Fated (Fate of Love Book 1) Page 3

  “Cassius, you can’t Fate people whenever you feel like it,” she says in her high sing-song voice, putting the emphasis on the wrong part of my name, which is what gave me my nickname, Cy. It drives me crazy. A couple hundred years of correcting her and she still does it.

  Decima leans forward over her sister, now seated back at the spinning wheel, her white headdress pulled low to cover the spot where her eyes were supposed to be, and nods vigorously in agreement. I live with three eyeless women as old as time and still I can’t sneak anything by them.

  A low growl pushes through my chest and feel a sharp sting on the back of my head. Morta holds their only method of vision, the Eye of the Moirai, pointed right at me. The thick slimy eyeball stares not at me but into me. I shrink down further in my rickety old chair. She knows how much I hate that thing.

  Nona smiles triumphantly with thin red lips as she spins the fine fabric of life between her fingers. She hands the end to Decima so she can measure its length before hanging it along the ceiling. I try not to look because seeing the thread bothers me. A massive room that’s a reminder of mortality, a reminder of death, a reminder of my one and only regret. Lena. Her thread no longer hangs with the others.

  “Love is not something to be messed with, boy,” Morta says, her voice thick with irritation and her actions even more annoyed as she aimlessly shuffles things around on the table in front of me. Not even a few days ago, they were dropping hints as to how I should defy Fate and now I’m being scolded like a child for my side project. I often Fate people that aren’t my assignment because I get bored. They rarely get this fussed up about it.

  I scoff and Morta slaps the back of my head again. “Uh, messing with love is my job, Mama Death. What do you think you do with those creepy scissors of yours? Yeah, mess with life. At least these two got laid and didn't die.”

  “So vulgar. You know how I hate those modern expressions.” She pushes the eye closer to me, forcing me further down into my chair. “You think it’s all a joke, Cassius. That your actions aren’t going to have consequences. We warned you. You more than anyone should know that Fate doesn’t like to be messed with.”

  Morta leans the staff so close that the thick round black iris reflects my own face back at me. I see the cracks burrowing deeper along my jaw, spidery veins of splitting marble creeping out from my hairline to my eyebrows reminding me of my curse.

  IV

  Zarah

  My brain still spins over seeing the guy from my closet and paintings and imaginings, in the alleyway. I haven’t seen, seen him since living with my dad in Portland. And then, I only ever saw him in my closet as I shook while coming down from a high.

  Shaking the thoughts for the thousandth time, I climb out of bed, the icy air from our loft hitting me hard. I can’t afford to think about him right now. Or my past. Always moving forward no matter how little the steps. It’s what Sue always reminds me and the forward momentum helps to keep my head clear.

  I slide my feet into the slippers at the end of my bed and dig through my bin of clean clothes for something to wear when a note from my friend, Taylor, falls onto the comforter from a piece of clothing.

  Two words. So Taylor. Chemistry Bites.

  Something I learned a long time ago is that every person has a feeling around them. Like an aura, or base emotion. Taylor has an abrasive quality. She has a great heart but most people don’t take the time to learn about that part of her because of that itchy, uncomfortable feeling she puts off. I was drawn to her in High School because she was rough like the people I grew up around, but she wasn’t dangerous. Taylor held a perfect balance. She still does. It’ll take a special person to get past that sandpaper exterior of hers.

  I toss her two-word note into the trash with a smile and slide on my favorite jeans.

  With a jerk I pull the down blankets back up and over my bed as if they’ll somehow keep some heat during the day in this drafty old place. My room’s tucked behind the kitchen and near the bathroom. There’s no real walls in the space except around the bathroom. Aside from that, we’re in a sort of basketball court sized loft with tall ceilings and a million windows that I can stare at for hours. Even the old glass has a color to it—somewhere between grey and dusty brown that makes everything a shade more beautiful.

  Crystal’s bedroom is in the small loft above my “bedroom” the bathroom and the kitchen. No walls up there either. Not even a railing at the edge, where she loves to sit, dangling her legs. She’s been here since just after I was born and she gave me to Dad to raise. Needed to be free to do art, I guess. When the courts found her after Dad died, I never thought living with her would work. But I guess since I was practically an adult, she was okay having another body in the house.

  I step around the room dividers we bought when I moved in.

  “You’re up?” I stop at the counter top, which is a board resting atop mismatched cabinets. Actually, that’s pretty much our whole kitchen.

  “Never went to bed.” She sighs as she rolls her brushes inside a towel to dry them.

  I stare at a woman who I recognize as the older version of myself. There were no arguments when the courts found her and asked her to take me in, but really, how many people have to track down their living mother? How many people have never met their living mother unless they were put up for adoption? Although, I guess I was. To my dad.

  “I finished the painting though. So it should give us about five grand when I drop it off today. I hate doing commissioned stuff, but the money’s good. Thought maybe we’d go out to dinner tonight?” She tosses her heavy braid over a shoulder.

  “Sounds good.” She’ll probably spend it like water, so I’ll need to stash anything she sends my way.

  “Given any more thought to selling that couple you did the other week?” Crystal gestures to a painting leaning against the far wall. The feeling of loss in the picture overwhelms me, but I can’t imagine someone else having it. The woman faces away and stands in a nightgown so thin you can see her shape, and next to her is a man with his eyes cast down to the floor. They’re another moment in time of people who don’t exist that plague my thoughts and feelings. “I’m not sure.”

  “I know a buyer who would love that.” Her eyes are hard on me, but I stare at my painting instead of looking back. “Might be nice to get some extra cash.”

  Now there’s pressure to part with something I’m not nearly ready to part with yet, despite my stack of completed canvasses against the wall. Crystal sells art for a living, meaning she's always peeking through my stuff and asking me to sell. “Maybe.”

  She lets out a loud sigh, and I blink a few times as the pure feeling of being overwhelmed rushes over me. Selling my painting would be better than joining Taylor at McDonald’s. Just not this one.

  “I’ll do another one just like it. Okay?”

  “Great. I’ll tell him to expect it.” In other words, paint it soon. Crystal glances me over. “No cat eyes today?”

  I shrug. “Glasses today.”

  “Oh!” She smiles wide, and it’s like looking at me eighteen years from now. We have the same wide cheekbones and dark brown eyes. Nearly black hair. Pale skin. Five foot eight. Slim build. Same. Same. “If you’re going to be working on that painting, let’s get you new glasses!”

  I pull open the fridge with Chinese takeout and a half gallon of OJ. “How about we get food?”

  Crystal snorts. “Always the practical one.”

  I walk to the wall of dirty, small paned windows and stare down into the alley. The draft from the windows is constant until the summer when the reflection amplifies the heat. I clasp my upper arms with my hands to keep warm in the March morning.

  “You here?” Crystal asks but her words don’t sink in enough for me to answer.

  Instead I lean my forehead against the fragile glass and stare through my lashes at the grey day, wishing to see the golden-eyed guy again.

  “Do you still see that doctor?” Crystal flits one hand in
the air as she snatches the jug of OJ with the other and starts to drink.

  “Her name is Sue. And once a month now.” This conversation grates on every part of my insides. My lungs, my throat, my brain. Everything. After Dad died of an overdose, I was put in a hospital that specializes in addictions. I was there until they found Crystal to come pick me up. She waltzed in and we walked out like she’d dropped me off the week before. Not like someone who’d been so terrified of a baby that she’d taken off when I was a few days old.

  I met Sue at the hospital and found out later that Crystal and I were able to leave only on the condition that I continued to meet with Sue regularly. I hated being hospitalized for addiction and abuse recovery, but part of me knows I didn’t stick around as long as I should have. The part that sees guys in closets, in the rain, in my head, the alley next to my house… The part that wakes up dying for a high. I’ve eyed the Nyquil bottle more times than I can count.

  I turn from the windows and pick my way around the random plastic chairs, two couches and other various bits of furniture scattered throughout the apartment. Drop cloths, canvasses and different sized easels are everywhere. The only thing with any amount of order to it are the shelves that house the paints and brushes. Those are immaculate.

  “The appointments were supposed to be more frequent, where they not?” Crystal takes another swig before tossing the empty container into the trash. “Addictions are serious.”

  Bile rises up my throat and I swallow over and over trying to keep it all down. I fumble with my backpack straps and stare at the floor as I grab my last couple things for school. I’ve been here for years, I’m eighteen and technically don’t need to stay here anymore, and she suddenly wants to play real mother. “I have to get to class.”

  “You’re not seeing things? Hearing things? Nightmares?” I can’t look at her. It’s too much to be in a house where she cares about me because those moments are fleeting—like everything she does.

  “Since when are you so nosy?” I snap before heading to the door. “I gotta go. I’m late.”

  Crystal’s silent. She has no idea how to be a mother. It’s why she let my dad raise me in the first place. Even my step mom was gone before I could have really used her presence. I got to get my first period while living with my dad. And my first kiss. And my first boyfriend. And had sex for the first time. After my stepmom died of cancer, he fell into alcohol, and drugs, and anger. He wanted company. I was ten.

  On lucky nights, Dad kept his chaos in the other room while I tried to be as silent as I could in my room or my closet. He was not a happy drunk. Or a gentle stoner. I hid a lot until I started joining him—sometimes by force, part of the time by choice to dull my senses, and the other times because I loved it. I hate that I loved it, but after a few highs, my body craved the release--even if I had to face his handsy, obnoxious friends.

  I blink back tears not wanting to make my eyeliner run. I even traded out my black for dark purple today, and I only do that when I’m really determined to have a good day.

  The old metal stairs wiggle and creak on my way down and I freeze a half second before my boot-clad foot hits the pavement, waiting. I’m not even sure for what. Like the ghost of my past will appear if I don’t touch the ground?

  I pull my black glasses out of my jacket and slide them on. No rain today. Clear. Sun. Most of the cars are gone this time. People with normal jobs. I squint as I follow the lines in the bricks down the wall I’m touching and then again on the opposite side.

  Nothing. This shouldn’t make me sad. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary should make me relieved.

  Hey, Zarah, you're not crazy! This is good. But the thing is that I sort of want to. See him again, I mean.

  “Hey,” I say, almost willing him to appear. Even if he’s a hallucination, he’s a good one. I could be a kid again. Have an imaginary friend.

  “S’up, Zar-rah?” My neighbor, Smith, calls from the window of his bottom floor trash apartment.

  I roll my eyes and let my foot touch pavement. Still no guy. No grey hood. No golden eyes. Disappointment rushes through me in waves, because I should be able to conjure him at will. He is a creation of my imagination and skewed sense of reality.

  “You need a ride to school, girl?” Smith says and my shoulders tense at the idea of being in a closed space with him.

  He drives an Escalade whose rims probably cost as much as Crystal’s paintings. Not hard to figure out how he makes his money. I try not to think about it because I know he’d hook me up and probably wouldn’t charge. At least not the first time.

  “No.” I don’t bother to look at him, but step closer to where the guy pinned me against the wall.

  “Ouch!” He laughs. “Not even a no thank you.” He cackles again.

  Smith’s harmless enough. Probably dropped out of high school. He’s a little older than me, but not a lot. He gives me crap, but he gives everyone crap, so it doesn’t bother me.

  I ignore Smith as he continues to ramble about nothing and stare at the wall like an idiot. Like I can make this mystery guy appear out of nowhere. Again. I’m also pathetic enough that I touch the wall like the sensation will bring the memory back. When I close my eyes flashes of pictures spin through my head too fast to grab a hold of. Memories that don’t belong to me. Lifetimes I didn’t live. Heartbreak that isn’t mine. I jerk my hand away and snap open my eyes. I don’t see things when my eyes are open, and today isn’t a day where I want my imagination dictating what I think, see, and feel—all are reasons I haven’t talked to Smith. Drugs do nothing good for someone with an overactive imagination.

  I start walking to the coffee shop, wishing I had a phone because then I’d know the time. As I pass the bank, it’s seven ten. I’m now officially late meeting Taylor for our ritualistic morning caffeine buzz. I push forward, hoping she isn’t too pissed. Taylor hates lateness, another thing that totally contradicts her who gives a shit attitude.

  As I walk over the bridge near my place, I let my fingers run over the cool metal of a broad lamppost and close my eyes, letting the rare sunshine soak in.

  A sudden vision of girl in a fitted jacket twirling an umbrella hits me. A man in an expensive tailored suit. A burst at his chest and love surrounds them. But it doesn’t feel right. They look happy. They don’t feel happy. Something is wrong.

  “Hey!” A familiar voice yells. “Zarah?”

  My eyes snap open to see Taylor half a block up with two huge steaming cups in her hands. I touch the lamppost again, but this time nothing. Please brain, I plead with myself, be good today, okay?

  “Duuuude,” Taylor whines, practically dancing on the spot. “Go. Now. You. Me. Late…”

  “Okay. Okay. I’m coming.” I laugh, reaching out for my coffee. My much needed coffee. After seeing him last night, then the painting this morning and the flash of that couple from the lamppost, the desire to escape races through me, scorching as it zips through my body hitting each of the senses and begging for relief.

  “You okay?” Taylor asks, her voice somewhere above my head.

  I stand up, realizing I’d folded over to stare at my boots.

  My mouth goes dry and my body gets heavy as I think about how it would feel to use right now. Feel what I’m missing. What my body wants so desperately. Right now even a stupid pill would work. Codeine. Nyquil. Anything. Caffeine takes the edge off in a pinch, especially when coated with enough sugar. Caffeine. Sugar. Holy hell I need that coffee.

  “I’m fine,” I say, snatching the cup from Taylor’s hand while she looks at me with a motherly glare. She doesn’t believe me when I lie to her about my past, but she’s never had the balls to call me out on it.

  A smile cracks her face and she spins around to get in her car. I see the impending collision before she does, but I’m powerless to stop it. Her tiny body plows straight into this guy as they both change directions at the same time. The tall guy with floppy hair and a shocked expression grabs Taylor’s elbows to steady her but
knocks the coffee from her hands. The backsplash hits my boots and I jump back to avoid getting it on my pants.

  “What the hell, buddy!?” Taylor yells, but not meanly, just very Taylor-like. The guys face goes ten shades of red as he stammers out an apology but my attention is pulled from my friend and the guy by a weird sinking in my gut. The nervous fluttering makes my eyes dart around the sidewalk at the people who are watching this whole train-wreck take place.

  My imaginary friend with the hidden eyes. In the crowd. I pass over him so quickly that when I snap my head back to where I saw him, he’s already gone. I spin around, my head and heart moving so fast I get dizzy. He was here. Watching.

  Where did he go? Vanished.

  No. It’s not real. He’s not here. Why is my brain doing this to me?

  Without thinking I grab Taylor’s coat and yank her toward her car.

  “Go. Late.” It’s all I manage to stammer out as I drag her away from the mess that was Awkward Boy.

  “You owe me a coffee!” Taylor yells backward to the guy she ran into before spinning around and matching my walking pace. “Jeez, Z. Who stuck a firecracker in your underwear?”

  “Nothing, I’m fine. We’re late.” I’m so far from fine it’s the biggest lie I’ve ever told her.

  “We’re also without Java…” Taylor mumbles and I shove my coffee into her hands.

  “Here have mine. I suddenly don’t feel like coffee is a good idea.”

  And it’s not. My mind rolls through thoughts of the ghost from my past and speeding it up with caffeine is a very bad idea.

  “You’re being extra weird today, Z. You sure nothing’s wrong?”

  Everything’s wrong. But that’s not what I say. I pull a classic avoidance tactic that I must have inherited from my mom. I’m silent until we are seated in T’s car, and I pull a small bottle out of my shoulder bag. I wave the blue hair dye in her face, distracting her.