Page 3 of Chasing Eternity (Stealing Infinity #3)

I pause in the threshold, the opening strains of “Bittersweet Symphony” blaring in the background as I pull at the hem of my T-shirt and tug up the waistband of my low-rise jeans, determined to make the two meet.

Why did I agree to wear this? Why didn’t I insist on swapping outfits with Elodie? Clearly her black slip dress, white baby tee, and chunky black boots would make a much better impression on my dad than this belly-baring catastrophe.

“Quit fidgeting,” Elodie snaps, shaking her head. “Sheesh, you should be grateful you’re not stuck in some awful corset or one of those dreadful panniers. Besides, it’s not a crime to look hot, you know.”

“Looking hot was never the goal,” I grumble, following her lead as she presses through the crowd, navigating this late nineties version of a Manhattan bar as easily as she navigated 1745 Versailles, 1813 London, and present day Gray Wolf Academy. Elodie is a born chameleon; she can easily blend into any environment. And I find myself wishing, once again, that I could trade all my social awkwardness for just an ounce of her confidence.

“And now…” She turns to me and winks as she sidles up to the bar, shouldering ahead of two young Wall Street types dressed in sharp navy suits, crisp white shirts, and expensive red silk ties, both vying for the bartender’s notice.

At first, they’re annoyed by her cutting in front of them. But when she flashes them one of her dazzling grins, they’re practically begging for the chance to buy her a drink.

“Has anyone ever told you you look like a young Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy?” says the one with slick dark hair, his squinty brown eyes roving over her like a dog eyeballing a particularly juicy lamb chop.

“Never,” Elodie tells him. “Although Carolyn once told me she’s often mistaken for an older version of me.”

And…we’re off. I frown, watching as Elodie transitions into full-blown flirtation mode. This is exactly the sort of situation I’d hoped to avoid. Clearly, we both know this isn’t my father. But Elodie never misses a chance to revel in being desired.

“I’m Brooks.” Mr. Tall, Dark, and Smarmy grins.

Elodie extends a hand and dips her chin like we’ve Tripped to Regency England again. “And I’m Elodie,” she says, literally batting her eyes.

“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” When he presses his lips to the back of her hand, I have to clench my teeth to stifle a groan.

“Please, let me buy you a drink.” He pulls a platinum card from his wallet and waves it in the air with a flourish, as Elodie shoots him a considering look.

“On one condition,” she says, her fingers toying with her gold serpent charm.

Brooks leans in, eyes glinting, lips parting with anticipation.

“I’m going to ask you a question, but you must answer truthfully.” She raises her brow. “I’ll know if you’re lying.”

“Ah.” He nods. “I know what this is about.” Clearing his throat, he assumes an expression of false humility, and says, “Yes, as it turns out, I am often mistaken for JFK junior, which is why I think we go so perfectly together.” He lifts his chin, rears his head back, and waits for a laugh that never arrives.

“Interesting,” Elodie says, her flat expression suggesting otherwise. “But what I really need to know is what day you were born.”

Brooks squints, takes a quick look at his friend, then, returning to Elodie, he says, “Is this some kind of astrology thing? Because I’m a Leo. And you know what they say about lions—they’re king of the fucking jun—”

Before he can finish, Elodie’s already turning away.

“Hey, what—what just happened?” Brooks glances between the back of Elodie’s head and me. “What’d I do wrong?”

“She’s looking for a Gemini,” I say, then giving him a view of my own back, I take a quick but thorough survey of the room.

The place is packed with a young and fashionable after-work crowd, and though I sift through the sea of faces, searching for one that matches the memory I hold of my dad, so far, no one comes close.

A few moments later, Elodie reappears and hands me a martini glass filled with a bright pink liquid with a candied lime peel clinging to its side.

“A cosmo?” I blink at her. “Seriously?”

“I will not be denied my Carrie Bradshaw moment.” She grins, happily clinking her own glass to mine.

“I can’t believe you spent what little money we have on cocktails,” I grumble.

Elodie rolls her eyes. “Why would we need money when we have the most powerful currency—our youth, good looks, and charm?”

I shake my head. “You’ve made way too many Trips to Regency England,” I say, laughing in spite of myself. “Also, you’re way more of a Samantha. Also-also—I’m not drinking this. I need a clear head when I do finally meet him. Or should I say, if I meet him?”

“No ifs. ” Elodie wags a scolding finger. “Seriously, Nat, it’s going to happen. You just need to trust. So please, take a damn sip already. And, by the way, I can’t believe I have to beg you. Do you even remember how fun you used to be?”

My body goes rigid, my fingers tense against the stem of my glass. Do I remember? Like I could ever forget the impulsive, reckless, earlier version of me. The girl who loved nothing more than ditching school, going to clubs, and making out with random boys. Sure, we had fun, but look where it got me.

Knowing better than to take her bait, I skate past it and say, “Look around, El—he’s not here. This whole intention thing isn’t working, and I’m starting to think I’ve made a huge mistake by taking this Trip. It was impulsive, and stupid, and…” I shake my head, knowing I’m getting worked up but unable to stop.

I mean, why did I ever think I could show up in a timeline that isn’t mine, and just stumble upon my dad in a city that’s said to be over six million strong? It’s the worst kind of magical thinking. And what happens if we never find him, and Arthur returns early and discovers we’re gone? I can’t even imagine how he’ll react. But one thing’s for sure, it won’t be good.

The thought alone is enough to set my mind reeling with all the possible repercussions and punishments Arthur could likely bestow.

He could stop all payments to my mom.

Or worse, he could send me right back to juvenile hall.

Considering how it wasn’t all that long ago when I wanted nothing more than to return to my old life no matter the cost, it’s funny to realize I now view it as the worst possible outcome.

The difference is, now that I know what’s at stake, it’s imperative I remain at Gray Wolf long enough to find a way to crush Arthur’s dream.

And yet, because of this one incredibly rash decision, I’ve single-handedly put the fate of the entire world at ris—

Suddenly, an elbow jams into my side—a sharp, brutal blow that instantly knocks me off balance.

My arms flail, frantically trying to regain my footing, but it’s no use. My glass slips from my grasp, sending a shower of sticky, pink liquid splashing down the front of my top, before it crashes to the floor, shattering with a loud piercing sound.

“Watch it!” Elodie’s voice cuts through the noise as she pushes the drunk guy out of the way and rushes to my aid.

But she’s too late. My foot skids on a slick patch, and in a moment that stretches out for eternity, I find myself plummeting straight toward the floor.

“Shit!” Abandoning her own drink, Elodie drops down beside me where I’ve landed in a puddle of liquor. “Nat, you okay?” Her voice is laced with worry as her eyes search my face.

My gaze bleary, I shift my focus to the crowd of onlookers, their expressions a mix of derision and pity. Great. Just. Fucking. Splendid.

“Can you get up?” Elodie asks. “Do you need help?”

I shake my head, attempting to stand only to be met by a sharp jolt of pain as a glass shard embeds itself in my palm.

Fuck. I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could disappear. I mean, seriously, I’m on the floor, covered in sticky pink cocktail, with blood oozing from my palm— could this get any worse?

“C’mon.” Elodie grabs hold of my arm, hauls me back to my feet, and presses a cocktail napkin to the small wound, trying to sop up the mess.

It’s only then that I notice just how badly my hands are shaking.

“I’m okay,” I say, quickly pulling away. “I’m fine. Really,” I insist, all too aware that I’m anything but.

My body is trembling.

My ears are vibrating with the erratic rush of my pulse, as the furious beat of my heart threatens to jackhammer a hole through my ribs.

And when my lungs freeze up, depriving me of breath, I instinctively squeeze my eyes shut, desperately hoping to fend off a full-blown panic attack, even though all the signs tell me I’m already there.

Oh no. Oh please, not here. Not now. This can’t be happening.

Oh, but it is. Despite my resistance, I’m spiraling so fast there’s no way to slam the brakes on this thing.

“Nat?” Elodie says. “Just hang on, okay? I’m going to get us out of here.”

“Yeah, okay,” I manage to mumble. But beneath the surface, all I can hear is the relentless chant: I’m not okay. I’m not okay. I’m not…

My body bumps against hers as she slips an arm around my waist, guiding me through the crowded space. “Would you look at that,” I hear her say, though her words are distant, like echoes from a faraway place. “We finally Trip to a time with flushing toilets, only to find the line for the bathroom so long, I miss the days of chamber pots.”

When she laughs, the sound is bright and melodic. And though I appreciate the gesture, knowing she’s only trying to lighten the moment, I’m afraid any attempt to join in will only further set this thing off.

This has nothing to do with your dad or this Trip , I remind myself as I shuffle along. This is about the duke and what happened in Versailles. But you survived. No, even better, you thrived. And the duke is stuck in a long-ago past you will never revisit. You are safe. You are strong. You can—

“Nat—” Elodie’s hand rubs a soothing circle over my back. “Try to breathe. Nice and easy, can you do that?”

I nod, struggling to fill my lungs with air and holding it for a moment before letting it out. After the fourth round, I’m starting to feel almost centered again.

“I’m—I’ll be okay,” I say, keeping my head bowed, so Elodie can’t see the way my cheeks burn with shame. “I just need a minute,” I lie, well aware that it’ll take a lot more than that. Ever since my encounter with the duke, panic attacks have become a semi-regular occurrence, whenever I feel threatened, confined, overwhelmed, or unsafe.

“Take your time,” Elodie says. “There’s no rush.”

When my breath finally returns to a more regular rhythm, I lift my chin, tuck my hair behind my ears, and take a sweeping look around this new space. Surprisingly, Elodie hasn’t led me back onto the busy street like I initially thought. Instead, we’re on a small patio tucked away from the chaos of the crowded bar.

“Thanks,” I say, tentatively meeting her gaze. “It’s just, sometimes I—”

“No need to explain.” Elodie holds up a hand, stopping my words. “I recognize the signs. And just so you know, you’re hardly alone. I don’t know a single Blue who hasn’t experienced a dicey situation that continues to haunt them from time to time. Believe me, I’ve had my share.”

I stare at her in astonishment. Elodie isn’t usually one for showing weakness or sharing stories that place her in a less-than-confident light. “But you’re always so sure of yourself. Always in full control of every room you walk into.”

“Well…clearly not every room.” Her shoulders lift in a nonchalant shrug, but she offers no more. And though my curiosity is piqued, I know better than to push.

A moment of silence wedges between us, with Elodie gazing down at her chunky black boots, as though weighing just how much to reveal.

“There’s a reason we Blues call it Tripping,” she finally says, her bright blue gaze fixing on mine. “Because it can truly mess with your head.”

“So how’d you get past it?” I ask, eager for any tips she might offer.

“Time.” She nervously scratches her arm. “And lots of visits to Dr. Lucy.”

My eyes graze over this gorgeous, poised girl as though I’m seeing her through a new lens. With her tall, willowy frame, shiny blond hair, and heartbreaker face, at first glance, she appears to have everything going for her. And in a way, that’s still true. But, for the first time ever, I detect a shadow of sadness lurking within.

Knowing a window’s been cracked, and that it probably won’t stay open for long, I summon the courage to ask, “El, don’t you ever…” I pause, gnawing the inside of my cheek as I search for just the right word. “Well, I guess what I want to know is, don’t you ever get mad or resentful toward Arthur for putting us in these dangerous situations just so he can add to his collection of fine art and jewels?”

I freeze as I wait for her reply, worried I might have crossed a line. Elodie’s fiercely devoted to Arthur, and she’s told me multiple times that she thinks of him as a father.

Surprisingly, she just shrugs. “I guess I always figured it’s a small price to pay after everything he’s done for me,” she says, her voice quiet, face pensive.

“You mean like, saving you from the children’s home?” I ask, holding my breath as I wait for her to respond.

Elodie sighs. “You say that like it’s nothing, but you have no idea how truly Dickensian it was. If Arthur hadn’t stepped in when he did, I wouldn’t be standing here today. And I don’t mean here, with you, in New York City. I mean I never would’ve made it past my tenth birthday.”

As I continue to study her, I can’t help but wonder if, like Braxton and Killian, Elodie is also not from my timeline.

Before I can ask, she says, “Now, my turn to ask you a question.”

I give a tentative nod, braced for just about anything, as I watch her long lashes flutter and her lips curve into a mischievous grin.

Glancing past my shoulder, she says, “How come you never mentioned that your dad is so smokin’?”

I squint, trying to decipher her words.

“Between the tousled hair you just want to run your fingers through, that piercing green gaze, and the sexy, intellectual vibe, not to mention the way he fills out those jeans…I could easily forget about Jago. Nash too, for that matter.”

I follow her gaze to the back wall, over to where a man with wavy brown hair, wearing faded jeans and a light blue button-down shirt, is surrounded by friends, casually sipping a beer.

In an instant, my jaw falls slack, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, as a kaleidoscope of butterflies takes flight in my chest.

It’s him. Ohmigod-Ohmigod-Ohmigod—it’s really, truly him!

I gape at the sight, aware that I’m staring, but unable to stop. He’s a lot younger than I remember. His hair is darker, devoid of a single hint of gray, and the fine lines that will later spread like wings around his eyes have yet to appear. Yet, all the familiar mannerisms are there.

The way he stands with one hand hooked into his pocket as he rocks on his heels.

The way he tosses his head back when he breaks into a belly laugh.

The way he pinches his lips together in the same way I do.

The dad I haven’t seen in a decade—the man who was murdered by Killian’s hand—is now here, in the back patio of this random New York City bar, celebrating his twenty-first birthday, just a handful of steps from where I now stand.

This is exactly the moment I’d hoped for.

The very reason I put everything at risk by choosing to embark on this Trip.

And yet, now that the moment has come—now that he’s well within reach—I find that I’m frozen, numb, completely immobilized, unable to do anything more than gawk at the sight.

“I mean, it is him, right?” Elodie shoots me a tentative look, but all I can do is silently nod in return.

I should’ve come up with a plan. I mean, even if I could manage to make it across the room, even if I could get my tongue unstuck enough to form actual words, what the hell would I even say?

What’s the correct way to approach the parent you once shared such a strong bond with, but who doesn’t even know you exist because your conception is still seven years away?

“Honestly, Nat…” Elodie goes on, but her voice is like white noise in my ear.

My dad is here. I found him. Well, to be fair, Elodie found him. But still—he’s right over there!

“…acting weird, and if you’re not going to carpe diem, then I guess you leave me no choice but to—”

Wait—what?

I tear my eyes away from my dad just in time to see Elodie fluffing her hair and running her tongue across her front teeth. “Just think.” She grins brightly. “If I play this right, then maybe I’ll end up being your mommy.”

Then, before I can stop her, she’s headed straight for my dad, leaving me stunned in her wake.