Page 66 of The Otherworld

“Yeah, I mean… I’ve been enjoying her company.”

“Enjoying her company?” Jack volleys my words back with a laugh. “And what exactly do you guys do together to enjoy each other’s company?”

“We’ve just been talking.”

“About what?”

“Philosophy and stuff.”

“And stuff.”

“Jack.”

He bursts out laughing. “I’m just trying to piss you off, man.”

“Thanks a lot.” I run a hand over my hair. “Orca is actually very philosophical. She… has an interesting way of looking at life.”

“Mm. Philosophical? Did you tell her that’s your biggest turn-on?”

“Very funny.”

I change the subject, giving Jack a list of things to manage for my business until I get back. I know he’s only pulling my leg about Orca, but even the mention of her is enough to reawaken all the feelings I wrestled with last night.

The poem I wrote at midnight while she slept in the other room.

The way she looked in the greenhouse yesterday, butterflies in her hair.

The ticking clock counting down the hours, minutes, seconds we have left together.

What’s the use of talking about it? What’s the use in telling Jack about my ridiculous inner struggle? No good can come from brooding over these feelings and prolonging the inevitable.

Tomorrow morning, I will leave this place, and Orca will stay.

And that will be the end of it.

20

One Failing

ORCA

Will I ever see him again?

I don’t know. And I can’t ask him. I can’t make him feel obliged to return for my sake. Just because Adam Stevenson is the most fascinating person I’ve ever met doesn’t mean he feels the same way about me. In fact, I’m sure he doesn’t. How could he? He’s met so many people, seen so many places, and done so many things.

I, on the other hand, have been nowhere and done nothing. I can’t offer the slightest fascination for him.

So when he tells me of the clear skies forecast for tomorrow, I force an unruffled smile onto my face and make my best effort to seem pleased for him. “Tomorrow?” The word struggles out of me, small and timid.

“Yeah,” Adam says. “It looks like a dense fog for the rest of today. But according to Jack, this system should be moving out by nightfall. He says it’s going to be clear tomorrow, believe it or not. Jack’s going to fly out here first thing in the morning.”

I nod, saying nothing in reply. We’re back in the greenhouse, and I use the plants to my advantage—hiding my face from Adam lest he catch sight of my disappointment.

I fight to hold back the words: Don’t go, don’t leave, don’t leave me, Adam Stevenson…

As I mindlessly water the plants, my thoughts drift to the conversation Adam and I had last night about soulmates. It’s not that they were one being before, I said, but they are now, and that’s why it hurts when one of them goes away.

I didn’t speak as a mere spectator—I spoke from experience.

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