behind them, and my mother’s smile widens when she sees him.