How We Got Here (Part Sixteen)

PART 16

December 22nd, 2011, 5:50 am

He swept the glass away, not using speed. He didn't want this over too quickly. There was a strange justice in not speeding through this mess. She'd cleaned up most of the debris from the night before last yesterday and, though he blamed her at the time, most of the damage was technically him. He should have to clean it up the old fashioned way. It was like penance and definitely not a way to put off facing his life now.

He glanced up at, but not through, the ceiling. She was sleeping in his mother's room, and truly sleeping now. He knew because he'd heard it happen, listened to her huffs and sighs and even small sobs as he'd shored up the railing, poked nails into boards over the holes in the floors, rehung pictures over the holes in the walls. He didn't know why he listened. He couldn't go to her. She wouldn't welcome it.

They'd said all they had to to say, years worth of it, and she'd made her choice. It didn't include him. He didn't know why he tortured himself, listening to her every breath. He just couldn't relax until he knew she'd fallen asleep, couldn't stop moving, couldn't be alone with his thoughts.

That was still true. He didn't want to stop and think. The last year and a half had been about finding her. Everything else, eating, sleeping, saving mugged pedestrians and dumb kids having roof parties, sending nuclear warheads into space... all that had been just a part of his day. Finding her had been the driving force, the thing he did after he got all the necessities out of the way. The only thing that tied those days together. It was like how other people, normal people, had hobbies. Some men got through their day dreaming of that model train set waiting at home. He got through with visions of the many ways he'd find her, ideas of the many ways she'd react, fantasies that she'd been waiting for him.

But she hadn't. She'd been dreading him. And he had to live with that now. But he sure as hell didn't have to think about it now. That was why he had to keep busy. He emptied the dustpan into the trashcan and looked around. "Come on," he muttered. "Has to be something..."

But there really wasn't. The place no longer looked like someone had destroyed it. He'd even scrubbed the damned kitchen. Any other time, he'd fly off to Metropolis, find something to do. Superman could be needed at any time and sometimes he wondered why he didn't quit this dusty old place and move there. It wasn't exactly an option, having no way to pay the rent. And leaving now wasn't an option with her upstairs and this paragon of a fiancee flying in today.

His eyes darted to the table, to the papers still sitting there, a little wrinkled and splattered by now. There was some busy work for him. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not yet. Not until there was no other choice. Once she had those and her precious purse, she'd be gone for good.

"Purse," he groaned, remembering it was still under one of the holes he'd patched up. He pulled a throw rug off one hastily patched bit of floor at the base of the stairs, not so annoyed at undoing his handy work. It was something to do, at least. He punched through the board, relishing the crack... until he heard a slamming noise. He glanced up, wondering if he'd finally done some real structural damage to the house. Then he heard voices. It was outside. He looked through the walls and saw a man take his hand away from the door of a yellow cab just before it pulled away. "Who the hell..."

It didn't matter who, really. People didn't come down this road unless they were coming to this house. He briefly took in the suit, the dressy coat, the glasses, the stiff walk, the small rolling suitcase. Probably some paper pusher coming to screw his pathetic life up even more. He pulled the rug back over the hole and rushed upstairs, trying to locate his glasses and figure out exactly how the man planned to do that. It couldn't be repossession. The mortgage had been long paid off. The surrounding land had been sold off.

He finally found them half under his bed. He put them on and stepped into the hallway, closing the now-rickety bedroom door just as the doorbell rang. He glanced in at Chloe, but she didn't stir as he moved downstairs to answer it, still completely dumbfounded at what the guy was doing here. "Maybe a salesman," he muttered absently, thinking of the case. But why come all the way here barely past dawn?

He opened the door, then froze, staring at the man on the porch.

He knew him. How did he know him?

"Hello, there. You must be..." The man stopped, then shook his head. "I want to say... Kemp?"

"Uh... Kent," Clark managed to get out. It didn't seem like he knew him, knew him. But it definitely felt like he'd met him more than once.

"Knew it," he said, snapping his fingers. "I did have everything jotted down, but I left in such a rush. Wasn't even sure I'd find you. But this is a small village just as Liz said. Grew up in one like this myself, so I told the driver that, once we got there, someone must know. And here I am." He propped a wheeling suitcase on the porch and stuck out one hand. Clark just stared at it, still wondering what was going on. "Look, I see no reason for things to be unpleasant. I'm sure we all want this sorted and quickly. Right, Carl?"

"It's... uh... Clark," he stuttered, still wondering how he knew him, but finally registering the overnight bag, the rumpled suit...

"Pardon?"

That and the thick British accent. "It's Clark Kent." He gripped the man's hand. "You must be Allen." He was tempted to call him Alvin, just to be even.

"Did I forget to introduce myself?" The man rolled his eyes as he shook Clark's hand. "Sorry about that. Long flight and I'm a bit knackered. Anyhow... Allen Penry-Marsh." His face seemed to tighten. "That's quite a strong handshake you have," he grunted. "Mind letting go?"

"Sorry." He released him, trying to tell himself he hadn't meant to crush the man's hand. But he sort of had. He was angry and annoyed, both that he was here and that he still seemed so disturbingly familiar. He'd barely glanced at him at the wedding, so unable to take his eyes off Chloe after a year and a half. He didn't feel like he knew him from there. It felt like he knew him from somewhere else. But where? "Have you been to Kansas before?"

"Haven't had the pleasure," he said, looking around the lightly frosted porch. "I was confused on where it was, really. Thought it might be a bit closer to the equator," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Hence warmer. But it's quite chilly." He stared at Clark with a nearly expectant look. "So I was surprised," he said, still with that look and Clark wondered what he expected him to say. Of course it was cold, if you could feel it. And if Allen thought he was surprised... "Look, would you mind letting me in? It really is cold."

"Sorry," he said, stepping back as this... Allen character moved in.

He wheeled his case in and looked around. "Well... don't suppose Liz is up and about."

"Liz?" Clark repeated as he closed the door.

Allen stared at him. "Yes, Li... Oh, right. You called her Chloe." He gave a smile that was more of a grimace. "Glad she's dropping that name. Doesn't suit her at all."

Clark felt his teeth clench as he turned to him, ready to say he'd been thinking the same thing about Liz. "She's still asleep," he said instead, through clenched teeth. He'd been so surprised he'd nearly forgot to be angry. Who was this guy to show up on his doorstep and go around calling Chloe Liz and... he was trying to think of something else. "I thought she was going to pick you up today," he said instead, trying to hold on to his anger, even though he knew he had no right to be angry at the man. As far as Allen knew, Chloe had been a single woman before Clark showed up. As far as he knew, Chloe had really been Liz.

"That's my fault. I wrote down your phone number, but it's..." He laughed nervously. "Well, it's on the same scrap of paper I'd written your name on, which isn't Carl, I see... and..." He sighed. "Really, this is all down to Lizzie. She's the one who keeps on top of me. I'm completely at sea without her.The picture of an absent-minded professor."

"Professor?"

"Oh. I teach. Biology. Sixth Form. I guess it's like high school for you yanks. And I know what you're thinking." He smiled. "How does a man of science find himself marrying a woman who spends her time writing about things that go bump in the night? Might seem strange." He dropped his smile. "Even stranger when you add in all this mess with you."

I'm a mess now, am I? He didn't say it. Truth was, he was having a hard time trying to find ways to be offended. The man was harmless, disgustingly polite, considering the situation, so mild-mannered Clark wondered why he still felt so perturbed by him. It might be that he was about to ride across the Atlantic with Chloe and leave him behind, but it was more than that. He was still so familiar.

"Anyway, I hired a car since I couldn't get Lizzie on her mobile. Must be long dead. She probably forgot her charger. I must be rubbing off on her."

And the anger was back -- the anger he had no right to. But this man had no right to rub... anything. Clark was the one who still legally had the right to... anything. Until he signed the papers, that was, which still seemed impossible to do.

"Listen, I just want to say you've been an amazing sport about this."

Clark found himself deflating. "Thank you," he said, after a pause, gratified in spite of himself. He hadn't put the man through the wall yet, so he really thought he was handling this pretty well.

"But why shouldn't you be? You'll be a free to be with... I want to say Lola?" Allen shrugged off his coat.

"Exactly. I... Lola?"

"Well, you'll be marrying her, I expect. Lizzie said you were keen on someone named Lola."

"You mean Lois," he said, shaking his head. "So I'm marrying her now?"

"As soon as this is cleared up, I'll bet," he said cheerily. "Lizzie said you were destined to be together. So I don't blame you for being angry before. To suddenly find out you're married... Must have been a shock. I might have hopped a flight across the pond myself." Allen laid his coat over his suitcase very casually, as if he wasn't talking crazy. "I do wish you'd taken us aside in private, however, rather than making such a scene. But you Americans..." He laughed. "So... Las Vegas, eh?"

"She told you about Vegas?"

"Lizzie explained everything. You were young and, apparently, completely pissed. Not even a honeymoon, so I doubt you even thought it was legally binding. So everything makes sen..." He shook his head. "Actually, everything doesn't make sense." He sighed. "I suppose this is all part of being with her. She's so hard to figure out."

"Tell me about it," Clark said, slightly dazed.

"You never know what she's really thinking," Allen said, pacing into the living room. "She's just absent sometimes and I ask her what's wrong and she says she's fine. Gives me that... strange smile." He sighed again and braced his hands on the couch. "I hate that smile sometimes."

Clark found himself moving toward him. "Because it's not a real. Too big, too bright, never reaches her eyes."

"Well, you knew her growing up, so you might know almost as well as I do."

"Almost?" he echoed, his temper rising again.

"You do like repeating things, don't you?" Allen sighed again and stared ahead of him. "Anyway, we'll talk all this out on the plane back. I'm determined to work this out. Not going to find someone like her again."

"No, you won't," he said sadly. His anger dissipated as he leaned over the couch as well.

"It's the... support you get. That feeling like you can get through anything as long as she's waiting at the end. I don't know what I'd do without her."

"I used to to think the same thing," Clark nearly whispered, staring at the mirror above the mantle, at him with this man he seemed incapable of hating. Maybe it was that he seemed to understand something of the enigma that was Chloe. Maybe after all this time searching for her, being told she was gone, he was glad to talk about her with anyone. Maybe it was that... He stiffened as he stared into the mirror above the mantle, his gaze flicking from himself to Allen.

Dark hair, lightly curled. Tall. Slightly burly. Green eyes... He stumbled backward.

Allen turned to him. "You alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

More like a mirror image. Not exactly, but damned close. No wonder the man was so familiar.

He groped behind him for the newell post and stepped backward to the stairs. "You know what? I'm going to see if Chloe's awake, so..."

"Chloe?" Allen stared at him.

"You do like repeating things," he said with an awkward laugh. "Be right back." He moved stiffly up the stairs, towards his mother's room, not even having to remind himself not to speed because he was having enough trouble walking. Maybe he should have tried for some sleep last night. Maybe then he wouldn't seem like a nutcase who echoed every word to Allen... Allen who looked insanely like him. But maybe that wouldn't seem so disturbing if he wasn't loopy from two nights with only five hours sleep between them. He had to get a grip.

He knocked on the door, taking a deep breath. "Chloe?" He waited, then knocked again. "Chloe?" He was about ready to call her that other name he was determined to avoid when she opened up.

"Huh?" She leaned heavily against the door frame, hair all over the place, eyes swollen and hardly open, looking very unhappy to be awake.

He knew the feeling. "Allen's here," he said dully. And he kind of looks a lot like me, he wanted to add, but she seemed upset enough, by the way her eyes widened and she pulled him into the room.

"He's here?" She shut the door and her hands started smoothing her hair. "He was supposed to call me."

"I think he might have lost the number. Said he wrote it down and..."

"Typical," she muttered, moving to his mother's dresser and grabbing up a silver handled brush from the vanity set on the dresser. "I have to remind him to eat most days."

"Yeah. He mentioned something like that." Also, he kind of looks a lot like me, he was tempted to say again. "Anyway, he got a taxi and he's downstairs and..."

"I'll be down in a second." She dragged the brush through her hair. "God! What's he going to think about me wearing this?" She gestured to his mother's stretch pants and oversized sweatshirt.

"That you lost your luggage?"

"Good one," she said, gesturing with the brush. "But what about my real clothes? Because he can't know that I... that we..." She squeezed her eyes shut and dropped the brush. "Please say you didn't tell him."

He swallowed hard. "Tell him what?"

"Exactly," she breathed. "Because it was nothing, Clark. It was just... something left over. Something we had to get out of the way before we moved on. Right?" She moved to him, gripped his shoulders. "Right?" She shook him. "Say you agree!"

He stared down at her as something died inside him. "It was nothing," he said dully. That night was nothing. All of their years together were nothing. In the end, Clark Kent and Chloe Sullivan were nothing to each other. He had to remember that, deal with it, live with it.

"Good," she sighed. "This is almost over," she said. releasing him and picking up the brush.

"Thank God," he said under his breath.

"All we have to do is sign the papers," she said, pacing the room, "and Allen will be satisfied and we'll leave and no one needs to know I was ever here."

"I wish I could forget," he added.

She didn't hear, still pacing and abusing her hair. "It'll be just like it should be. No Chloe Sullivan," she said, nearly frantic now. "There is no Chloe Sullivan. There never should have been a Chloe Sullivan."

"But there was," he found himself saying, loud enough for her to hear.

She stopped and turned to him.

"There was a Chloe Sullivan," he said louder. "Since I was thirteen, there was. And I hate that I'm supposed to pretend there wasn't. Not after everything."

"Clark," she sighed. "We talked last night. I think we finally got some closure. Whatever feelings you think you have for me... Just trust me. They're not forever."

He felt his temper rise again. "Good. I guess you know best."

She moved to him. "Clark, how many years did you spend in love with Lana? Wasn't that forever to you at the time? And you've survived without her. You found someone else and..."

"And she doesn't love me. I get it."

"No." She backed away. "I'm not talking about me. And you shouldn't be, either. It's ridiculous." She stared up at him, her brow furrowed. "Right now, you feel something for me. And, right now, it might seem very real, but..."

"You know what?" he growled. "You don't feel the same way. You made that pretty clear. I'm minutes away from signing your precious papers and letting you go. You're getting what you want, so don't give me any speeches about..."

"I wasn't giving you speeches. I was only pointing out..."

"You were only talking down to me."

"Jesus, Clark. I was just saying we're going to move on and that's a good thing for both of us. Allen and I are..."

"Oh, Allen. He's just perfect for you."

She drew up. "Yes, he is."

"He's nothing like me," he said bitterly. "Is that right?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't make this like it's you versus Allen. But yes. He's nothing like you."

"Really? He doesn't look like someone you know?"

She stared at him, then sighed. "Fine. Yes. He looks like someone."

"A hell of a lot like someone," Clark had to point out.

"He has a passing resemblance to Matt Bomer."

"Exactl..." He drew back. "Who's Matt Bomer?"

"He's in White Collar and I don't even watch that show and that's not why I'm marrying him. I'm not that superficial."

Do I look like Matt Bomer? he wondered absently.

"I'm marrying him because he's kind and he's thoughtful and he adores me."

He stilled. "And you adore him?"

"I'm marrying him," she hissed. "So there's your first clue."

His eyes followed her as she smoothed his mother's sweatshirt. She didn't see it. She didn't see that the man she was marrying looked a hell of a lot like him... and Matt Bomer, apparently, whoever that was. Maybe he was seeing things. Maybe the guy downstairs did look like this Bomer person and nothing like him. "So you love him?"

"Clark, Allen and I met over email. He wrote in to debunk my theories and we ended up having many long debates about the supernatural and... and I had to meet him." She smiled softly and ran a finger along the hairbrush. "He was so intelligent, had such a way of arguing things. Really kept me on my toes. He still does."

He stared at her smile, at that strange, soft look in her eyes. Maybe it didn't matter if the guy looked like him. He was smart. Smart enough for Chloe. So he really was nothing like Clark. "So you're happy with him?" he asked miserably.

"Don't you see? We can all be happy. You and Lois and me and Allen..."

"Just stop!" Why the hell was everyone pushing him at Lois? They dated. It was fun. It got him through a tough year and that was it. But she wasn't Chloe. She wasn't ten years of glances, touches, secret smiles, and need. "I keep wondering why you don't just use your ring," he sneered. "Why don't you go back in time and make it like you never met me. That's what you want. Right?" It was a childish, passive aggressive thing to say and he knew it. But if she was going to break his heart, then he'd sure as hell let her know it was broken.

She shook her head. "It isn't what..." She moved to the dresser, put the brush down gently. "It doesn't work that way. It's just a travel ring. It was supposed to get me away just as the water hit so there were enough witnesses to my death. I don't think Rokk would let me mess with time," she said with a bitter chuckle. "He didn't trust me enough to exist around you in the present. I was... I was an anomaly. I needed to be gone."

Clark moved to her, gripping her shoulders. "No, you didn't."

"Don't," she said, shrugging him off and catching his eyes in the mirror. "Anyway, the ring's come in handy." She smiled and moved away. "You don't know how much I've saved The Times in travel expenses. Plus, trips to the shops have never been so easy." Her smile dropped as she turned to him. "I have a good life, Clark. A fairly easy life. Maybe it's not saving the world, but it's mine and I want to keep it. And you... Don't you want something easier than..."

"Let's leave it at that," he said, stepping back. "You're getting what you want. But don't tell me what I want."

"Clark..."

"No. That's all I have to say about us." He moved to the door. "I'll tell him you're coming down," he added before he shut the door. When he stepped down the stairs, neatly sidestepping the rug with the hole underneath, Allen was in the living room, staring at a picture on the mantle. He knew which one, it was him with Chloe in senior year.

"She'll be down in a second," he said, moving to the dining room table, pulling the papers to the edge, so ready to sign and have it all over with... if he just had a pen. He stomped into the kitchen as Allen followed, still holding the picture.

"She looks nice blonde. More like a... a Chloe, I guess." Clark turned to see him frowning at the picture. "It's strange. She had a whole other life before I knew her. I must confess, I looked some of it up. Seemed pretty wild. Conspiracy stories, crazy fantastic ideas about meteor rocks and special abilities." He suddenly smiled and shook his head. "And, really, that's just her now. I mean, tracking the Loch Ness monster, believing in ghosts and aliens..."

Clark paused in the middle of rifling through the jink drawer for a pen. "I guess she hasn't changed much."

"I suppose not," Allen said on a sigh. "I don't know what I was so worried about. Still my silly Lizzie."

Clark gripped a pen and turned to him, put it down at his side so as not to seem threatening. "Silly?"

"Well, all those crazy ideas. It's fine for fiction, but not real journalism."

He moved out of the kitchen, trying to keep from snapping his pen. "Considering a reputable paper pays her to write about her silly ideas in their Sunday edition..."

"Oh, no. It's great for circulation. But Lizzie herself is going to have to admit it's all bunkum eventually."

He knew it! He knew he hated the guy! "Well, I think..."

"Excuse me?" Both he and Allen looked up as Chloe moved down the stairs. "Bunkum?"

"Darling!" Allen moved forward just as Chloe descended the stairs. Clark found himself moving forward as well, rushing to her just before her foot slipped into the hole in the rug at the bottom. He'd have been more gratified about saving her from sinking into the floor if he hadn't hadn't helped her right into her perfect fiancee's arms.

She tripped right into them, not missing a beat. "So my entire life's work is bunkum to you?"

"Only most of it. And only from a science standpoint, Love." He turned to Clark. "I'm making it my life's work to convert her, you see," he said before kissing her cheek.

Clark clenched his fists, trying to tell himself it wasn't a deliberate slight to him. The man had no idea. But Chloe did, which was why she pulled away, throwing a warning glance at Clark before pulling him towards the kitchen.

"Allen, why don't I put some coffee on? You must be freezing."

"Now you mention it. Do you know I had no idea where Kansas was? I thought it was in the desert or..."

"Allen, haven't you seen Wizard of Oz?"

"Well, not being an eight-year-old girl..."

"Don't be ridiculous." She giggled. "I don't know how we missed that one. First night home, it's Dorothy Time. It's a classic."

"What is that you have on?"

"What? The eighties are back."

"Well, I don't mind the tight pants, but that enormous jumper..."

Clark smiled mockingly after them and their supposedly adorable banter, taking a second to collect himself and paste on what might pass for a real smile before following them into the kitchen. "I'll get the coffee," he said, striding past them.

"Thank you, Clark," Chloe said stiffly.

"So Allen," he said as he opened the pantry. "You're not into Chloe's work?"

"Chloe?"

"Liz," Chloe said tightly. He felt her poke at his shoulder. "I have changed my name for professional purposes. Maybe you should remember that, Clark."

"Just for professional purposes?" He turned back toward them with the coffee tin in hand. "Because it seems like there was more to it than..."

Chloe shook her head at him, mouthing Please.

And damn him, he couldn't deny her. So what if she wasn't telling the guy the whole story? He supposed she had every intention of living life as if she was Elizabeth Jane Cochran from here on out. Maybe it wouldn't matter. Besides all that, that wasn't how he wanted to win this.

And he wanted to win this. He would take just one last shot at winning this. Because what the hell did he have to lose now? He smiled again, moving to the coffee maker. "No. I get it. Chloe doesn't suit you, that's what Allen said, Right Allen?"

Allen chuckled. "It really isn't a professional name. Were your parents hippies, Darling?"

She smiled tightly and pulled out a chair, pushed Allen to it. "Sit down, Sweetie." She turned to Clark. "As nice a name as Chloe is, I opted for something else to write under an historic name like E.J. Cochran and that's all there is to it." She glared at Clark over his head.

"Soon to be Elizabeth Penry-Jones. Right, Love?"

She glanced down at Allen. "We never agreed to that."

"Well, I just assumed..."

"Interesting," Clark said, turning away from them and scooping the grounds into the filter. "So her line of work isn't the only thing you disagree on."

"Oh, I've no problem with journalism. Just the monster stories."

"Interesting," Clark repeated.

"Yes. It is interesting," Chloe said pointedly from behind him. "It keeps things interesting."

"We'll be arguing about that till we're old and grey, I reckon," Allen said fondly.

Clark deflated, wondering if they would and maybe if they'd be happy. Maybe this moron really was what she needed.

And then he opened his mouth...

"It's like Superman. I've been trying to get her to see the smoke and mirrors on him for a year."

"Allen..."

Clark slammed the filter into the machine with a little more force than he meant. "What about Superman?"

"Well, it's all parlor tricks, isn't it? The man has most of the world convinced he can fly and shoot laserbeams from his eyes and bend steel. It's impossible. But it's very possible to fake."

Clark gripped the counter.

"Allen, don't..."

"I have a theory that he's a rich bloke, pays off the American media to make it seem like..."

"Now who has the crazy theories? Hey, Clark! Why don't I finish the coffee? I know where everything is." He felt her hands on his shoulders and heard the barest whisper from her. "Clark, he doesn't know any better." Her voice suddenly rose. "You know what, Allen? Maybe Superman will fly right over you one day and you'll eat your words." Her voice lowered again. "How about that, Clark? Wouldn't that make you feel better?"

No. It wouldn't. But he did back away from the counter. It wasn't just that this idiot was inadvertently insulting him. It was that Chloe wanted to bind herself to this idiot for life. Then again, she had married Henry James Olsen without a qualm. If this was what she wanted, then there was nothing he could do to change that. He wasn't going to win today.

He backed toward the doorway. "You know what? We should just get these papers signed." This could be over. They could be gone. He could be happily flying over The Rockies in the next ten minutes.

"Wait, wait..." Allen stood from his chair. "Before we get all formal, I wanted to... Well, I wanted to officially invite you to the wedding, Clark."

Chloe blanched, her eyes snapping to Clark. "Allen, I don't think..."

"The real one, I mean. We're opting for a quiet ceremony when we get back. No big parties. I think Liz was right about that from the start. And I bet she'd love for you to be there. Liz tells me you were like a brother to her."

"I'll bet she did." He met Chloe's eyes as they turned away, focused on the coffee maker like it was a nuclear reactor. I'll just bet she repeated it multiple times until even she might have thought it was true. He dragged his eyes to Allen. "You know, I've got a lot on my plate right now. Much as I want to be there for... Liz, I just can't. But send me pictures." So I can burn them with my smoke and mirrors. Maybe piss on them to put them out. "I'll just get those papers."

He passed the papers and moved to the stairs, kneeling down and pulling back the rug. He was going to get her stupid purse and her precious papers and her paragon and her away from him in the next few minutes. There was only so much a man could take. He reached into the hole, wishing he'd never found her. If this was how it ended, then what was the point?

I can't love you. That's what she said. But if she could love this dumbass, then he was well rid of... his hand slipped out of the hole with her purse. The contents spilled out, her wallet bouncing a foot away and landing, letting out two shiny things, two metallic clatters against the wood. Two rings.

He picked up the first, noting the insignia, the heaviness in his hand. He knew it was one of Rokk's. But the other...

He picked it up, noting the greenish tint of it, the fading of very fake gold. He knew that ring as well. He had one like it in his nightstand. And there was only one reason to hang onto that ring.

I can't love you.

"She can't love me," he breathed, staring at it, finding something like hope in it. And in her words. "Can't," he whispered. "She said can't. Not don't."


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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN