Page 72 of Deja Who
“So you’re not just chilly and distanced, you’re a bigot, too.”
“I am not, in other lives I’ve been African-American, Korean, Chinese—I can’t afford to be a bigot, I’m in glass houses all day long.”
“You are, but not for the reason you think.” He was starting to getveryangry and put his hands behind his back so he wouldn’t be tempted to choke her. “You hide there. You like it there. You’re always a nobody, whether you’re slicing off Anne Boleyn’s head or watching the revolution burn through a royal family.”
“Irrelevant.”
“Ha! You’re fine watching history instead of making it. You’re fine with everything. Look, Leah, there’s nothing wrong with keeping your head down, which in your case resulted at leastonce in keeping your head. If more people followed that example, you’d have less clients.”
“Fewer.”
“What?”
“I’d have fewer clients.”
“Forget it!” He stuck a finger under her nose and shook it. “I refuse to find the Grammar Police thing sexy right this minute but might later! As I was saying! You’re so used to being on the sidelines in past lives, you can barely participate in your current one. I might not agree being life-blind isblind, but you refuse to see that always being on the outside isn’t healthy, either. And the thought of admitting you need someone, it’s fucking paralyzing, isn’t it?”
“Don’t try to make this a commitment phobia,” she said sharply. “If anything I’m phobophobic.”
“You don’t like having your picture taken? I’m not trying to be funny!” he yelped, holding out his hands to placate her. “I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”
“Also part of the problem,” she muttered. “It’s fear of having a phobia.”
“Well, that’s justgreat. Of course you do. Or of course you are—donotfucking correct my grammar on that one. You’re the planet’s best Insighter—”
“Actually, Moira McKinnen in Edinburgh is probably the planet’s best.”
“Please shut up, sweetie. You spend your time helping people see their past fears, screwups, and deaths.”
“I’m aware of my own job description, Archer.” But he saw it at once; her sharp tone was hiding her unease. He was getting to her and he thought he knew what button he was pushing.
Are we really thrashing this out on a public sidewalk with dozens of witnesses streaming by on either side of us?
Yep.
“You help clients you view only as medical charts see themselves make the same lethal mistakes over the centuries, and then you help them fix it. Sure, it’s a noble calling and all, but sometimes, no question, it gets old. Jaded comes with the territory. As does phobophobia, sometimes. But it doesn’t have to define you!”
“Archer,” she said, her voice low and sorrowful, “it does define me. Itisn’tjust a job. I’m also possibly a thanataphobe.” He must have looked helpfully blank, because she elaborated. “Fear of death.”
He threw his hands in the air. “Well, yeah! This goes back to what I was talking about! If I’d been murdered a dozen times, I’d be afraid of death, too.”
“But I shouldn’t be.” Her tone—he actually wished she would go back to shouting. She just sounded so young and lost—like a girl who’d lost a mom sheloved, as opposed to losing It. “I know I’ll come back again. Except—” She cut her gaze and looked away from him. “What if I don’t? One of these lives might be my last and I’ll never know why. I’ll never get another chance to fix things. Or worse—what if I come back like—like—”
He took a breath. Let it out slowly. “Like me?”
She said nothing.
“That,” he said, “could be a blessing. You guys are so busy feeling sorry for people like me, it hasn’t occurred to any of you that a person who has the experience of one measly lifetime can be emotionally and psychologically stronger than someone busily screwing up life number xix. Don’t you get it? We can belike that because wehaveto be. We can’t hit rewind a hundred times until we figure out our—I dunno”—he groped for something that sounded scientific—“our autophobia is because we’ve died a dozen times in a dozen car crashes.” When she said nothing, he went on. “Fear of cars? Right?”
“Fear of being alone,” she said slowly andwhywouldn’t she look at him? He thought he knew.
“That’s one thing youneverhave to be afraid of.” He reached out, wanting to cup her cheek in his hand, wanting to feel her smooth warm flesh, wanting her to tip her face into his hand and rub like a shark-eyed cat. He wanted to feel the muscles in her cheek flex as she smiled up at him. “Not ever, Leah.”
None of those things happened; she took a calculated step backward and he only cupped air. “That is inappropriate, as we are no longer seeing each other.”
Each word was like a needle in his chest, long and sharp and hot going in. He dropped his hands, took a calming breath. Tried to take a calming breath. “Leah, I love you, but my God: your knowledge of past lives hasn’t made you smarter or braver or stronger. It’s paralyzed you. Please, please let me help you.”
Oh, shit. What did I say?
