Incandescently: Incandescent Series, #1

Table of Contents

Title Page

About Incandescently

Books by Sylvie Parizeau

WARNING

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy ... and a Couple Hundred Extraordinary Pebbles Later

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

DEDICATION

Map

APPREHENSION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

COPYRIGHTS

LIAM O’SHEA, bestseller author of the SciFi saga, Eiloe.

All I knew was pain – a childhood filled with cruelty and villains who used and abused.

Until Éolie.

I first heard her sweet, angelical voice in the dark of night, when I lay bathed in my own impending death. Seventeen years later, it’s not the nightmare she pulled me out of that haunts me, but the glimpse of Happily Ever After she revealed just before disappearing.

They said she was a figment of my boundless imagination. A wish. A dream. Until I had no choice but to believe them, cherishing my imaginary savior the only way I knew how – in fiction and lore.

But fantasy has a way of transforming reality. When I finally tire of being a citizen of the world, I take an impromptu sabbatical as a professor at a small college on the coast of Maine. And there I see her, the girl with the sea-green eyes and angelic voice.

My world turns upside down. Turns out my girl is for real, and the pull between us is anything but imaginary.

Happily Ever After has a story … and this one is mine.

Incandescently (Liam’s story)

Apprehension (Zac’s story) - November 22, 2016

Exposure (P.O.’s story) - Winter 2017

By Design (Theo’s story) - 2017

Gravity (Yann’s story) - 2018

Indigenous (Leo’s story) - 2018

WARNING:

EXCERPT FROM THE UNOFFICAL CONTRACT BETWEEN:

‘The Reader’ referred to as YOU

-and-

‘The Writer’ referred to as ME

22. FULL DISCLOSURE CLAUSE (...)

i) Paragraph 58 (g) i) generalities

a) this is a very HAPPY story book, through and through

i) it MAY gift us with your smile, here and there

ii) it may shockingly BE Happily Ever After... more than once

iii) it may prove INFECTIOUS, so beware

Infinite darkness, the fury of the winds unleashed, sheets of rain and waves pounding mercilessly; I am numb.

Time ceases.

An impression of gray light eventually filters through my battered eyelids.

The capsized hull to which I secured my body harness is but a bit of flotsam, abandoned to the whims of the swirling waters of the Caribbean Sea surrounding me.

The graceful Thalassa, Primeval Spirit of the Sea, is no longer.

My sanctuary. Gone.

My soul cries out desperately to Liam … my Liam. And in the remembered warmth of his embrace, I let go as blessed unconsciousness finally welcomes me within its arms.

Ishove my body up if only to prove I’m awake. My bedroom is dark and new enough that it takes a moment to place where I am. For a split second, the terror of the dream follows me into reality. But then I remember.

Bar Harbor. Maine. My new teaching gig. I’m good.

Even so, the nightmare doesn’t quite fade. My pulse still erratically beating, I take a steadying breath, and remind myself I’m safe and dry. No death grip on a fraying strap, no being tossed about on a raging sea.

As nightmares go, this particular one’s a first. I usually relive impressions of traumatic memories of my own in a night terror, not conjure up brand-new ones ... but what I felt just now seemed way too real to be dreamed up by the weirdness of my brain alone. Yet, I’ve never been on board a ship like that one, much less hanging on a capsized hull in the middle of a wild sea storm.

A cold knot of dread settles in the pit of my stomach for absolutely no good reason. And I just can’t shake the vividness of drenching sheets of rain and waves pounding on my back.

Awesome, I mumble under my breath. You’re a new kind of crazy, man. Which is saying something.

I groan into my pillow, cracking my eyes open. Guess I won’t be going back to sleep any time soon.

The full moon shines down on me through the glass wall, its silver beams highlighting the sparsely furnished bedroom of the rental condo, and draws attention to the mess of clothes strewn about. Through the high window, I see that the nighttime sky has lightened, heralding a fast-approaching morning. Good to know this torture is at an end.

I let the soothing rhythm of waves lapping down the southern Maine seashore below shake the last of my disorientation, clearing my head of what’s left of my weird dream.

Jesus, what a night ... I reach for the bottle of water stashed beside the bed, and a swift sharp pain jolts me. Shit, that hurts. The water bottle falls and rolls underneath the nightstand, sloshing.

I fumble with the light switch, eyes squinting when it clicks on. Large, angry red welts cover both my palms. What the—?

I blink, swallow, blink some more. The welts are still there.

My mind clamors for a logical explanation, and I run through the list of possibilities.

No wild partying the night before with possible gaps in my short-term memory. Nope, haven’t done that since university.

Some sort of prank definitely gone just this side of too far from one of my GGS buddies? Not an entirely impossible feat considering our shared history, but sadly, in no way a viable possibility. Not with all five of them currently flung about to their own far reaches of the world.

At this point, my brain’s just about ready to settle for a bloody spider. And so am I.

I search through my bedding, desperately foraging for a logical culprit, and find none.

Zilch. Nada. Rien.

The plot thickens while the list of suspects thins.

With a judicious blast of music, the alarm clock suddenly recalls me to the here and now, abruptly reminding me that if I don’t hustle it up, I will be late for my first day of class. Students can get away with a tardy so easily. Faculty, not so much.

I hop out of bed and hurry through my morning shower, not bothering to shave. Scrambling back into the bedroom, I throw on a pair of jeans dark enough to pass for dressy. It will have to do since it’s the only clean pair of pants I have left until I figure out a way to do laundry on my own.

Hmm, wonder if the need for clean clothes will be enough to make me regret the easy comforts of my usual hotel stays...

After another harried search, I grab the first collared button-up shirt that looks in decent enough shape to be worn in public.

Guess laundry needs to be higher up on my To Do list after all.

I tuck the shirt into my jeans with ease and stop mid-motion. I slowly take my hands out of my pants and, when I do, I stare in utter confusion at two perfectly healed palms.

What the hell? I say to the empty apartment.

The silence doesn’t offer any answers. Go figure.

Running out of time, and refusing to dwell any longer on the bizarre red marks, I quickly grab my messenger bag and jog down the stairs to my rental car.

Thankfully I toured around quaint Bar Harbor all of last week upon accepting this professor gig, so I’m quite confident I’ll keep to the right side of the road this time around ... incoming traffic on the left, man. Courtesy of the near miss my first day out that frightened the bloody everlasting hell out of me, my short drive to campus this morning is all-American, smooth and eventless.

A cup of straight black coffee sounds like heaven after the hellish night I’ve had, and I make a beeline for my next pit stop, The Blair Dining Hall—affectionately called Take-A-Break, or TAB for short, by everyone at the College of the Atlantic.

Caffeine fueled and with only a few minutes to spare, I fly through the back door leading to the amphitheatre allocated to my guest lecture series for the semester. Before I round the platform, I take a moment to slow down to a more dignified pace. After all, as of this morning I am a faculty member, sort of, but still ... might as well act the honorary part of it, and blend in.

I’m relieved to see that no other administrative personnel are here yet, so I guess I’m not as late as I thought. Maybe my jet lag, courtesy of my seven-month jaunt in Australia, is still messing with me.

I make my way to the podium and stash my notes, trying to appear busy and important. Like I know what I’m doing or, better yet, like I’m supposed to be here, doing it. Man, what was I thinking when I said yes to this guest lecture? I feel about as qualified to be standing here as the kid in the back row with his cap pulled low over his eyes.

I rub the bridge of my nose, sighing heavily. Just means I’m better at playing the role, not much else. Oh, and I am a New York Times Bestselling Author—the words bounce around in my head. I inwardly scoff but it’s too late to backtrack now.

As I wait to be introduced to the crowd, I discreetly look around at the freshman faces already assembled. What would I give to be that young again? At twenty-four, I feel ancient compared to these kids.

I check my phone, giving me something else to do besides standing there. Bad idea. I struggle to keep my face impassive without barking a few rounds of snickers as I scroll down the text messages I’ve received in the last few hours. My GGS buddies know me better than anyone, and even with some of them scattered to the outer reaches of the planet, they’ve all managed to text me well-wishes for today. P.O., enrolled in a grad program at MIT alongside Yann, even pokes fun at my luck of the Irish teaching hot coeds, stressing they’re do not touch, but reaffirming his willingness to fill in for me, phone numbers optional. Luck of the Irish indeed as, contrary to popular belief, the expression is meant to be ironic, so he’s basically saying, tough luck, mate, sucks to be you. My GGS crew’s witticism is impeccable as always. Lips quirking, I can’t help but shake my head.

Officially known as the Goddamned Geek Squad by the end of primary school, as we all had skipped ahead one grade or two by that time, yet better known in our inner circle by its shortened version of GGS, it didn’t take us very long to elevate it to Geek God Status by the time secondary school rolled in. Yeah, owning the nickname totally short-circuited the bullying from the older crowd, and the degrading intentions it originated from. One of the many elite joys of growing up forgotten in an all-boys boarding school near the Swiss/Italian border. The six of us were thrown together as roommates—and unlikely friends—but we quickly learned to ditch entitlement and outwit bullies. And, in the end, we bonded. Now, despite physical distances, P.O., Zac, Yann, Theo, Leo, and I are still the closest thing to family we have ever known.

My internal trip down memory lane is cut short by a slap on my back. I slide my phone away and turn into the waiting smile of the Dean.

Good to see you, Mr. O’Shea, the tall and sprightly gentleman says. He doesn’t pause long enough for me to respond as he rushes up to the lectern. Looks like we both have last minute syndrome.

A full retinue follows in his wake, and I’m left suddenly swamped by a round of I-can’t-believe-it-and-so-pleased-to-finally-meet-you-in-person handshakes from various professors and whatnots wanting a piece of famous before my lecture kicks off. I paste on a plastic smile and shake and repeat until they wander off.

From behind the lectern, the Dean’s disembodied voice, amplified by the excellent acoustics of the room, jovially drones an overly flattering list of all my accomplishments concluding with, and so, without further ado, please welcome Liam O’Shea, author extraordinaire.

I take a deep breath. Cue me in.

A surprising roar of applause, chants, and whistles greets me. I put my game face on, making my way up in a fog. They’re louder than I expected—or maybe it’s the way the room echoes back at me.

For a second, I’m sucked back into the blur of my childhood media circus, and I grip the lectern with both hands, willing myself to calm down. A residual flash of pain from this morning’s phantom welts startles me out of my flashback.

I rub my hands together absently until the pain fades, and clear my throat once, twice. I’m deeply touched by your enthusiasm, and can only hope I’ll live up to the sterling reputation Dean Hawkesbury just bestowed upon me. That was quite an introduction. I wink at him, and the crowd laughs.

I unhook the microphone and step in front of the lectern, casually crossing my ankles. Someone whistles from the back, and I banter a bit with the crowd in response, completely immersed in my public persona now. You’d never know by looking at me that I absolutely hate public speaking.

Truth be told, I’m quite honored to have this unique opportunity to speak to the next generation of authors. The Indie phenomena can no longer be ignored and is revolutionizing the publishing industry from the bottom. The popularity of e-books is spreading far and wide and, contrary to what major publishers predicted, they’re definitely here to stay. But the landscape of the marketplace is constantly changing. What worked for me as a self-published, best-selling author a mere two years ago is no longer applicable. New technologies are constantly challenging us to be more, and do more. Publishing is a brand-new world and yours for the taking...

As I continue my lecture, rows and rows of eyes remain fixed on me, but I don’t focus on them. I focus on the message itself. Set your imagination free. Be intense, passionate about what you write. Go out there and concoct new sub-genres. If I were to sum up this new publishing era in two words? Endless possibilities.

My blood pumps wildly through my veins on the last line and the crowd applauds furiously. It’s the same rush I used to get from writing, only it’s shifted. Now, I’m lit up simply talking about writing. Instead of being pleased, the realization only depresses me. I haven’t felt inspired to write in months. I’m still hoping this teaching gig will reignite a dying flame.

When the lecture hall finally empties, my previous high’s already fizzled out. I’m seriously drained, but there’s one more stop to make before I can call it a day.

The note left for me on the lectern is from the Dean himself. Stop by my office on your way out.

Mr. O’Shea, come in, come in. Dean Hawkesbury scurries around his desk the moment I poke my head through his open door. The dean’s towering figure of a man moving so swiftly is a bit startling. Next thing I know, he’s standing before me with a hand outstretched, and I have yet to step inside his office.

My eyes narrow by a fraction. Call me Liam, I say, accepting the firm handshake.

We just got the news, he says with a broad smile revealing a row of crooked teeth.

The news? I ask, my shoulders tensing. Uneasiness seeps in. Did someone dig a little too deep into my past?

I watch Dean Hawkesbury’s bushy, grey eyebrows shoot up at my dubious reaction, before he launches into a spiel. Well, yes, the confirmation just got in, and we’re all so grateful for your generous contribution, he says, still pumping my hand enthusiastically, his other hand cradling the handshake now. You just propelled COA to the forefront of Twenty-First Century Academia.

My face clears. Looks like Theo finalized the tablets’ subsidies, then. I’m more than happy to contribute, I assure him. Your Go Green mission statement is something I strongly believe in, no need to thank me. I extricate my hand from his, and discreetly shake my numb fingers back into working conditions.

His nervy hand clamps down on my shoulder instead. Jesus. If you need anything at all for your seminar just ask Mrs. Pringle, our registrar. Anything at all.

Just keep it simple, no fuss over me, that’s all I ask. Yeah, keep it all under the anonymous donor umbrella, please.

Whatever you say, and simple we can do, Mr.—Liam, he corrects reading my expression. I flash him a tight smile and make my escape.

Compliments on my sooo inspiring lecture du jour are slinging back and forth as I walk through the outer rim of the quad, but I keep my head down, making my way to the parking lot. One of the comments having to do with imagination let loose catches my attention, and brings me to a halt.

Oh, look, one of them squeals, and I accidentally turn before I can stop myself, it’s him.

Liam, they all shout, jumping to their feet.

I cringe inwardly and plaster my most charming smile on my lips.

Within seconds, a slew of beautiful, highly sophisticated women vying for my attention surrounds me, so yeah, the usual ... and every twenty-four-year-old male’s ideal job environment. And yet, I can’t muster one ounce of enthusiasm. Instead, I’m quite inexplicably drained of energy.

Maybe I’m coming down with a sort of flu I have been warned is making inroads into the college population. And by the look of this mixer, all males of the species were wiped out by it. Am I the only guy left standing?

Ohmygosh. I can’t believe it’s you. I can’t believe you’re here, says the brunette jumping up and down in front of me, the rest of her ample attributes following suit.

I school my expression to something calm and collected. Hmm, yes, quite unbelievable indeed and yet, here I am.

Can you believe that, like, I just bumped into you? Like, wow, says a blur of sparkling pink shirt to my left.

You’re so famous, and I’m like your biggest fan ever, exclaims a busty blonde pushing her way through.

At the sound of their squealing voices, my exhaustion turns into a pounding headache.

In another lifetime, I’d be all over this All You Can Eat Buffet, but that’s just it. I ate too much. I’m sick of it. I’m hungry for something different, not just filling but nourishing. Something I tasted a long time ago, and have craved ever since.

Éolie...

My heart takes a tumble just at the fleeting thought of her. My one and only bright light in a messed-up childhood. Long-lost love, a strange recurring theme of mine I’ve been grappling with my whole life. I sigh heavily. Don’t go there man.

—and, like, I keep your book, you know the one with your cute picture on it, like, right next to my bed you know, so that we already, like, sleep together.

Not in this lifetime. How nice, I say, checking my watch.

A hand clamps down on my arm, and I grit my teeth, irked by the encroachment on my personal space. Ooooh. It’s really you, Liam, gushes a brunette built exactly like the first. I wonder if they’re sisters. Or if even they can tell each other apart with the identical way they all lead with their cleavage, and toss their hair on cue.

Same old shit, different day.

That’s me, I say, not even daring to add, in the flesh.

Mentally, I label them girl number one, two, three, four ... In no time I’m up to nineteen, and counting. Keeping tabs on their numbers keeps me on my toes. It’s either that, or get caught rolling my eyes. I might not be up for a coed feast, but I’m doing my best not to be rude on my first day either.

Wait, wait. I have one of your books with me, adds the most recent brunette. She digs furiously through her bag.

I’m quite flatte— I humph as she pulls out my latest title in hardcover and shoves it at me.

Would you sign it, pretty please? she coos, and I watch in consternation as all the others jockey for position, T-shirts at the ready.

I’d be delighted to, I say by rote, my eyes glazing over. She bats her eyelashes at me, handing over a red lipstick.

Seriously?

Whoa. You’re so hot, she exclaims, her fingers lightly trailing down my wrist. I hastily scribble my name and today’s date and shove the book back at her, lipstick and all.

Nope. I don’t really feel all that hot ... Unless you count fever. My insides are burning up and it has nothing to do with the crowd of female attention.

Hot? You don’t say. I suppress a shudder, and not so subtly shove my hands into my pockets.

Way to go, man. So suave.

It’s, like, so incredible to meet you, Liam. another generic blonde says as she enters the fray, boldly claiming my arm, and shrugging off girl number who the heck knows, in the process. Is it true what everybody says? she asks.

And that would be?

I angle a brow. Hmm, depends—

What’s it like living in hotels all over the world? she cuts in, grabbing my forearm.

Not as fun as it looks on paper.

Well, it has its advantages... Like what? I inwardly snort. Laundry?

I stall, still trying to figure out a way to bail out. The longer I stand here, the warmer my skin feels. I’m beginning to feel like a caged animal. Not in a good way.

You’re a bit hot, you know? girl number ten says. Or is she number six?

"He’s a whole lot. Just admit he’s too hot for you to handle, Mimi." The blonde clone clinging to my arm aims a death stare at her classmate.

In your dreams, Mikaela Minirelli, screeches one Mimi to the other Mi-Mi.

Never met any guy too hot for me to handle, said Mimi scorns, breaking out of the death glare contest long enough to lay her hand lightly against my cheek, and I clench my jaw overcoming the urge to recoil. No, he’s hot as in feverish, feel him.

Half a dozen hands reach for my skin, and I jump back.

I’ll take your word for it, I say, holding my hands up in a defensive gesture.

And in lieu of graceful I make the most grateful exit ever. I can hear Theo’s dry quip from here, And not a single phone number, that’s sick, all right.

By the time I make it back to my condo, I’m seeing black spots and shivering up a storm, giving more credence to the flu theory. Searching madly through the medicine cabinet over the bathroom sink, I knock over some toothpaste and a box of condoms in my haste to grab bottled salvation. And at last, I shake out a handful of aspirins, popping three in my mouth. Jesus. My teeth are rattling so much I can hardly swallow anything. Shit. I spit out the painkillers, gagging and coughing on their powdery residue, sticking my head under the tap instead. The water cools me and washes away the worst of my delirium.

By the time I fall into bed, it’s no longer a theory.

Clearly, I am dying from the flu...

An hour passes. Give or take an eternity or two.

My phone blares with P.O.’s ringtone and I grunt into it, Dying, man, call back later, only to realize I’ve let his call go to voicemail. I moan into my pillow, letting my phone drop onto the hardwood floor.

When I come to again, I notice the sunlight slanting much harder to the left than before. I don’t bother turning over to glance at the clock. Time is irrelevant when you’re dying.

Just as I’m resigning to my fate and have accepted with relief my forthcoming demise, every symptom stops. No more cold sweats. No more black spots. No more shivers. I sit up, cautiously optimistic.

No two ways about it. Not one iota of pain remains. I am brand new, as if nothing happened, and an eerie sense of déjà vu floods me. But I shake it off.

I’m in serious need of a shower, fresh sheets, and a head check, not necessarily in that order. I get up, peeling off my soaked shirt, and head for the bathroom.

Liam LiamLiamLiamLiam...

The angelic voice drifts through my mind and lingers, immediately slicing my heart in two at its soft familiarity. I stagger, coming to an abrupt halt.

Éolie.

No way. There’s just no way.

And yet, what I heard cannot be unheard.

I wait motionless, as I will her voice to fill my head once more.

Right on cue, LiamLiamLiamLiam suddenly plays on my soul like a chanted prayer. So loud and clear my gaze sweeps the room once, wondering if it isn’t being spoken aloud rather than only in my mind. But of course, that’s the only way I’ve ever heard her. So, no big surprise, the room is empty. I rub my chest, feeling hollowed out.

Liam... she calls to me. Letting my head fall back, I close my eyes in remembered bliss.

Fragile hope rises.

I teeter between two realities. The one from my childhood, complete with a sweet voice in my head that’s not my own ... and the one I’ve learned to accept as truth, that she’s nothing more than a figment of my imagination, a result of years of enforced therapy. Suddenly, after some fifteen years of convincing myself, I can’t quite decide which is real.

Her voice is silent now, and I wonder if I even really heard it at all.

I pace back and forth, only stopping once in a while to rest my forehead on the coolness of the wall. Éolie, my mind entreats her to come back over and over.

Dusk comes, and goes.

My shallow breaths are the only sounds in the quiet of the room overlooking the ocean below.

The silence in my head remains.

Hope shrivels, weighted down by seventeen years of no contact between us.

I pinch the bridge of my nose on a deep exhale. I’m ruined by a figment of my imagination.

Just a wonderful coping mechanism your little brain cleverly engineered, my therapists back then were quick to validate, one after the other. I went through a trauma, after all.

I rub the jagged scar on my elbow. Éolie. So many reasons existed back then for a coping mechanism to even be necessary.

Not going there, man.

I resolutely step into the en suite, chucking my jeans along the way, along with any temptation to let my thoughts go back to that harrowing time ... Mysterious healings, a whispered voice, none of it does me a damn bit of good now. And I’ve worked too hard to let any of it resurface.

Instead, I pull a trick from my therapist’s bag, and focus on the here and now. The things I can control, the actions I can take and the security, the promise in that.

And, right now, there’s a shower with my name on it, and I fully intend to collect on its hot promises.

Ispend the evening doing market analysis on readers’ buying habits of e-books based on genre. Yeah, I know, my life is glamorous. But the spreadsheet I’m preparing takes my mind off the earlier part of my day, the crazier part.

My laptop screen chooses this moment to freeze up. I click a few times. Nothing.

Great, I grumble under my breath, not sure when I last saved the document I’ve been working on. My computer screen blips twice, and goes black. What the—?

I’m checking the plug when my screen relights to P.O.’s ugly mug filling up the space.

I glare. Just great. I’ve been hijacked.

Shit, man. That was awesome, he says, shaggy, light-brown hair sticking up every which way, his green-hazel eyes scanning lines of codes popping out on my upper screen.

Shoving my hands through my hair, I say, P.O., for chrissake, get out of my laptop.

Why? I just got in, man.

I roll my eyes just for the sake of it and blow out a heavy breath. No use arguing with this kind of logic.

By the way, he says, your Wifi connection’s for the birds. It’s full of holes.

Obviously, I say annoyed. Is that what you guys at MIT to do for kicks now? Hack into computers just for the hell of it on Wednesday nights?

Nah, we do it all the time, he says, unfazed. Admit that my security team seriously kicks ass. Eight minutes to zap you out of cyberspace.

I’m working over here. Go target practice your security breach protocols on someone else’s computer.

Already on it. Lucie’s tightening up your security access codes as we speak.

Lucie? What happened to Guinevere? I ask, leaning back in my chair. Might as well get comfortable, who knows how long these updates will take.

Guinevere? Dude, keep up, she’s last month’s flavor. I’m into Lucie now, supermodel GigaHot Lucie, and I can’t get enough, he says, and I can practically hear him drool over the line. Man, best performance I’ve ever had. She’s my missing link.

My eyes turn skyward, but I can’t help the small grin that curls on my lips. Only P.O. could fall in and out of lust with his computers and completely own it.

Speaking of missing link, haven’t heard from Yann in a while, I say.

Me neither, and we share an apartment, P.O. deadpans. MIT’s full of math brainiacs lost in dynamic time warping. He’s just being Yann, he says, shrugging it off. What about you, Professor? All’s good with your first week in honorary academia?

I’ll tell you when I get there. Today was just a guest lecture, I say, stretching, trying to work the kinks out of my neck. Regular classes start tomorrow, but I only have one class, an extracurricular seminar, on Mondays and Wednesdays. So, long weekends for me I guess.

And when are you gaining back freedom? he asks.

Mid-November, I reply, but his eyes are intent on something off screen, and I wonder if he even heard me.

Short semesters over there, he says distractedly.

P.O.? I ask, fighting a dull, gnawing ache of nostalgia centering on thoughts of Éolie, love, and family. And losing.

Hang on, almost done with your upgrades. His fingers fly over the keyboard until, with the final stroke of a key, he looks up at me. Done. Yeah?

Remember when we were kids at BIA and we dreamed about what normal would look like? I ask. Do you wonder about it sometimes?

His brows dip until they connect in the middle. My stomach tightens, and I wonder if it was a mistake to bring it up. I blame my weird, disquiet mood for bringing back to the surface things that I’ve kept buried.

What brought that on? he asks after too long a beat.

Mid-life crisis? I reply, attempting to lighten the mood. I should never have said anything.

Cut the crap, P.O. says, giving me a look. He knows me way too well.

I don’t know. When we got out of there I only wanted to travel, never settling in just one place ... But now, five years into it, I’m tired of it all.

So that’s what this is about. His expression clears. Wearied by too many years of travels, huh?

I relax back into my chair. This is a much safer conversation. And it means he won’t press me about Éolie. The sweet angelic voice I heard in my head once upon a time ... My childhood love. He knows—they all do, and more, they believed it, same as I, up until I didn’t dare to anymore—but it hasn’t happened in so long, and I’m not quite ready to admit today was real.

I guess I am, yeah...

Bet you’re ready to grow some roots in a forest somewhere, like we always said we would, P.O. says, narrowing his eyes on me knowingly.

Man, I forgot about that. I shake my head, offering a nostalgic smile. Me and my bedtime stories. Knights on quests for freedom in the Enchanted Forest of Laure, I quote, taking on a dramatic bass tone that works much better now than it did at seven.

Hey, who knows? Maybe you’ll get to keep the mysterious fairy this time around. P.O.’s face turns all-knowing.

Yeah, right. Not likely. Éolie ... She’s the fairy from my made-up stories—though I’ve never told the guys. Guess it wasn’t that hard to figure out, though, at seven, she was the only thing I talked about. There’s just no escaping her tonight.

You think about it sometimes? I ask. Settling down somewhere, I mean?

Not me, man. I’m not ready for any of that normal shit yet. So many Lucies, so little time, P.O. says slyly. But I’ll bet you’re ready for it.

Not betting on something I’m not even sure how to get, I say, shaking myself out of my strange mood.

Too bad, ‘cause it’s a sure bet, he says smugly, but I don’t rise to the bait. Normal? Me?

Okay, enough already. Get out of here.

Hey, want some tips before I do? he says, typing away, clearly entertained.

"It’s not like I