Chapter 19

Chapter

Nineteen

Here is something I now know for a fact: Syrupy happy-face pancakes, fruit, and whipped cream topped with greasy diner macaroni and cheese is a disgusting idea that should never have existed. For putting this monstrosity out into the world, I feel I must apologize to any future person who tries it.

Then again, there seem to be no new ideas out in the world. I'm sure someone thought about this before me.

Regardless, the disgusting combination made Diana laugh, even if she ended up sharing my chicken tenders and fries. As a bonus, the mess she made of the creation annoyed the waitress, Ivy. Normally, I would respect the waitstaff and not want to make someone else's job harder, but the grumpy woman unceremoniously dropped our plates on the counter and then never checked on us again. Unless you count glaring at us from across the restaurant.

"Leave it. You never know what's going on inside a person. She might be dealing with something horrific we know nothing about," was all Paul said when I offered to throw a fit and flag her down for his coffee refill.

That one comment keeps circling in my head as we drive toward the address on my phone. That is why Paul makes a great parent and why I would not. Conrad is right about that much. Whereas Paul taught empathy and patience in the situation, I would have taught Diana to throw a fit and make a scene.

Or if I were Lady Astrid, the nanny would have watched with disinterest, and I would have been jet-setting the world demanding that the nanny be fired when I saw a roadside diner was on the children's itinerary.

And if I were Lorelai? Well, I would have abandoned my baby to be raised by someone else.

Every logical thought inside me says it's best I sever ties with my road trip companions. And safest.

But that's not what I want. I selfishly want to keep driving on this road forever. I want to feel normal. I want to be tired of the car. I want having a flat tire or defending Diana against grumpy waitresses to be the biggest concern of the day.

I want to be someone else. Anyone else.

I just want to belong.

My father once told me that for mortals, wishes were like riding unicorns. Sure, it might sound fun, but those deadly beasts are meaner than hell and will stab you in the end.

Needless to say, we did not have unicorn sleigh rides that winter.

"Should we…?" I glance back to where Diana is listening to her headphones.

"What?" Paul prompts.

"Should we tell her about where we're going?" I keep my voice soft. "Does she know you're dropping me off?"

"I've been thinking about that," he says. "Yes, of course, we need to tell her. I just didn't want to disappoint her until I had to. She's been better with you around."

Cars pass us, and I notice he's going a little under the speed limit as if he doesn't want to reach the destination. I don't mention it.

"I can't stay," I assert.

"I know." He takes my hand in his. "That doesn't mean I can't wish otherwise."

"Dad, bathroom," Diana says loudly due to the headphones. I hear her feet kicking lightly against the seat behind me.

"Should be a rest stop coming up soon." Paul releases my hand long enough to give Diana a thumbs-up signal before clasping it once more.

I stare at his touch, trying to memorize the sensation. Not for the first time, I feel as if our energies are transferring into each other, like blood, like life. If I let it, the ache the contact causes would create a deep chasm of desperate need inside of me. Instead, I feel the denial hollowing me out, making me face the lonely mortality of my future.

I can't release his hand.

Everything inside me wants to cling to him.

As we near a rest stop, the car slows, and he needs his hand to steer. I'm forced to let go. I feel the pressure against my skin even when he's gone.

The end of us is approaching.

The rest area isn't very busy, but it's daytime, and the manicured grounds are easy to see across. A woman walks her dog over the grass. Empty picnic tables wait for guests. A couple of big rigs are parked in a separate section.

As we all get out of the car, Diana rushes ahead, her hurried footsteps echoing on the sidewalk. Paul strides after her until he reaches the women's restroom door. There, he pauses momentarily, his hand hovering over the handle before he steps back and turns to look at me. Without a word, I nod and follow Diana to ensure it's safe.

Everything about the public space is hard concrete and tile. It smells musty with subtle hints of bleach. I scan the area for potential threats, walking the room length and glancing past the open stall doors. The sound of a broken, running toilet trickles in the background. Except for Diana, the bathroom is empty. Satisfied that she's safe, I exit the restroom and find Paul waiting patiently outside.

"I'll tell her when we get back into the car," he says.

"I wanted to say thank you." I reach for his hand.

I feel the deep need churning inside of me. Yes, it's sexual—oh my god, yes, the sexual desire practically sizzles off my skin—but it's more than that. I feel that great big hole inside me needing to be filled with moments, with caring and connection, with belonging, with love.

Love.

I want so desperately to be loved and to love him in return. I want to be worthy of it. I want to pull Nancy out of her vase and shake her. What the hell was she thinking, throwing this family away?

But I was not born for such ordinary things. I have a life that demands more from me, especially now with the death of my magical family. I think back to what Uncle Mortimer said at the funeral, of how I'll be expected to carry on the bloodline by marrying a person of magic. The thought revolts me now even more than it did then. I won't dwell on it. That's a problem for another day.

"You helped me when I was down, and I will never forget that," I say. "Know that I am forever grateful to you and your daughter. I wish you both nothing but the best."

"You're talking like we'll never see each other again." He frowns, and my emotions mirror his disappointment.

"Our lives are…" I struggle to find the words. Why do the right words always elude me? "We come from different…"

"You mean you come from wealth and power." He starts to pull away, but I don't let him.

"I come from a family of powerful individuals with supernatural responsibilities. You saw how dangerous those things were at the motel. I need to keep that away from the both of you. Once this misunderstanding is cleared up, I'll have to return to that world. I can't leave the entire mess for Conrad to deal with. He would never abandon me, and I can't do that to him. We're all we have." My grip on him tightens. "Please tell me you understand."

He looks reluctant, but he nods. "I understand family and responsibility. I do. I get it."

I knew he would. He's a good man with a good heart. It's one of the reasons I'm so desperately attracted to him.

I try not to look at his mouth. If I focus on it too long, I'll try to steal another kiss.

"Your trouble should stop once I'm gone." I pray that I am right. "But, as a precaution, if you run into any legal issues about any of this, I'm going to send you the private number to the family lawyers. Don't worry about the cost. They're more than compensated. Tell them it's on my account."

He glances at the restroom door, and he gives me a stiff nod. Somehow, I don't think he'll ever call the lawyers for help. He'd want to take care of his own responsibilities. His hand lifts to my cheek. I close my eyes and lean into his touch before reaching to put my hand over his.

"Good. Please use them if you need them." I squeeze his hands harder and stare intensely at him. "Now, this is the most important thing I will ever tell you. I have given this a lot of thought and think I have the best solution. If, at any time, something supernatural tries to mess with you or Diana, I need you to tell them George Devine said you and your daughter are Devine protectus. It's Latin for protected."

"George?" He appears skeptical. I can't blame him.

"George was my grandfather. We lost him to Covid. He was a very respected and powerful man."

"Covid?" Paul repeats as if surprised.

"I know what you're thinking. How powerful can he be if…?" I let out a small, helpless sound, not wanting to revisit the painful memory. It is still difficult to talk about. "The irony was not lost on anyone. He lived for over two hundred years and then was taken out by a complication due to a virus. Even so-called immortals are not immune to the natural world. That's all magic is, really—a manipulation of nature. Covid had everyone on edge. The vampires were wary of their blood supplies. Fairies, wizards, shifters, everyone panicked right alongside us humans. Trolls and goblins were probably the least affected, but they enjoy hiding away in their caves, so the stay-at-home mandates are a way of life. Immortal only means they won't die of old age. It doesn't mean they can't die of something else."

His eyes have widened, and he stares back at me. Softly, he whispers as if memorizing a list, "Trolls, goblins, shifters, fairies, vamp?—"

"Hey." I give his hands a small shake. "Listen, don't focus on that. If anything happens, just say, George Devine said you are Devine protectus. They'll think twice about messing with you, even after his death. If not out of respect, out of fear that they'll enact some kind of curse. Trust me, it sounds awful, but humans aren't worth the bother. Not many mortals have that kind of status, so don't go telling it to everyone. If too many people say it, it'll stop working. Protectus takes a lot of magic to enact, and supernaturals are incredibly superstitious. If they ask how, tell them you helped the Devine family with a private matter. Never, under any circumstance, tell them it's not true. Tell them you can't speak of it."

When I return to New York, I'll write their names in the family ledger in case someone checks it later. No one else needs to know that it's not true, and I won't even tell Conrad. However, I like to think that if my grandfather was still around, he would have given Paul and Diana protection for helping me.

He nods. "George Devine said we are Devine protectus."

"Teach it to Diana, too."

"Why didn't we just say that at the motel?"

"That wouldn't have stopped them. They're hunting me. Once I'm out of the picture, you'll be safer. They have no reason to go after you, especially under protection. Tell them I forced you to help me." Okay, so that's kind of true. It's such an archaic practice that I honestly didn't think about it until after the motel attack. Plus, it doesn't often occur to me to lie about magic when I don't have any.

He keeps staring at me, and I see so many emotions churning through his expression. "Tamara, I wish things were different for us. That we had met under better circumstances and not at funerals."

"I know. Me too." This time, I let go of his hand and reach to touch his face. "But today has to be our goodbye."

I know he wants to kiss me, but we deny ourselves. Any hope for a relationship falls under the wrong place, wrong time category.

"Diana is taking a long time," he says.

I nod in understanding. "I'll go check on her."

I walk into the restroom and take a deep breath. I hear a soft sniffle.

"Diana?" I call, heading toward the sound. "Is everything okay?"

She's around the corner, leaning against the painted cinderblock wall, her face stricken.

"Sweetheart, what is it?" My first instinct is to check the room for danger. I stride past the stall doors, looking inside to make sure they're still empty, before rushing back to her. "Did something happen?"

"You're…going to…leave me," she manages through choked breaths.

I try to touch her, but she jerks away. She's shaking, and I don't know what to do.

"Diana, I?—"

She rushes out of the restroom. I hear Paul trying to stop her and then the sound of feet running as he chases her.

"I'm sorry," I whisper weakly after her.

I catch my reflection in the mirror through a streak of dried cleaning product. I don't recognize myself. My clothing is not the neat uniform demanded of my position as a Devine. My hair needs styling products, and my eyes look hollow beneath the mask of dark circles. What is happening to me?

The only familiar thing is the amulet winking back at me in the light. The symbol is fitting—pretty and rich and from an ancient line but containing no actual power. It's me in stone form. Well, me when I don't look like I do now.

My body feels as if I've been steamrolled. Pressure weighs my shoulders, and a grip inside my chest won't ease up.

I've felt the presence of my expiration date since I was old enough to understand death. Never did I think it would come at the age of twenty-eight. Surely, I should get another sixty years.

I think of Anthony, only a few years older than me. He thought he'd live forever like they all do. I try to remember him that last night, but his dancing smiles are a blurred memory of pot and alcohol and only come in flashes.

"Happy Aging Day, Tam-tam," his distorted voice teases with a distant laugh. "Don't worry, I'll find a way to make you immortal. Louis, too, right baby?"

I can't look at myself. My gaze drops to focus on a puddle of pink hand soap beneath a dispenser on an otherwise clean sink.

Grief unexpectedly bubbles up inside me, bringing along its sister emotion, regret. The sorrow crashes over me like a tidal wave, choking my breath.

I should have told him I loved him and accepted him for who he was.

I should have been the one who died in the fire.

Anthony was prepared to mourn me eventually. I never thought I'd have to mourn him.

I know my brain is avoiding thinking about leaving Paul and Diana. Regret invites guilt to the party.

I'm mentally cycling. I know it.

Two teenagers enter the restroom, chatting happily and laughing. The sound startles my attention away from the soap. They wear matching yellow shirts with a school logo on the front and athletic shorts. One has house slippers that drag with each step.

I don't want to face that look on Diana's face, but I also don't want to listen to teenagers gossiping about which not-so-sexy old dude golf player from the country club they'd have sex with if they had to pick one to survive their imaginary apocalypse.

They stop and look at me as I stand aimlessly in the middle of the public restroom. Instantly, they start giggling, glance at each other, and not-so-quietly whisper in unison, "Drugs!"

Great, now the golf-whore teenagers are taking potshots at me.

Fuck my life.

I want to tell them that in an apocalypse, they'd be rounded up into a pen and used like breeding cattle by vampires and other variously unpleasant undead. The comeback is a little wordy, so I keep my mouth shut. Also, they're not wrong. I look like shit.

Fuck, fuck, fuck my life.

I leave the teenagers in the restroom without saying anything. Their laughter follows me like a mean girl taunt straight out of high school. I catch part of their jokes as they continue to mock my appearance.

Even though I'm seething with irritation, I force myself to suppress my feelings and try to stop the interaction from occupying my thoughts. Now is not the time to start slap fights with teenagers. I remind myself that those girls hold no significant importance in my life, and I shouldn't allow them to affect me.

What had Lady Astrid taught us? "Holding on to negative feelings toward insignificant people can only bring you down, and you should focus on the things that truly matter."

Sound advice, I guess. Although truth be told, our mother considered practically everyone insignificant compared to her. She might not have held on to the negative feelings, but she sure as hell would act on them. Evidently, the thing that truly mattered was always having the upper hand.

Yeah, I don't think Lady Astrid's life teachings can help me out right now.

I see Paul standing near the car, holding Diana. Her head is buried in his shoulder, and he's gently rocking her side to side. When his eyes meet mine, he almost looks apologetic. Or is it helpless? Maybe it's that he's drowning in a sea of sorrow, and he's not sure how to find the shore. That's a feeling I understand.

I hate that I'm the source of their pain.

Feeling dejected, my gaze falls on one of the big rig semi-trucks parked nearby. I consider hitching a ride to spare Paul and Diana any more of my company. I try to see past the reflection on the large windshield to the trucker who might be inside. There is something terrifying but also exhilarating about the idea of climbing into an 18-wheeler. I get the appeal of disappearing into the vastness of the open road with the task of moving items back and forth in an endless loop. The trailer boasts snack cakes, which seem friendly enough on the surface.

My brain instantly ridicules me. Snack cakes? As opposed to what? A trailer advertising torture equipment or vampire blood supplies?

"Tamara," Paul calls out as if he hears my thoughts. He motions his fingers to wave me over as he continues to rock Diana.

The teenage girls' chatter comes from behind me. I think about this intersection of lives, of all the people this rest area sees in a day, everyone moving from one piece of their life to another. I don't belong on any of these paths.

The sunlight feels good against my skin, and the warmth gives me a sense of safety. We're in public, and it is still light out. Nothing bad will happen right now.

I feel myself moving toward Paul like I'm outside of my body. We're about to reach our end. Just one more small ride, and then it's over.

The anticipation of that event makes the feelings inside me worse. I'm having a hard time seeing what tomorrow should be.

"I'm sorry," is all I manage to say to them.

Diana won't look at me. Paul shifts her weight onto one arm and reaches to open the passenger door for me before carrying his daughter around the vehicle.

I hold on to the door and glance around the rest stop. The teenagers are getting into the back of a minivan. The sound of slamming car doors effectively cuts off their laughter. A semi-truck's engine revs to life.

"Tamara?" Paul asks from the driver's seat.

I nod and climb inside the SUV.

"Plop!" Diana cries out.

The sound startles us, and we both turn in our seats.

Diana is hugging the stuffed animal to her chest, refusing to look at me. I can tell that its fur is muddy like it had fallen into a dirty puddle.

"You found him," Paul says. "That's great, honey."

"Where was he?" I ask. "Can I see him?"

Diana glances at me and pointedly looks away, not answering. I can't help but wonder at the psychological damage I've inflicted on her from being in her life.

"Paul?" I insist. "We looked everywhere for that thing. Where did it come from? Did you see anyone by the car?"

"The car was locked, and I was in view of it the whole time," Paul says as he starts the engine. "It was probably stuck under the seat. It's fine. I'll wash it when we get to my parents' house. I'm just relieved we found it."

I get out of the car and look in the back windows to ensure no one is hiding inside. Then, I search the surrounding grounds for anyone watching us too closely, wishing there was some neon sign pointing into the bushes, blinking the message, "Watch out. Ghoul hides here."

I find nothing. Someone once told me that female mosquitoes drink blood and buzz at a difficult-to-hear frequency. When you hear buzzing, that's the males, and you're safe. It's when you hear nothing that you need to worry.

Well, right now, I see nothing, and I'm definitely worried.

I slowly get back into the car.

Paul backs out of the parking spot and puts the SUV into drive. I keep watch, trying to take note of all the cars and semi-trucks in case we see them again later. That could mean we're being followed.

"I knew you'd never leave me, Plop. I knew it." Diana hugs the toy tight and rocks it back and forth.

"Seat belt," I whisper. She pointedly ignores me.

"Seat belt, munchkin doodle," Paul orders. This time, she listens.