TAVIAN

08.08.15

I have jumped out of an airplane while flying twelve thousand feet in the air. I have swum with a shiver of tiger sharks in the Caribbean Sea. I have climbed to the peaks of both Mt. Rainier and Mt. Kilimanjaro, driven a Formula 1 car over 200 mph, and come face-to-face with a bear that could’ve taken me out with one swipe of his enormous paw. Hell, I’ve survived one of the deadliest terrorist attacks in the world’s history.

But I’ve never been as scared as I am right this second.

My fingers wrap around the steering wheel and I squeeze the smooth gray leather so tightly I won’t be surprised if I leave permanent indentions. I’m desperately grasping for clarity in the situation, but I can’t hear any thoughts over the blood whooshing through my ears and my heart hammering out a bass line of dread against my ribs.

In the passenger seat, Lyra’s hands are clasped in her lap, her knuckles white, and her knees trembling. She’s staring straight ahead through the windshield at the side of the brick building, and the blank expression on her face reminds me of when we first met. When she hid her emotions behind a protected fortress of cold stone.

Neither of us has said a word since Annie blew in, dropped the bomb of all bombs, and left. As I floundered in my head trying to think of something to say in the seconds following her departure, Lyra simply turned around, got in the SUV, and closed the door in my face. Leaving me with no choice but to get in myself and face the music.

“I’ll explain everything. I just don’t want to talk about it here,” I finally manage to croak out as I start the engine and fasten my seat belt.

She doesn’t respond or react, and even though I want so badly to demand that she say something, anything, I give her the space and time she needs. Well, as long as that falls within the twenty or so minutes it’s going to take for us to get home. I can’t have her shut me out now. Not after what we’ve gone through to get here.

The bright lights of the busy city on a Saturday night whizz by through the windows as I drive on autopilot to my apartment building. I try to organize my thoughts and plan out my explanation. I don’t want to lie, but chances are she’s going to think I’m fucking crazy if I tell her about the numbers. Then, on the remote chance she actually believes me, she’ll then know her time is drawing near, which is the absolute worst message you can give anyone. Ever. And I’m going to deliver that bombshell to the woman I love.

Happy fucking birthday to me.

No matter what, just when everything was beginning to feel nearly perfect, it’s all about to change. With her. With me. With us… if there still is an us after tonight.

I pull into my assigned parking spot in the garage and, before I can even turn off the ignition, Lyra’s seat belt is off and she’s hopping out, not waiting for me to open her door like she usually does. A low, frustrated grumble escapes as I hurry and stalk to catch up to where she waits by the elevator.

“Don’t do this,” I growl as my right arm circles her thin waist and hauls her up against me. “Not yet. At least hear me out.”

She doesn’t pull away, which I take as a good sign, but her refusal to talk worries me. I need to know what she’s thinking.

The elevator door opens and I guide Lyra into the small space, keeping her tucked into my side the entire time, even as we exit on my floor. With every step down the hall to my apartment, my desperation level rises and I fight to maintain control of my desire to strip her down and fuck her until she forgets about everything else except how fucking perfect it is when we’re together. How we belong together, no matter what.

I unlock the door and usher her inside to the never-been-sat-on couch, and then take a deep breath for courage before beginning the hardest conversation I’ll ever have in my life. I need more than prayers right now; I need a miracle.

With us sitting side by side, angled to face each other, I gather her hands in mine and look directly into her stormy blue eyes. “Lyra, I don’t know how to—”

“Why did she say I was dying?” she cuts me off, her tone sharp. “What did you tell her? Did you lie to her as a reason to break up with her?”

My stomach clenches as I shake my head. “No, I didn’t lie to her. I… I accidentally said something I shouldn’t have when she and I were in the middle of our big fight, the night I kicked her out.”

“You accidentally told her I was dying?” she screeches as her face twists up in confusion. “Why would you say that? Even if I was—”

“We’re all dying, Lyra. Every single one of us,” I remind her. “No promised days, remember?”

She nods, but argues, “Yes, but that’s not what I’m talking about and you know it. She made it seem like I was dying soon. Like any day now.”

I swallow hard and lift her hands to my mouth, kissing her knuckles while I prepare myself for what’s about to come.

Here goes nothing.

“I know this is going to sound crazy, baby, but please try to keep an open mind and believe me when I say I’m telling you the truth.” I pause to make sure she’s with me, that she’s really listening, and then continue. “Ever since I was a little kid, from the time I can remember, I have been obsessed with numbers. Not surprising I guess, considering what I study and teach, but it goes deeper than that.”

Her spine straightens and her eyes grow wide with intrigue. And now, her hands are gripping mine as tightly as mine are hers. “Deeper how?”

“I… I…,” I frantically search for the words.

“Just say it, Tavian,” she urges, leaning in slightly. “What is it?”

“When I look in people’s eyes, I see numbers—numbers that mean something important. A date,” I blurt out in a single breath, still not ready to use the word death.

Lyra gasps and her jaw drops at my confession, the color draining from her face. Her hands begin to shake in mine, and within a couple of seconds, the tremors spread over her entire body. With tears pooling in her eyes, she looks at me with more vulnerability than I’ve ever seen from her before. And it breaks my fucking heart.

Just as I move to wrap her in my arms and pull her in my lap, Lyra suddenly jumps up from the couch and rushes over to the kitchen, frantically rummaging in the drawers. I watch her for a moment, caught off guard by her unexpected reaction, then push to my feet and join her.

“What are you looking for?” I ask, blocking the entrance to the kitchen with my frame.

“Pen and paper,” she replies without looking up. “Don’t you have a junk drawer with that kind of stuff in it?”

I cross my arms over my chest, not sure if I like where this is going. Why isn’t she asking me about how the numbers are important? Or how it ties in to what Annie said? Something’s off.

“Not in here,” I reply with a twinge of agitation in my tone. “Why do we need paper right now? We were in the middle of a pretty damn important conversation.”

Lyra’s head snaps in my direction, her long hair whipping around as she pins me with her wild eyes. “Do you want me to believe you or not?”

Again, I’m taken aback by her response, but I don’t have time to figure out the reason for her strange behavior, because most importantly, I want her to believe me. So instead of questioning her, I answer, “Yes, I do.”

She nods matter-of-factly and closes the drawer she was digging through. “Then get us each a piece of paper and something to write with.”

I do as she asks then meet her back on the couch where we were before, handing her the supplies as I lower myself on the cushion next to her. Anxiety like I’ve never felt before surges through my veins while I wait for her to speak. I don’t know if I can do what she’s about to ask me to do. And I still don’t understand why she has paper and a pen, too.

“Turn your back to me so I can’t look and write the numbers you see in my eyes,” she instructs.

I open my mouth to object, but the imploring, almost desperate look she gives me stops any words from coming out. There’s no way she can know what she’s asking me to do. And there’s no way I can lie to her or deny her.

With an overwhelming sensation of dread and sorrow, I twist to face the wall, quickly jot down the six-digit number, and brace myself for the fallout. Only when I swing back around to face her, Lyra’s holding up her piece of paper with the exact same numbers that are written on mine.

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