Matter of Truth, A (4 page)

Will’s voice reverberates 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.”

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.

“Um . . .?”

A couple of girls wearing sorority gear laugh loudly nearby.
Clearly, I am an idiot. I have no idea what inspired me to come down here on my
day off.

No, that’s a lie. I know exactly why I’m here. I was denied
a true college experience in Annar, and I’m here to rectify it. Only, I’m low
on cash (okay, not exactly low, because I still have a ridiculous amount that
I’d stolen from my fiancé before I ran last year hidden away in my bedroom, but
using it makes me feel like shit, so I don’t) and without transcripts. Moving
in with Will and Cameron was bad enough for somebody who’s terrified to put
down too many roots in one area; enrolling in college? It’d be even more of a
reason to stay.

“Are you . . .” He gives me a look over. “A student here?”

I nearly beam. He thinks I look like a college student. Not
a Creator, but a
college student
. I take a few steps closer. “No. But I
thought . . .” Deep breath. “Maybe I could be?”

He’s surprised a bit, I think, as most colleges accept
online applications. But here I am, in an admissions office, asking for actual
paper. “Oh. Of course.” He opens a drawer nearby. “Are you transferring?”

When I went to the University of Annar last year, I’d been
allowed all of one class. It was worse than a joke. The so-called professor
spent more time telling his students—admittedly, there weren’t many of us, but
STILL—that we weren’t required to do much work for his class as we obviously
already knew our crafts well than actually teaching. All of my friends, save
Jonah and Kellan, were in multiple classes that went in depth over the best
practices for their crafts, and how to wield them on the various planes
effectively. They were slammed by paperwork and research. I got to write all of
two papers, and they were five pages apiece.

Obviously, I will not be requesting a transcript from the U.

I shake my head, and the admissions guy reaches down into
the already opened drawer and pulls out a different packet. “Okay. Here is the
University of Alaska’s enrollment application, along with some pamphlets about
our school.” He lays the papers on the counter between us and highlights a
section for me. “As the next semester is just about to start, you’ll be best
off trying for Fall admission. Or maybe Summer, if you like.”

I stare down at the papers, my eyes tracking across photos
of happy undergrads. My twentieth birthday is next week. Am I too old to be a
freshman?

“Do you know what you want to study?” the guy asks.

My cheeks warm considerably when I shake my head no again.

He’s sympathetic. “I went in undeclared, too. And now I’m a
junior and I’m still undecided. But I figure, I’m young, and I have plenty of
time to figure it out, right?”

I like that. No pressure to figure out exactly what it is
that I want to be, or learn, or do. Plus, he looks a bit older than me, so
maybe I’m not past my prime for college just yet.

He slips the papers into a folder and hands it over. Then he
passes me a business card. “Feel free to call us anytime if you have any questions.
College is a great place. We’d love to have you here.”

The folder sits on my dresser for
days. There are highlighted deadlines in there that I need to meet, if I’m
going to go through with this plan of mine. But to do so, I’m going to have to
use my craft for the first time in five months.

When I left Annar, I made a conscious choice not to use my
Magic anymore. According to Etienne Miscanthus, a Council friend of mine, the
worlds can function properly as long as a Creator continues living whether or
not they’re working. Truth be told, I have no idea if Magic can be traced or
not—I think not, but Trackers, the Magical equivalent of bloodhounds, are
extremely good at hunting down people and things. I have no doubt that a horde
of Trackers is out searching for me. The Council will want me and my skills
back; not only am I first tier, but I’m also the only Creator in existence. The
Guard will want me back, thanks to a number of friends who are no doubt in a
panic over my disappearance. And of course, Jonah and Kellan may want me back:
Jonah, being an influential second tier Council member, and his brother, a
high-ranking Guard with a lot of pull, probably put the screws on both the
Council and Guard to find me.

Unless they hate me for leaving them in the first place.

But my choice to cease Magic was more than just a fear of
being found. It was because I wanted a chance to figure out who I am without
Fate sticking its fingers in every one of my pies. So, as tough as it’s been at
times, I’m glad that I’m learning to do things the hard way. It’s refreshing to
actually earn things rather than simply create them at will. Except, now I’m
going to have to create myself some documents if I plan on going to college. I
need a high school diploma and transcripts that don’t have
Chloe Lilywhite
on them. I need references that don’t exactly exist. And yet . . .

Using Magic makes me feel like I’m failing somehow.

“Whatcha doing?”

I jerk away from the folder to find Cameron standing in my
doorway, Nell at his feet. “Nothing,” I say, even though I must’ve looked like
a weirdo, staring at the admissions packet as if it were Pandora’s Box.

He makes a motion, asking for entrance, and I wave him in.
“College, hmm?” he asks once he joins me on the edge of my bed.

I tuck short blonde strands behind my ears. I miss my long
hair. People say shorter hair is easier to style, but it’s a total lie. “Been
thinking about it.”

He reaches over for the folder and flips through it.
“Personally, I think it’s a brilliant idea.”

I don’t know why, but this surprises me. “You do?”

“Well, sure.” He shuts the folder. “Please don’t tell me you
want to work at the Moose for the rest of your life. It’s a great place and
all, but there’s got to be more for you than that. You’re a smart girl, Zoe.”

Not once in all my years, did my biological father say
something like this to me. I don’t know why Cameron’s kindness always startles
me. I wish it didn’t. People ought to be kind to those they love.

I pick up the packet and stare at the words on the front. It
all seems so easy, so attainable—and yet impossible at the same time. I tell
him lamely, “It’s expensive.”

“That it is. But there are loans and grants you can apply
for.” He studies me for a long moment; I know what’s coming, because I know
Cameron, and I scramble to think of the right words to counter his offer. “I
could help—”

“I can’t take your money.” I grab one of his hands and
squeeze. “You’ve already done so much for me already.”

He won’t back down, since he’s a pit bull about things that
matter to him, but for now, he concedes to me with a small nod. “I’ve been
trying to talk Will into Culinary school. He’s . . .” Cameron scratches at his
beard. “I’m afraid my boy is adrift. By twenty-two, I’d already been in and out
of the military. Married his mum. Got a good job. Not that I’m saying he must
follow my trajectory, because the Lord knows I don’t feel he’s ready for
marriage and what not, it’s just . . .”

“You worry about him.” I lean over and kiss his grizzled
cheek. “That’s what good dads do.”

Does my father worry about me? Wonder where I am? Or is he
relieved that I’m gone, that I’m no longer causing him embarrassment?

Will appears in the doorway, the seam of his pillowcase
fading on his cheek from his nap. “My ears are burning. Want to tell me why?”

I like Cameron’s smile. I like how it’s on his face more
often than not. “Zoe was telling me about her plans to apply to the University
of Alaska.”

This seems to please Will as much as it had his father.
“Yeah? That’s brilliant, Zo.”

“What about you?” I ask innocently. “While I was searching
online, I saw some great culinary schools here in Anchorage.”

He shakes a finger at his dad. “Getting Zoe to do your dirty
work?”

Cameron isn’t apologetic.

“Personally, I think it’s a great idea,” I tell Will. He’s amazing
with food. Even still, I have to tease, “The world always needs more Scottish
cuisine.”

He laughs as his father mocks outrage. “Ah yes,” Will
murmurs. “Fast food haggis. I can see my future franchise now.” He joins us on
edge of my bed. “In all seriousness, you two. Enough with the poorly concealed
hinting. Fine. I had a bit of a look around recently. Found a place that might
be a good fit.”

I swear his father whispers, “Thank you, Lord.”

“But just because I looked doesn’t mean I’m going,” Will
warns. “It was just for research. And I certainly haven’t applied or anything.”

“Of course,” Cameron murmurs. But I see the light in his
eyes. He knows it’s only a matter of time before Will gives in and goes,
because Will is one of the most cautious people I know. Will wouldn’t say
something like this without thinking about every last in and out of the
situation. He’s probably got a pro and con checklist in his back pocket.

Unlike me, who makes rash decisions on the spur of the
moment. Only this time, I’m resolved to think things through.

They leave a few minutes later, Will to go play poker with
Paul and a few friends, Cameron to work. I clean the house, do the dishes, take
Nell for a walk, play ball with her, take a shower, yet all the while, the
folder burning a hole in my every thought.

But when I go to bed that night, no additional papers are
added.