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"Still, there is this terrible desire to be loved. Still, there is this horror at being left behind." — Michael Cunningham, The Hours
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THIS IS A LOVE STORY.
♥
"IT'S NOT YOU, IT'S ME," James says into the cellphone wedged between his ear and his shoulder. It isn't the most comfortable of positions, perched atop the roof of the crumbling ruins of an abandoned church with his bow drawn. His neck had developed an uncomfortable crick in it during the past half hour and his legs were long past numb from the crouch he'd settled into while keeping watch. Not to mention the late December chill that had seeped beneath his skin, finding its way down to his bones and making him long for the warmth of a cup of hot coffee between his hands. He hadn't imagined that things could get more uncomfortable, but that'd been before his phone had started ringing and he'd stupidly chosen to pick it up without checking the caller ID first. "As in, I am no longer interested in you."
A truly impressive display of colorful language fills his ears. James tunes it out as best he can as he scans the perimeter below, watching for the signal that would mean it was finally time for him to spring into action. He'd been itching for a fight all day and, when he hadn't found one fast enough, he'd ended up picking one with the first poor, unfortunate soul who'd crossed his path. In this case, it had been his not-quite-boyfriend, Beau Sinclair.
It wasn't that Beau had been a bad not-quite-boyfriend. In fact, he'd been rather the opposite of that—which was the problem. It was better, James believed, that they cut their losses sooner rather than later before things reached the point of no return.
In the center of the church's overgrown courtyard, a shadow appears. James's eyes narrow in on the spot, focusing intently on the rapidly expanding patch of shade as it begins to take form. The slim silhouette of a girl with dark hair and pale skin steps out from the darkness, blinking into existence in the harsh, gray daylight. Her heterochromatic eyes—one with an iris the color of molten gold, the other with a sclera as black as night—meet his and she nods; the signal he'd been anticipating, finally, after all this time. James grins in acknowledgment and holds up a finger in response. Best he finish this now than drag it out any longer than necessary.
