Four Nights in Paris, Part 2

That made me grin. Usually girls wouldn’t stop talking once I had asked a question. Even if she was just playing me, at least she was making it interesting.

“I’m investigating real estate options for a new hotel.”

“I’m enjoying my graduation present and mostly touring museums.”

“Why museums?”

“Why hotels?” She grinned, her eyes gleaming. I couldn’t help but chuckle a little.

“Graduation from college?”

“Yes, bachelor’s in art and vis. com. You?”

“Master’s in business. What do you want to do with art?” I finished the last of my scotch and leaned forward on my elbows.

“Still trying to figure that out; I’m considering grad school currently,” she said, crossing her long legs and leaning back. “Why business?”

“It fit my future goals.”

“The goals of your parents or your personal goals?” Lani cocked her head to one side, regarding me as if half-expecting me to come to some major realization of how much life I’d wasted on following dreams that weren’t mine.

“Both. Just because it’s what my parents wanted to see me do, doesn’t mean they wouldn’t have supported me in whatever I chose. But I wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps.”

“Why? Isn’t it suffocating?”

I shrugged. “Not for me. I admire my father. We don’t always agree with each other, but if I could be half the man he is, I’d be content in life.” She nodded, though there was something about her expression that suggested she didn’t understand how I felt. Maybe it was because she wasn’t smiling.  “What about your family?”

“My mom does what she can and my step-dad’s all right. Not much of anything interesting there;” she shrugged, draping her arms over the sides of the chair.

I watched as she glanced around the room. Lani leaned forward long enough to pick up her drink. If she’d been wearing a watch, I half suspected her to eye it anxiously. But she didn’t make an excuse to leave or attempt to close the conversation.

“They think I’m wasting my time with art. Mom calls it a hobby that will leave me hungry on the streets somewhere,” she finally said, her eyes focused beyond the window and perhaps further beyond that. “Not everyone can have a happy family.” Lani placed her empty glass on the small table between us.

I wasn’t sure what to say. Lacking parental support was a difficult situation to be in. While my parents wanted my happiness in the future, they didn’t always agree with my dating habits. When it happened, it felt unfair and biased; then when they turned out to be right, it made me feel stupid, impulsive, and naïve. For a while, it seemed my entire manhood had been brought into question.

Lani reached forward and placed a hand on mine. “Let’s not think on sad things. It’s Paris after all;” her face lit up, a smirk playing across her glossy lips. Her thumb slowly stroked the back of my tanned hand. “Let’s go somewhere fun.”

I pulled my hand away from her, taking my phone from my pocket. “I have an early day tomorrow. I should be going.” Slipping the phone back into my pocket, I stood and offered to shake her hand again.

Though she remained smiling, a shadow fell over her eyes. Lani shook my hand, saying, “That’s unfortunate. Maybe tomorrow night?”

“Maybe,” I conceded, though I doubted I would see her again. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Lani.”

“You, too, Matt. Sweet dreams.”

I gave her a small smile, wishing her likewise before heading for the stairs to my room. She seemed like a sweet girl. It was unfortunate she reminded me so much of Danielle. If I didn’t see Lani the next night, I would know I had made the right decision in not entertaining her request for fun; if I did see her again—well, maybe there was something there worth exploring.

Four Nights in Paris, Part 1

Paris. If I hadn’t had the opportunity to visit earlier in my life, I might have been upset by my lack of time to explore. I was spending one week touring real estate so I could report back to my father which locations I felt would be the most profitable. In all honesty, it was nice to see parts of the city you seem oblivious to as a tourist. That, and my French lessons were being put to good use, even if I still felt a little inept. I felt less self-conscious around my associate, however, who could barely recall how to ask where the toilet was.

“Qu’est-ce que vous voudriez boire, Monsieur?” the petite bartender asked.

“Je voudrais du scotch, s’il vous plait.”

The woman pulled a glass from under the bar and poured the amber liquid. “Quel est votre numéro de chambre?”

“Le numéro 254.”

She walked to the other end of the dim bar and added the drink to my room tab. It was strange to be staying at a hotel not owned by my family. I couldn’t remember the last time I had done so; it was probably for one of Mother’s runway shows, and it had been a while since I’d attended one.

I turned from the bar, unsure if I wanted to sit at the wooden counter or slip into one of the Louis XV wing chairs until my watch struck a decent hour for bed. The space was somewhat narrow, with a row of lime green wing chairs. The bar, in contrast, had sliver and orange sherbet backed stools. Heavy, purple drapes framed the windows in the dim room, the dark hue contrasting with the cream colored swirls. There were a few people here and there: well-dressed, grandmotherly women in pastels; middle aged men in suits—some of them having removed their jackets; and the occasional young woman in a tasteful cocktail dress.

Sitting again at the bar, I took a sip of my drink.

“Parlez-vous anglais?” a young brunette asked, startling me momentarily. I hadn’t realized she had taken the stool next to mine.

“Oui—uh, yes, I speak English.”

“Oh, good,” she sighed, smiling brilliantly. “Would you order me a martini?”

The woman was pretty. Sun-kissed skin, golden brown hair, big eyes with long dark lashes, and high cheek bones. Her hair cascaded down her back, almost as fluid as water. She waited expectantly for me to order her drink, smiling kindly, the fingers of her left hand rubbing the charm on her necklace. I knew this play, even if I hadn’t experienced it in exploiting a language barrier. They were a dime a dozen in college towns. Dolled up girls waiting to ring up a tab on some guy who thought the night would end in luck when it more often ended with overdraft fees. The only difference here was she had the self-respect not to leave her breasts hanging out.

I didn’t want to buy her drink, but outright refusal seemed callous and rude. Signaling the bartender, I ordered the girl’s drink. After it was delivered, I asked her to close my tab and then walked to an empty wing chair in the corner of the bar to finish my scotch. Sinking into the seat, I slowly swirled the liquid in my glass, watching it wash up against the side.

“My name is Lani,” the woman from the bar said, taking the empty seat next to mine. She sat her drink on the low table between us and offered her hand to me.

I regarded her hand carefully, trying to determine if this was some ploy to weasel more drinks out of me. Some part insisted I was being ridiculous; this was Paris, after all. Who said all women had to be like the ones I’d met in college?

Shaking her hand, I said, “Matthew.”

There was that smile again, seductive and charming, as if practiced enough to seem effortless and natural. “Can I call you Matt? Matthew just sounds stuffy and you don’t strike me as the stuffy type.”

“That’s fine.”

She sipped her drink, watching me, though I pretended not to notice. I wanted to believe she was sincere and kind, but charming girls reminded me of Danielle, and those were not fond memories.

“So what brings you to Paris, Matt?” She leaned forward, resting on the arm of the chair.

“Work,” I said simply. She didn’t need to know my father and I were looking to open a hotels in Paris. While it might have made her intent more obvious, it could have also made her more difficult to disentangle. “What about you? Shouldn’t you be traveling with someone?”

She giggled, a noise that reminded me of small birds. “I don’t need to travel with anyone. I can take care of myself.” Lani flipped her hair over her bronzed shoulder. “I’m on vacation.”

“A vacation by yourself?”

Lani nodded. When I asked why, she simply said, “I’ll give as much information as you give me.”

5 Minutes

You can do anything for 5 minutes.       

            A short mantra pushing you in those final moments

            When that ache in your lower back

            Compliments the burning in your thighs

            And the shortness of your breath.

            Keep going,

You can do anything for 4 minutes.       

            Rest a moment beside a curtain of water

            On slick, glistening rocks, unaware

            The next moments carve a course of possibilities

            As turbulent and smooth as the river ahead.

            Don’t stop,

You can do anything for 3 minutes.       

            Imitate Gene Kelly without a care in the world

            As heavy drops rap on the umbrella

            Or splash on your face and shoulders

            As you lose yourself in swinging around a lamppost.

            Concentrate,

You can do anything for 2 minutes.

            Feel the warmth envelope you

            As a light breeze plays across your face.

            Breathe in the pollen filled air, listening

            To cheery birds and praying not to sneeze.

            Almost there,

You can do anything for 1 minute.        

            Seek the source of the cool air that brushes,

            Briefly, over your burning, drenched skin.

            It’s a tempting lure away from the machine,

            But victory and accomplishment are close at hand.

            Push harder,

You can do anything for 30 seconds.

            Even die a little, but not really.

            Hold your breath and feel the ease in the

            First 10 seconds before your lungs burn and chest tightens

            And eventually forces you to suck in fresh air.

            Count down,

5…4…3…2…1.

In 5 minutes, you just surpassed your expectations

Of yourself and pulled through.

Body aches and muscles sore, but in that good,

I finished something, sort of way.

You can thank a wandering mind later.

Bored Room

“I move to blahdy blah…”

“Second!”

Always a race and the most interesting part of the night

to be the first to second whatever is moved;

isn’t that sad and almost pathetic

for the highlight of the meeting

to be a race,

—like Mario Kart minus the dreadful dangers

of Rainbow Road and Wario’s Gold Mine,

or the thrilling rush of pressing the buzzer first

in Jeopardy-like games—when

really we are here to serve a higher purpose

as representatives

for one thing or another, although some don’t seem to care,

letting our hard work and endless nights go

unnoticed. Hard work that oftentimes is

boring and sees more members drifting

or wandering off to the forests of social media, email,

and note passing. If only our high

school teachers could see us now; how strange

it must seem for note passing to be acceptable,

encouraged even,

so the meeting may resume uninterrupted

by murmurs and whispers of

making plans, listing complaints, and playing

Who Has More Classwork They Could Be Doing Right Now.

And yet, through the boredom and minds

drifting away on fluffy white clouds,

everyone perks an ear for those three little words,

regardless what follows after,

and the chance to glow with pride, winning the race

that is barely enough

to keep their interest.

Building and Breaking Boxes

“Who are you?”

A simple enough question you ask

At least simple on the surface

Because, really, you only ask

            Out of politeness

            Out of custom

            Out of a need to hear the answer you want

Because you already know what answer you want to hear

You look me over and see my skin

            Tan

            Sunburnt

            Pale as snow

And you know the answer you expect

            White

                        Western, maybe Eastern European

            Christian

                        Catholic, maybe Lutheran

            Female

                        Without question and always femme

            Straight

                        Because anything else would make you uncomfortable

So why do you ask?

Because if I were to tell you

My family

                        My history

                        My heritage

            Is more colorful

It would ruin the boxes you’ve already made for me

It would upend your understanding of the world

Because it’s not

            What you expect

            What you know

            What you’ve learned is proper

And yet, you still ask

What would you think if I said I was mixed?

            One white father

            One black mother

How would you react if I added

            One freed slave?

            One Choctaw princess?

            Polka-loving immigrants?

Which box do I belong in now?

            White

            Black

            Red

            Rainbow

But Rainbow suggests I break straight

            I like girls

            I don’t like men

            Or maybe only sometimes

And yet, that doesn’t encompass it all

            I like girls

                        But not to kiss

            I don’t like men

                        When they’re assholes

            And maybe only sometimes

                        I say, “Tie me up”

But why stop there?

Your projected Christian beliefs mean nothing

For Christ is to you

What Goddess is to me

And my Goddess is

            Loving

            Guiding

            Accepting

But these things you cannot see

            Cannot comprehend

Because to you Christ is everything

And without Christ you are nothing

Surely your last box is

Safe

            Unscathed

            Somewhere I fit

And most days I do

Femme, polite, well-dressed

            Ever smiling

            Ever graceful

            Ever witty

                        But only just enough

And then off days occur

            Bitter

            Angry

            Mean-spirited

Or self-conscious, self-loathing days

            Unclean

            Unkempt

            Tear-stained and broken

And femme, polite, well-dressed

Are the last things on my mind

So have I broken your boxes?

            Wrecked your safe world

            Destroyed your perception

                        Of the tidiness of people

                        Of the clear distinctions in society

                        Of the way our world works

Have I taught you not to

            Assume

            Judge

            Pigeonhole

                        Before you know for sure?

Or have you given up hope

Forsaken me

Written me off as

            An anomaly

            An Other

            “One of Those People”

Or now, perhaps, you’ll ask what I do

            And box me up in that way

For if I do anything at all

            Creative

            Non-traditional

            Different

                        It all makes sense

I can be written off as

            An Artist

            A Hippie

            “One of Those People”

And if I do something practical like

            Marketing

            Managing

            Mothering

I also suddenly make sense

            Provided you forget everything else

And yet this cycle is unending

Questions will follow until

            Eventually

                        I fit neatly into boxes

                                    Even if I have to be edited first

So the question remains

“Who are you?”

To save us the trouble and time

I give my name

I give my common acquaintance

            If any

And I leave it at that

And you will box me up in your once over

            White

            Christian

            Female

            Straight

And there I will live in your mind

Until one day you discover I’m not

            At least on occasion

And when that happens

Who I am

Becomes more complex than you made it

When you learn that

Maybe you’ll be ready to

            Break down your boxes

            Expand your horizon

            Understand something different

                        Complex

Or maybe

            You’ll just build new boxes

What's Next

Thus concludes my Elemental trilogy. I hope you enjoyed it and invite you to leave comments on any of the posts.

But this is not everything. I spent a great deal of time writing when I was younger, and I have many more pieces to share. Many of the coming posts will feature poetry and short stories - some of the short stories may span multiple posts. Some of these have received more attention and editing than others. I also have many starts to planned novels that I will share; please be advised that these are incomplete. As such, some of them, such as the Sonja Bratour stories (my version of a Harry Potter fan fiction), may have alternative beginnings that I'll share. Some of them, such as Revive (the first in a planned duet following the Elemental trilogy) may only have one or two chapters written. These planned novels are all in various stages of unfinished.

As always, I do not pretend these are highly polished works; but I had fun writing them and friends, when I was younger, enjoyed reading them. Some of these pieces I will share with you are my roots in writing, and you will probably be able to tell. I invite your feedback in regards to what you like, what sorts of things I should avoid doing in future writing, and so on. I'm sharing primarily for my own benefit in reviving my love of writing fiction, but I also share to entertain.

I hope you continue to enjoy the works shared herein.

Eternal: Epilogue

Epilogue: Beginning Eternity

Years ago, Valetta had asked me how I imagined my dream life. When I had closed my eyes, I saw a life I wanted, but didn’t think I could ever have. And yet, here I am, with Drei, living in a two story beach house on a lake in a forest. Almost exactly as I had described.

Drei’s sisters had been buried in that single grave I had found. He paid to have them exhumed and cremated, bringing their ashes back with us. The urns had a room they shared with other memories, fond and painful. Pictures, news clippings, items that held special meaning—including the rocking chair Drei had found all those years ago, a maternal family heirloom of mine.

Another special place Drei and I had set up, though I had been reluctant at first, was a garden. It wasn’t like his original, left behind and untended at the original safe camp, but it was a close second. We didn’t have to build a greenhouse, as there was an atrium that essentially functioned as one. Together, we worked to find the right combination and proportions of flowers with the initial goal of replicating the scent still following him around. After a while, Drei and I both decided it shouldn’t be a replica because the original had been a solution to his pain and a gift to me, his love. He suggested I take more creative control over its composition as I was now in need of channeling pain. I didn’t argue, and it wasn’t long after I started feeling better. There was something about catering to life that balanced a loss of it.

Kneeling by the water, I set some blossoms floating into the center of the lake. My yearly ritual, because I didn’t have an urn or a grave to send them to. The lake is the second best thing to him, as it is where we first met and where most of our happiest memories were. It is also where he made his first sacrifice for us.

I brush the tears from my eyes, wondering, not for the first time, if I’ll ever be able to stop crying for him.

“Abriel,” Drei calls from behind me.

I watch the blossoms for a moment more before turning to jog up the stairs to the balcony off our room where he waits. Where he has waited every year on this day.

“Beautiful flowers you chose this year,” he says, opening his arms to me.

“Thank you.” The sadness dissipats again, waiting for next year. Tending a garden really minimized my sadness surrounding the event to the point I only felt it deeply once a year. And like clockwork, it’s back on this day; I wake up with it and that’s how I know to go to the garden and pick whichever flowers speak to me for my annual visitation. “Why does it feel like it hurts more every year?” I ask, gazing out at the small specks on the calm surface of the water.

“Because it is another year you have lived without him,” he replies gently, rubbing my back. “And another year you realize he will not return to say hello.”

There’s a truth to his words, more truth than I want to admit. It is the first year I have asked, and I can’t believe he’s hit on it so well. No matter what had happened, Nick had always popped up somewhere else, smiling, calming me, apologizing for something or another from the time before. Subconsciously, I think I’m still waiting for him to show up and apologize for scaring me so badly.

“Nick is not coming back this time,” Drei whispers. I appreciate his honesty; it’s the only way I’m going to stop crying on this day. And I know that. But some part of me, somewhere deep in my heart, doesn’t want to stop hoping, even if I know I should.

“I added the angel and the guardian to our memories room,” I say, changing the subject. Although they have been available for some time now, Drei has avoided adding them to our collection. I decided to correct the oversight.

“At least it is not a doll;” he smirks and I hit him lightly on the arm. He is never going to let that one die. Though he continues to smile, his eyes darken a little, growing more serious. “There is one thing you have yet to ask me.”

The sky begins to lighten with the coming dawn as I try to think of what he means. When it strikes me, I know why I hadn’t remembered. I haven’t thought about it in years, and now I might finally have the answer I have been wanting since Drei first mentioned it.

“Do you think you have fulfilled your promise to the Lady of the Moon?”

“I strive to deserve your love every day,” he says softly, holding my gaze steadily, his amethyst eyes bright and resolute. “And I will never deserve it until I strive every day hereafter.”

“There is no one else I would rather spend my eternity with,” I confide before he kisses me.

A light crosses the forest and we stop, stepping into our room and closing the French doors. It is my first sunrise since I had a pulse. Most of them before now I had slept through, but not today.

“You know, if we ever grow tired of forever, I could change that,” I remind him, resting my head on his chest.

“I do not imagine I will grow tired of spending my un-life with you, Abriel,” he says as the first rays of dawn fill the room.

I miss it, though, because I’m looking at him, and all of the promises that fill his eyes. Eternity is a long time, but he silently promises he will love me everlastingly; and by the way he kisses me, I can tell he knows the same is true of me.

Eternal: Chapter Twelve, Part 3

But that wasn’t everyone. Justin and Angeline were married and started their own law firm together. He had taken my advice, though I had known that at the march. She had said yes, just as I knew she would, and she was the reason he joined Caroline that day. As much as they argued, they loved each other and there would never be someone else they’d want.

If you were wondering, their law firm was one of the most successful in the nation and represented the new government—by Caroline’s recommendation, of course.

Mitchell and Valetta stuck around helping Caroline until just before the first elections. Then they took off to travel the world, just as Valetta had always wanted to do with her love. It only took a couple hundred years, but she was living her dream un-life. There wasn’t anyone I knew who deserved it more.

And Mitchell? Well, he was still Mitchell. And no matter how old I become, I doubt he will ever stop making fun of me. But I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Obviously, the Council agreed I had made my significant impact. All charges against us were dropped and we went on with our un-lives. I had heard, though, because of vampiric support during my campaign and the new government being formed, the Council was considering co-habitation in a hundred years, give or take a score. Once co-habitation was established, after all, they could fully stake claim for their part in the revolution.

Elizabeth, the little girl from the march, didn’t see a doll of me made. In fact, no one ever made a doll of me. They did, though, make an angel of me, and she received that for her birthday—courtesy of Drei, who still found it hilarious. Surprisingly enough, the angel looked like me. Pale skin, blue-grey eyes, blondish brown hair, and arms open to welcome everyone and everything. Of course, she was called Leirba. What I didn’t expect was that she was the angel not of change, or hope, or peace, but of miracles. Another company called her the guardian of the impossible, including a story about how she magically came to earth one day, led a great movement for change against all odds, and disappeared when the people could see the path forward. It also promised she’d return again if they ever needed her.

As cute and inspiring as I thought it was, I hoped they wouldn’t need me again, and should they, I hoped someone else would be there to step up and take his or her turn. Otherwise I would be there, but I can guarantee you whoever was supposed to be stepping up wouldn’t like it.

My parents were reunited again, too. I bought a plane ticket for my mom, and left a message for my dad telling him when to be at the airport, which flight, and everything. It dawned on me I could have been there, as well. But the only thing I could do to right what had gone wrong was to give them back to each other.

I stayed at home and mapped it. I watched as she stepped through security, searching for someone familiar, anyone familiar. My dad searched for me, because I had left the message. The two of them finally saw each other, their eyes locking and everyone else seeming to freeze in place. Then he was holding her, so gently, terrified she wasn’t real. She started crying, wrapping her thin arms around him, telling him she loved him and she was sorry she ever had to leave.

A month later, he was divorced from my mother, leaving her the house and enough money to keep her satisfied for years. I think she had been expecting this as she didn’t put up a fight. She just let it happen, and a year later she was married to some guy down the block who divorced her a few months after for everything she was worth. I wouldn’t say she deserved it, because she didn’t, and I found it somewhat cruel that she had to work after never working on anything but a committee for years. I called Dad, left him a message about Kenzy’s situation, and he helped her get back on her feet, ensuring the next guy she married wouldn’t do the same by making him sign a pre-nuptial agreement.

Mom and Dad, though, they had a small apartment in New York, his favorite place in the world. They were happy and he was doing everything he could to help Mom heal after all she had suffered through. I was proud of her for taking the aid he offered—and found for her—and of him for stepping up and being home to help her. If I was lucky, my eternity with Drei would be filled with just as much love as their time together was.

Looking back, it almost seemed as though that march was where most people ended the movement, though it still technically continued into today. I found it strange and flattering. Though it wasn’t the end, it seemed to be the start of everyone’s future. For better or for worse, we had succeeded.

Finally.

Eternal: Chapter Twelve, Part 2

Within weeks of the march, Caroline had officially called for a complete removal of the government, as I had known she would. She explained, no matter what agreement they came to in negotiations, it wouldn’t be long before things reverted to the way they had been.

Initially, people weren’t sure what to make of it. They weren’t ready for something so radical, not when that would mean removing the entire governmental body in work and replacing it. In response, she explained Leirba’s Council—they left it in my name so not everything was changing—was already drafting possible temporary solutions. It was a huge country, they weren’t ignoring that fact, but this was also a huge problem. No matter what they did, it would take time.

When she presented her proposal for the new temporary government, a council instead of a single figure head, and larger councils below and at every level, people relaxed. This was her guarantee that not everyone in the most important positions would be regular or elemental, which even satisfied some of those still unsure about elementals and hell.

A few short years later, the existing government was dissolved. Every official had either been petitioned from office or forcibly removed when only a few remained. An online ballot was released and the first members of the Change Committee—the council that would lead the country in this exchange of power—were elected and met. Caroline and a regular were the co-presiding chairs, the other twenty members divided between elemental and non. Together, they decided to rid the government of political parties other than elemental and regular, so no one group had too much more control than the other. Other such decisions regarding the new government were made in those first meetings, and, slowly, were being made in each state by their elected Change Councils—the state-level equivalent of the Committee.

Last I had heard, things were running smoothly with the temporary government—though it didn’t seem so temporary as it had been in place for six years. There was, of course, plenty of chaos, but things were quieting as each Council grew stronger and reviewed their new respective constitutions for any amendments that needed to be made. Things were looking better. In another year there would be elections again for most of the Committee and Council seats, though many felt that almost everyone holding a seat would win it back so they could finish what they had started.

Caroline, in addition to her revolution work, had also come to some resolution with her parents. They remained adamantly against the movement and all related things, but she finally had the backing and the proof she wasn’t insane, unhealthy, or freakish. Though they wouldn’t back down, she argued she was still their daughter, regardless of how they thought she should be, and she was going to live her own way, with or without their approval. When they failed to provide a compelling argument for her to continue visiting, both Caroline and Ian were freed from their mandatory meetings with them. This saddened her slightly, but she was quickly consumed in other business. I had a feeling, given a few more years, they might come around to accepting societal norms had changed and could figure out they really did love her—elemental, angry, wild, and all.

Ian was painting, as he had told me he would be. His murals and collages, portraits and scenes were gorgeous and many were available for viewing online or in various magazines. He also had current shows in a New York Gallery of his Movement works, and another in England of his Pre-Movement works. There was rarely a critic with a negative comment, though even those existed.

The one piece I had explained to Caroline, the one he said I was in, he named after me: Abriel. I read an interview in which he was asked why it was called Abriel, who was Abriel. His answer: “She is the bravest person I know, and without her, none of us would be where we are today.” Though this thoroughly confused people, especially the interviewer, I felt touched. The world would know my real name, even if they couldn’t match it with a face.

By far, though, his Movement works were his best known. They depicted everything from our early meetings to our commercials, Caroline’s local speeches to small group work, his picket signs to Nick’s death. It was the single greatest depiction of modern history in the world. I wasn’t the only one to think so, and I was biased.

However, he wasn’t just painting and making appearances; Caroline wouldn’t let him off that easily. Whenever she needed help or a second, outside opinion, he was on her speed dial. He didn’t mind it so much, though. If anything, he missed having her boss him around sometimes. Since they had gone their separate ways, he was suddenly making every decision, even about his exhibitions. Occasionally, when setting up a new exhibit, he called her so someone else could decide how it should look for once, especially since she had no eye for art and could therefore give a properly unbiased opinion. No matter what happened, they were stuck together. It was a good thing they didn’t mind.

Jake and Kora both returned to college, changing their majors to political science, the new version—Jake for a master’s and Kora for a bachelor’s though it meant an extra year of study for her. Both wanted to continue being a part of the change happening around them, and politics was the place to do so.

Kora was married on the two year anniversary of the march. We were invited—Drei received the invitation through Valetta. I went alone, but stayed to the back of the crowd, dropped off her present at the reception and left. She was stunning, the wedding was perfect, and Dan couldn’t have been a better match for her. The gift was the angels of love and hope, a note tucked into the box saying, “No matter what happens in life, love and hope will always lead you true.”

Jake was reunited with his mother. There were tears and apologies and promises made anew. When they went home together, his father apologized for his cruelty, and Jake finally found his answer. He wouldn’t forget, but he could forgive them. All of them.

With his new attitude and his family reunited, it wasn’t long before Jake was dating—and then engaged to—the girl about whom he used to tell me. And guess who? Natalie, the girl he thoroughly pissed off in his ethics class. They were cute together, and they reveled in the occasional heated debate.

Mikael and Xenia co-authored a memoir on their participation in those two years with me. It was a best seller and paid for them to go through college to become environmentalists. They were both working toward doctorate’s degrees.

Xenia eventually dyed her hair back to its original color and settled down. She could be herself, and that was all she had ever wanted. Her friends and her were all still single, no man (or woman) able to keep up with them. Someday that might change, especially as more and more people were becoming comfortable with admitting they were elementals or that they were okay with those who were.

Mikael’s parents showed up not long after he was interviewed the day of the march about his involvement in the movement. They told him they had made a mistake and wanted him back in their lives. No matter how much they apologized, though, Mikael remained silent. When they stopped fussing over him, trying to figure out if he was ever going to say something to them, he told them what they did was inexcusable, but he appreciated the apologies. Then he asked they never contact him again unless he did so first.

It couldn’t have been easy for him, but I think that’s what had been bothering him in those times he looked sad. He was trying to figure out what he would do if they came back. It couldn’t have been easy, but he had decided for himself what was right. I didn’t worry about him, though; Mikael had surrounded himself with a new family, both from our group and from his boarding school. He nurtured and cherished those relationships, but otherwise focused on his studies.

Occasionally, all of them gathered together in our old apartment, talking or plotting for old time’s sake. Caroline had kept up the rent and had given permission for the landlord to give weekday tours as an added bonus. I think they thought now that everything was going better, I might come back. While I couldn’t stop caring about them all, I couldn’t go to them. I was dead, technically, and I felt it was finally time I started acting like it.