Page 58 of Grim Tidings

Maybe she never has been.

“Is that a tomato?”

“What? Where?”

“There.” Her nails drag along the top curve of my bicep, right beneath my sleeve. “Tomato,” she says.

I rotate my arm to look. “Oh. Yeah, I guess it is a tomato.”

She hums. A happy, mindless sound. “My grandmother used to keep tomato plants on her porch in those big cages. She’d wander out and pluck them off for when she made marin—mari—marinara.” She hiccups. “I miss marinara.”

“You can still have marinara.”

“It’s not the same,” she whines, kicking her legs, sending my body rolling to the side. She stills herself with a laugh. “Is there anything you miss? From when you were alive?”

“Don’t know,” I grumble, closing my eyes and nuzzling further into her knee. “Don’t remember.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mean I don’t remember,” I almost slur. Christ. I don’t want to know how much alcohol I’ve consumed tonight. “It fades. The older you get, the more you lose.”

Sometimes I’ll have flashes of what my mortal life must have been. In sleep, mostly, when I let myself fade into unconsciousness. White-washed stone and the sun hot against my neck. Children laughing somewhere close by. Wooden bowls strewn haphazardly across the table.

It hurts to remember something from so long ago, so I try not to.

“That’s sad,” she whispers.

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s—” She tugs on my sleeve, and I tip my head back, catching the frown on her face. “That’s really sad, Gabriel.”

I shrug my shoulders. “Good thing we have wine.”

She lets go of my sleeve with a little huff, her fingers drifting up my shoulder, along my neck to the ticklish skin behind my ear. My leg kicks as she strokes there absentmindedly, then sinks her fingers into my hair. She scratches through my wild curls, nails dragging across my scalp. I make an unholy sound, and the dog splayed across my couch like he owns the damned thing gives me a look laced with derision. Spud hasn’t been pleased since he set foot in my apartment.

I flick him off. He huffs and turns on the couch, burying his nose in a pillow.

“Have you ever noticed …”

The rest of Darcy’s questions drifts. I’m still staring at her, but now all I can see is the curve of her chin and the slash of wine-stained red across her lips. My attention sticks there. Holds for an indeterminate amount of time.

“What?” I mumble.

She rolls her head against the floor, looking down at me with hazy, unfocused eyes. “What, what?”

“You were about to ask a question.” I think. It’s hard to articulate when it feels like my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth. I tap her leg and roll to my stomach, ignoring her pout. “Notice what?”

“Oh, yeah.” She sits up with her knees pulled to her chest. Her hair is falling out of her braid, loose tendrils that frame her face. She looks messy and soft. Achingly small. “The mortals. They gather. Have you noticed that?”

“Like … in the streets?”

She huffs, frustrated. “No. I mean—they always sort of drift together. People with people. I think it’s in our—” She stops. Shakes her head. Starts again, each word dulled at the edge like it’s been whittled away over time. “I think it’s in their nature to want to be close to one another, you know? The cities they’ve built are stacked on top of one another, and yet they continue to grow. They’re always moving closer, even when they say they want space. It feels inevitable. Like the—like the tides, almost. Like magnetic fields.”

She plucks at her bottom lip, thoughtful. “It’s nice, is all. The way they’re always drifting back to one another. I think that’s what I miss the most about being human. Being close.” Her eyes lift to mine and hold. They’re wide and luminous. A little wet. “Don’t you miss that?” It takes me too long to answer. Her face falls, a little line between her brows. “I’m not sure I’ve ever noticed,” I say, wishing I had a different answer. Wishing I knew how to fix whatever feels wrong for her.

Of course, Darcy has noticed.

How long has she been this lonely? And why does it feel like I want to save her more than any of my lost souls?