A Matter of Fate (51 page)

“Where’s Karl? Kellan?” she asks, frowning at my continued giggling. And then, tentatively, “Moira?”

UGH. Like I’d send her over to deal with the guy and girl who broke
her
heart. “I’m fine, Kiah. Honestly.”

But she doesn’t buy this. “I should go get Kellan for you . . . .”

“No, that’s okay. He’s . . . busy.” I laugh even harder. I can see Kellan from where we’re standing. He’s talking to Gina. The laughter dies, replaced with anger.

She says gently, “I should stay with you.”

But I can’t deal with her pity. I want her gone. I want them all gone. “I said I’m fine! What’s it going to take for you all to get the hell off my back and leave me alone?”

Apparently . . . say that, because, stung, Kiah finally retreats.

A tray is presented to me. “Drink?”

I two fist it. “Hell yeah. Keep ‘em coming.”

Kellan is shirtless, a Greek god with beautifully sculpted, golden skin. One of his arms drapes across me, his chin rests on top of my head. He is asleep, still oblivious to the fact I am lying in his arms.

I wrack my brain, but cannot, for the life of me, remember how we got
here
, let alone this hotel room. Or
why
, although a peek at the floor shows an array of discarded clothing items. But staring at his shirt jars a memory: pale and feminine fingers had worked at those buttons.

Shaking, I slide out from underneath him and stumble into an unfamiliar bathroom. Dull pain hammers at my skull with every small movement. I lean back against the door, dizzy. All memories of the night before are hazy at best. Even still, I catalogue what I do remember.

One: holy hell, did I drink a lot.

There’s a very good reason that on your plane, the legal drinking age is twenty-one,
the little voice snarls.

So not helpful, thank you very much.

Two: Kellan and I fought.

Three: Fighting must’ve been brief, because we’d been laughing uncontrollably, too.

Four: I yelled at that girl Gina.

Five: I yelled at Callie Lotus.

Wait
.

Had Callie really been there last night? Or am I hallucinating?

But that isn’t the biggest surprise. That would be six: Kellan and I kissed. Actually, it was more than just plain kissing. It’d been the meaningful kind. The hungry kind. The falling-onto-the-bed kind. Kisses filled with promises and wishes and of wanting more.

Washing my face does not remove this memory like it does my smeared make-up.

I kissed Kellan
.

After a bout of hyperventilation, I slink back into the room. Kellan is still sleeping, and, coward that I am, I’m glad for it. Because . . . because . . . .

Because maybe if he’s still asleep then none of this is real. Which doesn’t make any sense, and I realize that, but I am so blown away by all of this that I simply don’t know what to do, let alone think or say.

Petrified, I don’t move for a couple of minutes. But then I spot Kellan’s cell phone on the ground by the door. And for some inexplicable reason, I decide to check his messages. There are two: one from Karl, one from Callie.

Just seeing her name makes me want to incinerate the entire building.

Knowing Kellan won’t mind, I listen to Karl’s message. Unsurprisingly, our friend is both pissed and worried:
Where the hell are you two? We couldn’t find you guys at all last night when we had to leave. Moira’s water broke around one-thirty. I know you’re not at home—I was there twenty minutes ago. So, again—where the hell are you two? CALL ME NOW.

It’s comforting to know it’s not just me he threatens at the end of calls.

The news about the baby is great, exciting even, if anything could be exciting in the midst of a hangover and the possibility of . . . well, too many things, really.

Kellan shifts, and I quickly slap the phone down on a table. It’s loud enough to wake him.

Predictably, the hand wringing begins. What should I say?
Hello?
Is that what one says when they find themselves partially undressed and in bed with a boy the morning after drinking heavily? Or maybe a more mundane
good morning
, even though, in no way, shape or form, does it feel like a good morning?

He squints in the mild, filtered light. Then he pushes himself up on his elbows, twisting his head to look around the room. “Um . . . where are we?”

He sounds so adorably husky and confused that I find myself swaying a bit closer. Goodness, is he gorgeous.

“Chloe,” he says when it’s apparent I’m not going to answer, since I’m too busy ogling him and his perfect chest, “where are we?”

My hands are so sweaty already, my throat so tight. I have to clear it just to say, “A hotel.” Then I wait quietly, desperately, for him to remember anything at all that will absolve us of any crime. Because from my standpoint, things are looking like we’ve . . . No.
No
. Don’t rush to assumptions.

“I have a hangover,” he finally offers, groaning.

“Me, too.” I lick my dry lips, resisting the urge to touch him. “Do you remember anything about last night?”

I try not to stare as he puts on his shirt, but it’s a lost cause. He doesn’t look at me, though, when he says, “We had our first fight, if you don’t count when you dumped me.”

Ah, there’s my trusty friend guilt. I knew it couldn’t leave me alone for too long.

“I think,” he continues, “it was because you were drinking too much.”

I briefly close my eyes in shame.

He’s not done, though. “But then, after fighting . . . I drank way too much, too.” He gives a short, ugly laugh. “With you, no less.”

Must find rock to crawl under.

He gives me a tiny grin before letting it fade away. “I remember Cal. She was there.”

Everything in me deflates even further, which is a miracle, because I’m already feeling as crummy as one can possibly feel. “Maybe,” I choke, on the verge of tears, “we were fighting and drinking because she and . . . and . . . Jonah were there, just . . . doing whatever disgusting things they do with one another.”

“Jonah wasn’t there,” Kellan says tiredly, fingers rubbing at his hairline.

“You don’t know that—”

“Yeah, actually, I do.” And then, “Want to tell me what’s going through that head of yours?”

I whisper, after an excruciatingly long moment during which I debate a million different times whether or not to broach this potentially explosive topic, “We’re in a hotel room.”

Is ignorance better than knowing if something between us had really happened? And is hypocrisy always such a bitter pill to swallow? After it becomes obvious he’s not going to be the one to willingly continue the conversation, I stammer something lame like, “We . . . uh . . . were here . . . you know, together?” I tap the bed a few times. “And . . . there was alcohol involved . . . ?”

I think he’d have laughed at me had we not been discussing whether or not we’d had sex and didn’t both have wretched hangovers.

And oh, good lords. SEX. How pathetic would it be if it’d happened while drunk, even if with someone I love? And then don’t remember it? I’ve always assumed—at least once I’d gotten back together with Jonah—that my first time would be with him, when the time was right. Which, despite temptations, never seemed to happen considering a) we’ve been chased around by vengeful quasi-Magicals and b) we’ve both been babysat by nosy, gossipy Guards who wouldn’t think twice of spreading our news to the greater masses. And then, of course, there’s c) the core belief I’ve always had that having sex for the first time ought to be romantic and for all the right reasons and with the right person during the right time. Not that I don’t love Kellan, and not that I haven’t secretly fantasized doing such things with him over the course of the last school year, but
still
.

This is not what should have happened.

“So . . . .” I trail slowly, stymied by his lack of participation in the conversation, “any . . . thoughts about any of this?”

His face shifts into neutrality. “We didn’t have sex, Chloe.”

I blink. Twice. “Are you sure?”

He laughs under his breath. “Yeah.”

“But . . . I remember us . . . ?” I say, waving a hand between our bodies.

He lifts one eyebrow and waits.

I’ve got to be fire-engine red by now. “We did a lot of kissing.”

“I remember.” But he looks away.

I let a breath out. “You remember it all?”

“I didn’t say that. I simply said I didn’t think we had sex.”

“How . . . uh . . . would you . . . know?”

“I’d know,” he says, rubbing at his forehead some more. “If it was with you, I’d know.”

Even still, something happened. Something strong, something meaningful, and something wanted—even without the alcohol. And this makes me cry, because it’s a million times worse than what Jonah and Callie have done. As far as I know, all they did was kiss. What Kellan and I did . . . .

It’s unforgivable, sex or not.

His voice is devoid of emotion when he says, “You love my brother. You picked him.”

Huh? “That doesn’t mean we didn’t—”

“In our case, I think it does.”

I grip tight red bunches of my dress. “Because I love him?”

He nods.

When it comes to Kellan, I continuously do the stupid, wrong things. So, in the worst, most ill-opportune moment, I choose to finally verbalize what he already knows. “I love you, too.”

Now he stands up, shoves his hands in his pockets. “You love him more.”

Even though I know, if I peeked, his face would be impassive, calm even, I can’t look at Kellan. So I evade in the worst sort of way. “I checked your phone this morning. Karl called—Moira had the baby.”

“That’s great news,” is Kellan’s response, although it doesn’t sound great coming from him at all. And I know it’s not how he must really feel, because he loves his friends, and I’m sure he’s happy for them.

I admit reluctantly, “
She
called, too.”

“What did she say?”

It’s my turn to laugh bitterly. “Like I’d listen to her message.”

He sighs. “I should probably go call her back.”

I leap into his path to the phone. “Wait.”

He stops and gives me a sad smile. “I know you’re freaking out about what may or may not have happened. And while I can’t one-hundred-percent guarantee nothing did, I can assure you that I honestly believe I would know if it had. As would you.”

“But . . . we were drunk,” I say, shamed to my core.

“Let’s try a little experiment.” He leads me over to a pair of chairs nearby. “One that might set your mind at ease. Do you trust me?”

I don’t hesitate. “Always.”

“As you and my brother have found fit to point out to me in the past, you two have such a strong Connection you’ve been able to merge your minds. Correct?”

He doesn’t really expect me to talk to him about
that
, does he?

“And . . . it’s said that people who are able to do this typically do not find themselves . . . .” He struggles for the correct word. “Capable, I suppose, of becoming . . .
intimate
with someone else. Does that make sense?”

Yes, even though this is the first I’ve heard about it. But I also know people who have Connections aren’t supposed to be able to fall in love with someone else. So if this is Kellan’s theory, it’s riddled with holes and is leaking like a sieve.

“But—” I try, and he silences me with a finger over my lips.

“Your Connection with my brother is strong. Strong enough I don’t think, despite our . . . .” He pauses, shakes his head. “What you may . . .
feel
for me . . . That anything happened last night. So, I’ll surge first. And then you can try next. Okay?”

I can’t believe he’s asking me to do this. That
he’s
willing to do this.

He surges into me before I can protest, pressing his forehead against mine, eyes closed. He doesn’t look for anything in particular, just stays in the moment with me. It feels so sweet, so lovely to have him in my mind. But I’m terrified of what will happen if we connect, what it’ll mean. So when I tentatively stretch my mind out to his, I’m physically shaking. I’m just about to reach the very outer edge of his mind before . . . The link snaps back.

I try again, anxiety nearly out of control, but the same thing happens.

He pulls back out, and in that frustratingly rational, calm voice of his, says, “See? I think had we been able to connect on this level, it might have meant . . . .” He swallows. “Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it? It only confirms what I said. Nothing happened between us. Your consummated Connection with my brother never would’ve allowed it.”

I nearly choke. “Consummated?”

He smiles. Just a little. “You know what I mean.”

And then he pulls away. I want to touch him, but I don’t—not because it’s wrong, but because it’ll make things worse for him. “Please promise me,” I beg, “that someday you and I will be . . . .”

He waits for me to finish.

“Just,
anything
important to one another.”

“You are important to me,” he murmurs. “I don’t think that can change, no matter how much I wish differently. And there’s nothing to forgive. I came here on my own accord. I knew what I was doing.”

My heart breaks again over this man.

He takes a deep breath. “You need to talk to Jonah.”

I don’t know why, but I still stonewall. “He’ll never forgive this.”

“He will.”

“You don’t know that. I can barely imagine forgiving him for kissing Callie.”

“You will.”

“Kellan, Kellan, I can’t . . . .”

“You can.”

And when he says it like that, I want to believe him.

An hour later we are nursing our hangovers at a small café a few blocks from the hotel. Kellan has procured us aspirin, which, along with dark sunglasses, are the only things that save me from fleeing back into the dark.

“Did you get ahold of Karl?” I ask as he sips his coffee. I’m drinking water, afraid anything else will threaten my perilously fragile stomach.