A Matter of Truth (Fate Series 3) Read online

  I hush him, mortified. Frieda is at the end of the counter, taking an order while slyly watching us. I’m positive she just heard every word he said, as did much of the Moose’s clientele in our vicinity. “Seriously. You’re oiling the gossip machine.”

  He chuckles. “Perhaps I am a wee bit evil after all. But it’s hard to resist. She’s utterly tenacious with this insanity.”

  Most girls might be insulted, not to mention disheartened, if an extremely hot and charismatic guy chose to describe the thought of them being a couple as insanity, but I’m not most girls. Every time he reaffirms what I already know, that we’re family and the closest of friends, sweet relief washes over me. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to push Will away, if his feelings toward me were to change.

  I poke at his chest with a spoon. “Try.”

  His laughter is positively charming beyond words. “For you, I will try. No guarantees, though.”

  “Man, can you believe what’s going on in Tibet?”

  My head whips around to find a man seated at the counter, holding his smartphone out to the woman he’s with. “So, crazy,” she murmurs. “I cannot believe the riots going on over the occupation. It’s like that part of the world has gone mad.”

  Suddenly, it’s hard to stand, thanks to my knees giving out. Will grabs me before I fall. His eyes are filled with worry. “Are you okay?”

  I nod my head, gripping the counter behind us. I silently curse myself for once more not being able to get myself under control. Anytime I hear about something like this, where emotions are high, a flood of memories threatens to pull me under.

  Because I have a pretty good notion as to why Tibet is in chaos.

  An acrid taste fills my mouth as I consider how Jonah must have been so close to Nepal, where he’s always wanted to go—claiming it’d be good for his soul—only to end up doing something I know must be salt against the wounds such actions cause his conscience. And I can’t help but wish I were there with him, reminding him how good of a person he is, how he’s helped more people in the last year and a half than hurt, and that it’ll be okay.

  But I’m not. He’s in Annar, and I’m in Alaska, and it’d been my choice to leave. I left my fiancé, hoping to give him a chance at a better life. I can only hope somebody is there helping him get through this, even if it’s his ex-girlfriend Callie Lotus.

  And that thought there crushes me, not to mention makes me want to destroy the entire diner.

  I force myself to calm down. To focus. I cannot let my grief control me like this.

  “Zoe. Talk to me,” Will says quietly. His fingers brush against my cheek. When he pulls his hand back, I marvel at the wetness reflecting on his skin.

  I’m crying, and I didn’t even know it. It pisses me off that I let myself get this far in public.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him, but whom am I kidding? My heart has been gone for months now. How can anyone be fine when there’s a cavity in her chest?

  “Let’s play Tell Me,” Will says as he cooks me dinner later that night. It’s a game we’ve been playing since the day I decided to let him in. Tell me a secret. Tell me the truth. Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else before. Tell Me has been both a challenge and a relief for a girl with too many secrets.

  “Alright.” I sit down and butter the pancakes he’s set out for me. Cameron is at work, managing a large warehouse down in the port, leaving us to fend for ourselves. “Shall I go first?”

  His shaggy, sandy hair goes flying as he shakes his head. “Tell me what made you cry today. I’ve never seen you cry, Zo. I’ll admit it’s got me worried.”

  I focus on pouring syrup rather than the concern that surely shows on his handsome face, struggling to find some kind of truth to tell him. Finally, carefully yet purposefully nonchalantly, “I’d overhead somebody talking about what’s going on in Tibet.”

  He’s silent for so long I eventually look up, only to find him staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.

  “It’s a horrible situation,” I add quietly.

  That snaps him back into form. “No—right. Of course. It’s awful, no doubt. But, Zo—you were crying. Was it—”

  “My turn.” I answered his question; he knows the rules. He can only ask for clarification on his next turn. “Tell me about this morning’s phone call.”

  His annoyance makes me regret the question—but only a little bit. As concerned as he is about me, I’m just as worried about him. “She . . .” He clears his throat. “Becca somehow got ahold of a phone again and rang me to see why I hadn’t been over today.”

  Gods. I try to hold back the slam of pity that crashes into me, but it’s impossible. “Will—”

  But he gives as good as he gets. “Tell me why you’re so upset about Tibet. Be honest.”

  I sigh and set my fork down. I practically have to tear the words out of my throat. “Tibet reminds me of Nepal, since they’re neighboring regions.” Confusion fills his eyes, so I quickly counter with, “Tell me how you felt when you talked to her.”

  “How do you think I felt? Like I was fucking living through all of that shite once more.” He doesn’t have to clarify, but miraculously, he does. “The Becca I was talking to this morning was the one I stupidly planned on spending my life with. She was lucid. Confused, unsure of what happened over the last year, but she . . .” He shakes his head. “I very nearly bought a ticket to Glasgow on the spot.”

  I reclaim my fork back up and try to pretend that Will isn’t baring his soul to me, because I know that’s the only way he’ll get through the next hour, let alone night. But I’m worried about him, so I gently press on. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Tell me why Nepal, via Tibet, upsets you.”

  I cut my pancakes into neat little triangles. “Nepal reminds me of somebody.”

  His eyebrows lift and then drop lower into a vee. “Somebody.”

  “Tell me what stopped you from flying to Glasgow.”

  He yanks the griddle off the burner. “Other than the money it would cost? Because, no matter how lucid Becca was this morning, it will never be permanent. The girl I loved is gone forever. Was gone even before . . .” He turns away from me and busies himself with piling pancakes on his plate. And then he laughs, so very bitterly. “Jesus. You think after a year and a half I’d be able to let it all go, right? She fucking shagged my best mate behind my back, even as she was planning on moving out here to be with me. Was going to have his baby, possibly even pass it off as mine. And then they got in that bloody car crash, and I had to learn about everything they’ve done afterward from his and her parents, when apologies and explanations mean shite.” He tosses his spatula on the counter.

  I get up and go over to where he is, laying a hand against his shoulder. His breath is shallow as he continues softly, tugging on his ear, “That wanker got off easy when he died.”

  But Becca didn’t. Becca has severe brain damage and is confined to a wheelchair and a ventilator for the rest of her life back in Scotland. Most days she doesn’t know who she is or where she is, and others . . . others she remembers Will and what they had, and always finds ways to bring that ghost home to him. He struggles so hard to forgive her, to let go of what could have been, but even for somebody as strong as him, it’s asking a lot.

  Although my natural inclination is to clam up, I know it must have been tough for Will to just let that all out. So I lean my head against his back and admit to him something I haven’t done before. “Nepal reminds me of somebody I love.” I swallow the growing lump in my throat. Even now, four months in, it’s incredibly difficult to talk about Jonah. “I was sad today because when I heard some people talking in the diner about Tibet, I thought of this person, and of what Nepal means to him.” I take a deep breath and count to ten, because saying this next part is like stabbing myself in the gut. “I miss him so much it makes it hard to breathe. Sometimes it’s hard to move on, when memories refuse to let you go.”

  Will’s voice reverberat
es through me when he quietly asks, “Did he die?”

  I tell Will a lot—but I cannot talk anymore about Jonah with him. With anyone, really. All he knows is that love has broken me, too, and that I’m in no place to even contemplate a relationship. So much of me wants to open the floodgates, though, let Will into the dark parts of my heart like he’s slowly been letting me in, and someday I will do just that. It’s just . . . I need more time.

  I shake my head against his back. There is no more Tell Me for the rest of the night.

  Over the last five months, I’ve learned to live in constant pain. It’s similar to a perpetual migraine, only it affects my entire body. My chest aches, my lungs are tight, my joints throb, and I’m continuously light-headed. It has nothing to do with my workload, which, in the beginning kicked my ass but now only leaves my feet tired at the end of a shift.

  No—this pain has everything to do with the fact that I’m separated from my Connection. Scratch that—Connections.

  Being a Magical has its perks; most of my kind might believe they’ve hit the jackpot if Fate deems them lucky enough to have a Connection, which probably only three-to-five percent of our population has. It’s a permanent bond that ties two people, two soul mates together. A Connection is your best friend, your lover, your confidant, and your comfort. You feel things, both physically and emotionally, that cannot ever be felt towards another person. But with the good comes the bad, because when you fight or are separated, your body and soul wither into a half-existence, filled with pain and sorrow. Which doesn’t make it sound so desirable after all, does it?

  Now, because I purposely left my Connections behind, I’m a mess. I’ll be forever a mess. But it’s for the best, and because of that, I’ll work my butt off to ensure that it wasn’t done in vain. Jonah and Kellan have a chance to rebuild their relationship. I have a chance to live without feeling like I’m being torn in two every time I pull air into my lungs. I hurt, and I miss Jonah—and Kellan—more than I can articulate, but it’s something I can live with if it means we all get a chance at having a normal life.

  The bell above the door jingles, letting me know Frieda’s surprisingly on time. Today, she looks like a cross between a Goth and some kind of tragic heroine out of a Regency novel. I can’t help but admire how fiercely she refuses to conform to be anybody else but exactly who she is. This is one of my goals lately—be who I want to be, not who I’m expected to be or who I’m told to be. I’ve spent most of my life trying to be a Creator. And I am one, there’s no doubt about that. It’s just . . . I don’t want to be only a Creator. I want to be Chloe. Or, rather, Zoe, who must surely be an improvement upon my old self.

  “Keep Gin away from me today.” Frieda grimaces as she ties on her half apron. “I’m hung over and not ready for her brand of sunshine this early in the day. As a matter of fact, keep everybody away—but most especially Paul and Gin.”

  It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. Amused, I say, “Paul isn’t here yet.”

  She mimics back my words, but it’s not done in a cruel way. Just a typical, mocking Frieda way. “I left him at his house. He wants us to get back together. Can you believe that? Asshole.”

  I don’t even know how to respond to that, especially since there’s no way in hell I could ever label Paul an asshole.

  “Hey you two!” Ginny sing-songs, bouncing toward us like the pogo stick she is. Her shift is over, and she’s ready to leave, purse in hand. “Isn’t today glorious?”

  “Glorious?” Frieda snorts. “Jesus Christ. This girl in love is nauseating. Zoe. You’re fired. You didn’t even try to stop her.”

  Normally, comments like this wound Ginny, even though she’s known Frieda and her bristly personality her whole life. But today, she’s adding clapping to the bouncing. “Can’t bring me down, Miss Sourpuss!”

  “Fine.” Frieda glances around the diner; half the tables are filled, but all the meals are out. “Tell us what has you acting like a ray of mother-effing sunshine on this snowy day.”

  Ginny clasps her hands together and presses them against her heart. “I met someone.”

  Ginny meets a different true love on nearly a daily basis, so this is nothing new. Even still, I ask kindly, “What’s his name?”

  Her eyes are practically glowing, she’s so excited. “Brent! He’s so handsome, girls. He’s just the best. The very best. We’ve been talking for a couple of weeks—”

  Whoa. Now this is different, because normally Ginny tells me and Frieda every small detail of every guy.

  “And I decided last night to give my heart to him. After I came home from our date, I found three-dozen roses in my bedroom. Can you imagine how dreamy my room smelled?” She sighs. “It smelled like love.”

  Seven months ago, my bedroom was filled with roses. So was a street in Annar after Jonah found his ring. I couldn’t help myself. It was one of those rare moments in my life where I was so blissfully happy that I lost control of my craft in the best of ways.

  Ginny is right, though. Love—at least that night, at least to me—smelled just like roses.

  “And here I thought love smelled like sweaty sex and vodka,” Frieda snarls.

  I cough and scratch the back of my neck. Ginny merely wags a finger. “Uh-uh! Not even your sexual innuendos can ruin this for me!”

  Frieda’s affronted. “What innuendo? I’m pretty sure that was a straight-forward comment.”

  “I think that’s great, Gin. I’m really happy for you,” I tell our friend. I’m pleased my voice is steady, even though inside, I’m dissolving into a blubbery mess. I miss him. Gods, I miss Jonah so much that it’s hard to even see straight.

  Her feet come back to earth and stay steady against the floor. “I was thinking . . . is it okay if Brent comes bowling with us? I want him to meet you guys.”

  “What?” Frieda nearly screeches. Patrons look up from their meals and stare. She raises her hand, no doubt ready to flip them all off, but I smack it back down. Then she says, lowering her voice, “We don’t bring temps to the bowling team. What if you two break up? What then?”

  “But I’m the fifth wheel,” Ginny says, and I swear, she deflates right in front of us. “You guys are all couples, and then I’m—”

  “Will and I are not a couple.” I’m a broken record, but c’mon.

  Ginny sniffs. And then sniffs some more, her lower lip tremulous. Frieda backs down off of the Bitch High Horse, like she always does when she goes too far with our sweet friend, and digs out a lace handkerchief from one of her pockets to pass over. It’s bedazzled with an F and then a U. “Calm down, will you? Fine. He can come and bowl with us. There. Stop this shit now. No crying in the diner.”

  The image of Frieda becoming a mother someday and soothing one of her children in just such a way makes me want to laugh, but it also sobers me, too, because I’ve got one of the worst moms on record. She and my dad informed me last year that they wanted nothing more to do with me.

  Well, they got that wish.

  I wonder if they even know I’m gone. Or care.

  “Tell me what high school was like for you,” Will says as we cheat on the Moose during our break at a nearby coffee shop.

  “High school sucked.” I groan, thinking about it before picking up my cappuccino. “I was a cheerleader.”

  He hoots in laughter. “Are we talking about the kind of cheerleader with pom-poms and teeny skirt?” He mimics a rah-rah, go team motion.

  Shoot me now. I nod, tugging on my knit hat until it lowers past my ears.

  “That’s fantastic.” He tears off a corner of his scone.

  I cock an eyebrow up. “Should I be offended?”

  “It’s just, I’ve always seen you as the girl sulking in the back of the cafeteria, writing morose poetry.”

  “For your information, I never wrote a single poem outside of English class.”

  His grin is lazy.

  As I do often with him, I roll my eyes. “Your turn. Tell me what it was like for you.�
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  He stretches his long legs out in front of him; they tangle with mine under the table. “I was rubbish at school, especially in Glasgow. Barely graduated, and only then because once we moved here, I was able to pick my grades up a wee bit.”

  “Really?” I’m surprised. Will is one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.

  “Yeah.” He sips his espresso. “I ditched a lot, pre-America and all.” He’s thoughtful. “Often with Grant, but mostly Becca.”

  He seems okay talking about them today—no anger, no sadness. So I say lightly, “Don’t tell me. Did you and Becca ditch so you could have sex in the janitor’s closet?”

  He laughs and then blushes, prompting me to squeal too loudly for the small joint, “SERIOUSLY? At school?”

  The nearby barista shoots us a warning look. She’s a taskmaster at keeping voices below stereo levels.

  Will pays her no mind. “Once even,” he adds, “in the head master’s office.”

  Oh, I’m laughing now. Real laughter, the kind that feels like flat-out chortling. In fact, I’m laughing so hard I’m actually crying. It’s taken five long months, but I’m finally, really, truly laughing. “No. Way. You’re lying to me.”

  “I wish I were. We got caught, mid-coitus. Jesus, was that embarrassing.”

  I crack up even harder; now my sides hurt. And he laughs, too. For once, a Becca memory makes him lighter, not heavier.

  For the third time in ten minutes, I turn around and leave the bustling office only to come back in. What am I doing here? Am I really this big of an idiot?

  “Can I help you?” the guy behind the desk asks. He’s been eyeing me ever since I walked in, no doubt wondering if I’m already a student or just some stalker who likes to hang out in admission offices of public universities.