I feel physically ill at the thought. No. I need to be smart. Safe.
I start a journal to chronicle my experience, trying to make sense of it. I can't very well write the truth of what I'm feeling where someone else could find it, so I settle on a number system.
Today is about a five on a scale from one to ten. It’s manageable, but worse than I'm comfortable with. I wonder if it could be connected to time? I spent, let's see, about four hours yesterday, two to three of which contained a high level of exposure. But I … relieved some pressure … about halfway through that time. What number would I be at if I hadn't done that?
For now, I think I should cap myself at five hours. And go in as calm and close to zero as possible. That should keep me at a comfortable level.
He calls again the next day, but I haven't been able to get any time alone with anyone in Lennox's friend group. My friend group. Most of them work a day job on top of their craft or schoolwork, and they're working pretty heavily now since there's no school and the holidays are busy.
“I'm sorry,” I murmur into the phone. More sorry than he could possibly know. “But I can't today either.”
“Do you have to work?” he asks.
I consider telling him the truth, that I don’t, but it would be nice to have a ready-made excuse for situations just like this one. Not because I want to lie to him, but I don't see any other way around it. A job would definitely be convenient, though I've not had much use for a real one in centuries. That's one benefit of immortality. It's easy to build up wealth when you've got centuries to do it, and when knick-knacks and other objects from your past are old enough to be worth millions to the right collector or museum. Every few decades, I start over as a new version of my self, new birth certificate and identity and all that jazz. And that new me is always the sole beneficiary of my wealth when the old me “dies.”
“Yes, I have to work,” I lie.
“Oh. Okay. Where do you work?”
Damn. Damn. Where can I say? It has to be somewhere that he can't actually drop by to see me. Or … where he can drop by and see me, but it's under my control.
“I work from home.”
“Really? Doing what?”
“Uh, just some online stuff. Nothing all that interesting. But I'm pretty backed up because of the holidays, and I need to get it all done before the end of the calendar year.”
“Online stuff? So you're some kind of tech genius?”
“Hardly.”
“So, since you work from home, does that mean I can swing by sometime? Maybe distract you with a lunch break? Or a foot rub? Or maybe you get carpel tunnel?”
I laugh. He sounds so cute and eager on the line, and I wish I could see his face right now. I wonder if he's shaved yet, or if his facial hair would be even thicker than the last time I saw him. I wonder if he’s wearing his glasses or if he’s giving responsible Wilder a break.
“Not this time,” I tell him, but I soften my tone and hope he can hear the smile in my voice. “I've got too much to do. But maybe soon. I'll see what I can do.”
He sighs on the other end, and rather than letting him go like I should (especially considering how much work I supposedly have), I keep talking. “How are Gwen and your mother?”
“They're good. They've both asked about you actually.”
“Really?” I'm a little frightened to know what his mother asked.
“Yeah. They'd both like to see you again, but I told them they'd have to wait. I want some time with just us before we have to watch another Disney movie with my sister.”
“I don't mind Disney.”
“Of course you don't. You're like a real life version of one of those princesses.”
I scoff a laugh. “I'm not a princess.”
“You look like one.”
“I have eyes too large for my face and a waist disproportionate to the rest of my body?”
He chuckles, the sound low and deep on the other end.
“No, your eyes are the perfect size for your face, and I happen to really like your proportions.”
I lean back against the pillows on my bed, and laugh. A little too loud. A little too eager to hear him keep talking.
“So I'm not a Disney princess.”
“Maybe not. But you're definitely beautiful enough. And Gwen is just as obsessed with you as she is with letting it go.”
“I like her too.”
“I'm glad.” He suddenly sounds serious. “I told you that she's a big part of my life now. She and my mom both. When classes start back up again, I won't have much free time left between those, work, and my family.”
“Are you saying I might have to help babysit if I want to spend time with you?”
“Not always.”
“I wouldn't mind. I like your family, Wilder. I like your life.”
A beat of silence stretches between us and then he asks, “I know you said you're estranged from your sisters. But do you have any other family? Parents? Cousins? Aunts? Uncles?”
I've got a tremendous amount of family, really. I mean my sister muses are the closest ties by far, but all the gods are connected to each other in some way. But it's been a long time since I've seen any of them. The only ones who still walk the Earth are my sisters, the furies (who are also dependent on humanity to satisfy their need for justice and punishment), and the watchers, the sons of Argus.