Semele stopped reading. There was no way she had gotten that right. Her eyes returned to the Greek symbols and she translated the line again.
Her name. Ionna had written her name.
She tried to ignore the goose bumps rising on her arms and reminded herself that the name Semele had ancient origins. Her father had picked it.
In Greek mythology, Semele was Zeus’ lover and the mother of Dionysus. She was also the only mortal ever to be the mother of a god. But Semele was killed by Zeus shortly before giving birth, her death brought about by her own foolishness. Zeus had granted her one wish, her heart’s desire, and given his oath he would grant it no matter the consequence. Her wish was to see Zeus in all his glory; however, no mortal could look upon him without bursting into flames. Zeus was forced to keep his promise and show himself, and Semele died by fire. In the end, Zeus rescued the unborn Dionysus and sewed him into his thigh until the baby was ready to be born.
Semele still had no idea how on earth her father had sold her mother on the name. The fact that it also appeared in Ionna’s manuscript had to be a coincidence. She sighed and continued translating.
Your father did not choose your name. Your grandmother did—the one who severed your family tree at the time of your birth to protect you. But you must understand, Semele, that those roots remain.
Semele jumped off the couch as if her laptop were on fire. “Holy shit!” she yelled to the empty room.
A rush of adrenaline coursed through her as she stared at the glowing computer screen, now completely petrified.
Did that just happen? Did a two-thousand-year-old manuscript actually talk back to her?
She ran to the bathroom and splashed water on her face. She had slept only a few hours. Maybe her exhaustion and jet lag were making her delusional. The possibility that Ionna was communicating directly with her violated every law of the universe.
She turned off her computer without even closing the file. She had to get out of her apartment. Now. She grabbed her cell phone and called Bren. He answered on the second ring, and she could hear the happiness in his voice.
“Hey, you.” Then he hesitated. “You’re not calling to cancel tomorrow, are you?”
Semele laughed. Even to her ears it sounded shrill. “No, silly.” She never said “silly.” “I was calling to see if you’re busy tonight.”
“Just waiting for my girlfriend to move in with me,” he reminded her. “Was it my message this morning?”
Semele thought fast. Had he left Emily Dickinson on her voice mail today? She really needed to start listening to those poems.
He began reciting it: “Wild nights—wild nights! Were I with thee—”
She cut him off. “Definitely in the mood for one of those.”
“Seriously?”
He had no idea. She was teetering on the edge and would rather jump off than stay there.
* * *
They met at a small hole-in-the-wall in Williamsburg. The place hosted spoken-word nights, poetry slams, house parties, DJ battles, and even stand-up comedy. Bren had done a poetry reading there for his first book of poems, Duende. It had technically been their second date. He had gotten up onstage and spun words with a vulnerability that had made her dizzy. Afterward they cuddled on busted leather couches drinking tequila and beer and danced until three in the morning. The whole night had been her best date in years and cemented the start of their relationship.
Semele never confessed to Bren that she’d had to look up “duende.” The word had many meanings: magic, spirit, and the passion that roused creativity. The next day she bought the book and spent the rest of the weekend reading each poem several times. Bren was publishing a new collection this year called Soaked in Bourbon and Lit on Fire—in honor of her, he teased. She had to admit that sounded more up her alley.
Tonight, the club seemed like the perfect place to go.
Bren was tongue-tied when she walked through the door. She was wearing her sexiest dress, a little black number with burnished red piping that made her feel like the star of her own burlesque show. The dress molded to her body, exaggerated every curve, and showed more leg than anything else she owned. Her hair gleamed like obsidian and curved into a wink right at her jawline. The total effect of the red lipstick, thick mascara, and eyeliner made her look exactly like she felt—dangerous.
She surprised Bren with a long kiss and led him to the bar, where she ordered them both martinis. She planned to have several.
Bren leaned closer to her. “Hi, I’m supposed to be meeting my girlfriend here tonight. You look a lot like her,” he said, raising his voice over the music.
“I get that a lot.” She clinked his glass.
“Hard day at work?”
“You have no idea.” She pulled him onto the dance floor.
The music pulsed, compelling her body to move. She lost herself in the rhythm, dancing to song after song. She kept flitting to the bar for drinks, hoping to catch a buzz, to turn off her thoughts—anything not to think—but she couldn’t get drunk tonight no matter how hard she tried.
Her mind was sharp, on edge, and her thoughts amplified. Seeing her name in the manuscript had completely derailed her. And for a split second, she’d really felt Ionna reaching out to her.
Did that make her crazy?
She went to order another martini and couldn’t help thinking that she resembled her mother tonight. Helen could outdrink anyone at a party.
“Sure you want another?” Bren asked.
Semele laughed and shook her head. She grabbed his hand and they abandoned the bar. They took a cab back to her place, kissing in the backseat like teenagers, their arms like pretzels around each other.
Bren whispered, “Sem, you’re driving me crazy.”
“Good.” When they arrived at her apartment, she led him inside and up the stairs. They were already pulling at each other’s clothes before they had even closed the door.
They made love for the first time since she’d been back. Semele moved like liquid as she straddled him, kissing him deeper, possessively. Her body took over, forcing her mind to shut off.
The desire inside her spiraled, bringing forth thoughts—an inner knowledge—she had secretly suppressed. She stared into Bren’s eyes, unable to look away.
Like a window opening, she saw glimpses of his future, a string of moments, his life in montage. Never had she experienced anything like this before.
She saw two boys that looked like miniature versions of him running across the park and squealing as he chased them.
Other images flashed by her in a flurry of time.
She saw Bren’s future was filled with love—those beautiful boys—and a wife who wasn’t her.