Page 155 of Fated

His eyes flicker. A shadow passes through them and I see a door closing, a choice, a life not taken. He tilts his head close, steering us further toward the quiet edge of the ballroom, where the glitter and prisms fade.

He smiles down at me. “I thought that might be your answer.”

“I wish it weren’t,” I tell him. “But I wouldn’t make you happy. Not really. And I love you too much to confine you to a life you’d regret.”

“Fiona,” he says, stroking his hand down the silk of my dress. “I’m not waiting for happiness.”

“Someday you will be. That’s my wish for you. That you’ll find your happiness. I’ll be so glad when you do. I’ll be the happiest person in the world for you.”

He shakes his head. “What about your happiness?”

I glance across the ballroom. Daniel’s there, dancing with a French actress. He’s laughing and I imagine dreaming about spending tomorrow with us eating Christmas dinner and playing in the snow. Mila’s upstairs, tucked in and asleep, watched over by Annemarie, dreaming, I’m sure, of presents and stockings and chocolate sauce poured over waffles.

I look back up at Max, my best friend. “I’m happy. It’s Christmas Eve. I try always to be happy on Christmas Eve.”

At that Max gives a rueful smile. “So. Friends.”

I nod, holding him tight. “Friends.”

“I won’t ask again, but ...” He looks over the room, at the shimmering light. “Was it the man from your dreams? I never managed to light you up like he did.”

I stare at Max, a slow tug pulling at me, a hollow note in my chest. I shake my head. “What man?”

He smiles down at me, a lock of black hair falling over his forehead. “The one that gave you sparks. I tried for months to give you what one dream did.”

I search through my memory, trying to recall the dream he’s talking about. I remember us sitting under a purple sky, drinking wine, toasting sparks and dreams, but I don’t remember what my dreams were about.

If I concentrate on it too long, there’s an ache almost too great to bear. So I let it slide away, receding like the tide.

“No,” I tell him. “I don’t remember my dreams. I don’t remember sparks. They’d be nice, though, I think.”

Max touches my cheek. “Tell me when you find them. I’ll be happy for you.”

“Good. We can grow old being happy for each other.”

The music ends then, a slow sighing, a gentle snowflake falling to the muted silence of deep white snow.

There’s the quiet sigh, the silence just after the music ends.

I pause. Hold still in the quiet.

There’s something there. Something hovering at the edges of my mind ever since I woke up. It’s as if I heard the most beautiful song in the world. As if I was surrounded by a melody that swept me up, wrapped me in its warmth, and filled my heart with love. It’s as if I once heard the greatest beauty, saw the most beautiful love, but now it’s gone—and I don’t remember the music. I don’t remember the song or the sight. I only have a memory of a lost feeling. A distant echo of something I once heard. The harder I try to capture it, the further it slips away. And so I can only feel the pang of a loss so great my heart aches—for something—something beautiful... It aches for a song I can’t remember, but know I loved.

It’s like a dream, isn’t it?

In dreams, we experience everything we’re afraid to in real life. In dreams we can fly, we can defeat dragons, we can go back in time, we can see our loved ones who are dead and gone, we can talk to a crowd while naked on a stage, and we can even fall in love.

But then we forget our dreams and we’re left only with a feeling.

I glance over at the ice clock.

11:48 p.m.

I stare at the face of the clock and at the swirl of silvers and golds reflected in the ice. I’m struck by the moment.

Then the minute hand shifts, stutters forward, and the time passes.

I look up at Max, gently gripping the smooth wool of his tuxedo. “Do you ever feel,” I ask, “as if you’ve lost something, but you don’t know what?”

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