Page 64

Chapter thirty

Leaving

R ai could not settle in his tub.

Of course, he should not settle in his tub. He should already be on his way to kinder climes. Ofelia had even messaged him a map of sorts, tracing a path by way of various small bodies of water that would get him south far enough to escape the desert and recuperate.

But he was too agitated to leave yet. He could only pace from his tub to his door and back again.

Each time he reached his tub, he stepped in, fully intending to rehydrate completely so that he could fly away, begin his journey to safety, and each time he stood there just long enough to feel like he was perhaps not dying before he was in motion again, back toward the door.

Poppy had blocked him. She had blocked him!

He stepped into the tub once again and glared at his phone, the final message Poppy had sent.

I’m sorry. We agreed that when you left, it had to be over.

It’s only going to hurt more if we drag it out or try to stay in touch.

Please don’t contact me again. I’m blocking your number after I send this.

I know you’re smart enough to figure out a way around a block eventually.

Please don’t. Have a good life. Goodbye.

She had not included even one emoji.

Not one.

Not even an angry face.

Ah, he was dying after all, even as water flowed into him.

He had done everything wrong. Everything.

He had thought back and back and back, and just when he thought he had reached the first of his blunders, he would think back a little more and there was another, until he had finally reached their very first meeting and recalled how even before that he had cruelly flung water right in Poppy’s face.

He had already liked her, even then. He should have simply introduced himself, taken note of her sodden toilet paper, and offered to replace it.

He could have stolen some from the store easily—simply walked in, glamoured himself and the package to invisibility, and walked out again, following on somebody’s heels to get the doors to open.

He could have been kind from the start. He could have told her the truth then or the next time or any of the times he had lied.

And now she expected him to live enough for the both of them, when he could not live without her. Without her, he would only exist. No matter how exciting the storm.

But it was easy to measure the floodwaters when they had receded.

He could not have known how precious she would be to him.

How essential. And he could not have predicted that she would refuse him at the end, that she would not love him as he loved her.

What was there not to love? Was it the crooked tooth, after all?

Should he give in and purchase the mystical invisible alignment device that had been aggressively marketed to him after he had Googled how to straighten teeth?

He did not like the look of braces. Or perhaps he should acquire the bodybuilding supplements that YouTube felt he would want?

Maybe he needed more freckles. She had liked the freckles. He was sure of that.

And if she did not love him, not at all, why had she looked at him so?

It had broken him, the expression on her face as she’d stood in her doorway.

Her rejection had torn him apart, flung his pieces to the winds, and her eyes had torn him in the opposite direction, told him she had feelings for him that her actions belied. Why could she not—

But no, that was unfair. He was blaming her for his own faults. He was the one who had broken them both with his lies and his selfishness .

And so he was the one who had to repair them.

His phone rang as he stood there, the charming song he had found for Ofelia’s ringtone.

It was not about her, of course, but the name in the song at least rhymed, almost, and it was beyond all true that she shook his confidence daily.

He was the better for it, that she was immune to his charm and willing to tell him when he was a fool.

He needed to be told that at least twice a day, he was beginning to realize. Perhaps ten times.

And as predicted, when he answered the call, she opened with those very words. “You are a fool. Why are you still in town?”

“How do you know I have not left already?” he countered.

“Because,” she said acidly, “I have met you.”

He glared at his feet, ankle deep in water. “There are a few things I must attend to before I leave.”

“Have you bid farewell to your sweet flower?”

He had not said goodbye, but she had, and now he could not. “Yes.”

“Then what is left? You cannot hope for more rain.”

What was left? “I have…other friends I must part with.”

“Liar.”

“I am not lying. There is the blue woman at the coffee shop. Heather. She has been kind to me.” He had planned to purchase Poppy’s latest drawings from her today.

He still could, but if he did, it would be the final drop in the bucket.

He knew now that it would hurt Poppy more than the money would help.

“Hmm.”

“And…” Would Poppy be angry if he said goodbye to Jen?

She would, he decided, even though she had not explicitly forbidden it.

And he felt guilt now, that he had tried to take Poppy away.

Even if at the last he had managed to resist snatching her up bodily as he had intended.

He could not face Jen again, not after that.

“There are others. You have not met them.”

“You used to lie better.”

I used to not care if I was a liar. “And she is not my flower anymore,” he said. “Poppy has cast me aside.”

There was a brief silence. “I am sorry,” Ofelia said at last. Her voice was kind.

The kindness stung worse than the insults. “You have said a hundred times that she should do so. ”

Ofelia snorted. “I did not think she would. She was inexplicably besotted with you, after all. I thought you were equally matched in foolishness.”

Rai bristled on Poppy’s behalf. “You have not met her. And she is all that is intelligent.”

“You sent me photos. I saw how she gazed at you in them. She may be intelligent in other ways, but not in that.” Ofelia sighed. “I am truly sorry. But it is for the best. You must leave tonight.”

I will, he almost said. But it was not worth it to lie so plainly. “I promise not to die,” he said instead.

“And you will tell me when you leave, that I may rest at ease?”

“I did not know you cared so.”

“It is how stray cats work,” she said with a rueful laugh. “You aid them once, and then they become yours, whether you wish it or not, the ungrateful things.” She heaved another heavy sigh. “You may have rocks for brains, but they are entertaining rocks. Do not die.”

“I would not so poorly repay you for all you have done.”

“Yes, it was very kind of me to assist in the breaking of your heart.” The dryness was back. Rai welcomed it.

“It was,” he said without irony. “I will call you when…” He could not finish that sentence without lying. He was beginning to think he could not speak at all without lying. “I will call you.”

“See that you do.” She disconnected, and Rai stood there in the tub for a long moment, staring into space.

He would die if he stayed. Ofelia had said it, and she was far wiser than he could hope to be. He had to leave.

But as he stood there, he realized his lies to Ofelia were not entirely lies.

He did have a fond feeling for Heather, who had, in the end, been giving him true advice.

He owed much to her, and it would be churlish not to give her thanks.

And he could take one last look at the drawings Poppy would not want him to buy.

He thought wrenchingly of the painting Poppy had devoted so much time to, so perfect and yet so un-Poppy, but he knew now he would weep to look at it again, remembering how his response had broken all.

Better to leave it with Poppy. Perhaps she could sell it, or perhaps she would miss him enough that she would wish to see it on occasion.

Or she might burn it, and find surcease in that way. In any case, it was best in her hands .

The sun was well past its zenith when he stepped outside, but it was still terribly hot and dry, and by the time he had landed near the coffee shop, he had barely enough strength left to assume his human guise and stagger through the door.

Heather took one look at him and brought out a pitcher of water.

“My thanks, as always.” He gulped down a full glass.

“Did you want some coffee, too?”

He shook his head. “Coffee is for closers.” He turned and gazed at the art on the wall.

“One week,” she replied. “That’s still the deal.”

“I cannot,” he said heavily. “You were right.” He had so enjoyed watching Poppy draw these pictures.

She had seen the barrel cactus on one of their flights, insisted they set down so she could sketch the circlet of blooms at its crest. He’d held his umbrella above her as a sunshade as she drew.

The curve of her cheek had been like the crest of a perfect wave.

And the roadrunner—it had stood still for her in faerie, preening under her gaze, but the drawing still felt as if it were running.

The last was hardest of all to leave behind—she had set her left hand on his belly late one evening after they had made love and drawn it swiftly, focusing mostly on the way her fingers lay but hinting at the lilac beneath, the curve of skin and muscle, the spray of freckles.

Nobody would know it was his stomach and not merely a cushion or a drape but him, because no human would expect a stomach to be such a color, and yet her still, graceful hand held carnal sensuality in every line.

The hand of a lover. She had offered that drawing to him as a gift, but he had said no, sell it because of course he was going to own it eventually…

but now he would not. “She does not wish me to purchase them. It will…upset her further.”