“I do,” I promise her. “But the thing is … there are more important things than being pretty. “
“Like what?”
“Like being good and nice and happy. That’s what will make people want to play with you and be around you.” I reach out toward the magazine, and she loosens her grip, letting me take it. “Pretty only matters in pictures.”
I rise and hand the magazine to her father. Unbidden, my mind starts spiraling out of control, picturing this little girl, this man who I can’t help but notice wears no ring, and me. I start picturing what it would be like to have that kind of life, something I never allow myself to do, and the look he gives me and the brush of his fingers over mine don’t help me shut it down.
I stick out my hand when I should be walking away. Running even.
“I’m Kalli.”
His hand is big and warm around mine. The earlier brush of his fingers is completely eclipsed by the strength and surety of his grip. And the inspiration swirls in me, like a storm gathering on the sea, clamoring for him. His eyes trail over my face and then down. His perusal is quick, and his eyes pull back to mine fast. He’s trying to be a gentleman, but that intensity is still there in his gaze, and I feel it burn through my veins. Desire engulfs me, and I can no longer differentiate between it and the unnatural energy that rests just behind my ribs.
“Wilder,” he says, his voice deeper, raspier. And all I want to do is touch him, to know what he’s thinking, to study just where the wholesome and good half of him gives way to the sin I see in his eyes.
I’m almost lost to it, almost ready to push inspiration into this complete stranger, because the buzz I feel around him is addictive. And the release, oh gods, it would be so good.
But I can’t. Absolutely can’t. I have to be careful even with my artists not to overload them, not to give them too much. And it’s so much easier to pass that point with someone who’s not already open to his or her creative side.
Too much and I could ruin him. Ruin this perfect life he has.
And I might do this kind of thing out of necessity, but I don’t have it in me to be that selfish. The other gods might think of mortals as less than them, but I’ve walked among them for millennium. They are not less to me. In fact, I’m more jealous of them than I’ll ever admit aloud.
I’m saved from the temptation when Gwen latches onto my wrist, pulling my hand away from his so that she can have a turn at shaking, too.
“I’m Gwen!” she says, not even really shaking my hand, so much as pulling it toward her, pulling me toward her.
“It’s so very nice to meet you, Gwen.”
This is too much.
Too hard.
I tuck that same stubborn curl behind her ear and say, “I have to go. You be good for your Dad.”
I pull my hand away and stumble back. Wilder protests, says “No,” followed by a series of other words that I don’t hear because I’m already on my way to the door, leaving my ice cream and cookies and everything else behind.
I’m not normal. I won’t ever be.
Dealing with artists does get old. And I hate that I’m living the same story on repeat. But better that than to rub salt in my millennium-old wounds by letting myself get close to the things I can’t have.
Wilder and Gwen are coming out of the store as I pull out of my parking spot. Rather than crossing into the parking lot, they stop on the sidewalk and stare as I pull closer to them, toward the exit.
Gwen’s little hand waves wildly at me, but it’s Wilder’s steady, piercing gaze that has me locking up behind the wheel. He lifts a hand, one side of his mouth ticking up in an almost smile that is somehow even more handsome than the grin he shot me earlier.
As I pull out onto the street, I resist the urge to glance in my rear view mirror.
Eternity has never felt quite as long as it feels right now.
Chapter Two
Swift and sure, my life course corrects back to normal.
History and poets have assigned many attributes to time.
It flies. It dies. It heals all wounds.
But for me, time is so much more. Sometimes she’s a torturer. Others a reward. She’s been a friend. A foe. A nuisance. A nobody. My relationship with her is an ever-changing cycle, but one thing is always certain.
Time is my surest constant.
The scenery changes. The costumes. The players.
But a second is a second is a second until the very end of it all.
Lesson #1 of Immortality:
Accept time for what it is. It can go no faster or slower. Only life can do that.
And my life goes back to its normal speed for nine days.
For nine days, I go to class. I go to the gym (mostly for something to do since losing weight and gaining muscle aren’t really possible with my specific … peculiarities). I choose another grocery store to stock up on college essentials (re: ice cream). And I spend my lunch hours sitting outside various artistically-focused buildings on campus, scoping out possible candidates for my next mutually beneficial relationship.
Maybe scoping is the wrong word. More like eliminating everyone I come across. I need a break. I need some time to just be me before I have to ingratiate myself to another person, before I have to lie about my past and mold myself into some guy’s vision of the perfect woman.
By day nine, I know I’m being too picky. I don’t get to take breaks. I don’t get to just be me. Not without paying the price.
But even so, I continue discounting every guy I see.