Illusion(46)

“I just don’t want to lose you, Josie. You’re my best friend,” her voice pulled me out of my memories. My eyes refocused and I put my arm around her shoulders. “You’re gonna move and forget all about me.”

Careful to keep my shields in place, my own sadness wrapped around me and tugged at my heart. I knew how difficult it was for her to admit her feelings like this, which made the fact that I’d eventually have to let her go cut even deeper. Moving away was the first step, slowly cutting ties. In a few years, we’d have to disappear from their lives for our own safety.

Georgia needed me to make her laugh and I gave in, feigning mock irritation. “How could I forget about your exasperating ass? You have to be the most annoying woman on the face of the earth.”

My words coaxed a giggle out of her. She put her head against mine and we were quiet for a moment, listening to the quiet sounds of the wind rustling through the trees.

“So are we ok?” Georgia asked meekly.

“Of course. But I’m going to take a rain check on tonight. I just flew 20 plus hours and I have a house to sort through. I promise we’ll get together in the next day or so.”

Georgia sulked for a moment and then smiled, pulling me in for a hug. “Deal.”

I backed away from her car and watched her get inside and start her car, honking wildly as she drove down the driveway.

Waving until her car was out of sight, I dropped my hand and hugged my arms around myself. For the first time in my life, after all of my years of wandering from place to place, saying goodbye was going to be difficult.



We had been up since 8 am sorting through my bookshelves. Books and clothing were really the only thing I shipped from place to place when I moved. Tackling the bookshelf was also the most time consuming since Stefan was trying to talk me out of keeping the majority of them.

“Explain why you have two copies of The Great Gatsby?” His question was more of a statement. He flipped through the first well-worn copy before tossing it aside to reach for the second. He looked down at me, waiting for me to answer him.

“One was given to me by my Dad. I mean, my adopted father.” I pointed to the book in his hand. “The other I picked up at a thrift store while I was waiting for my books to arrive to my new address during one of my moves.”

Stefan nodded and flipped through more books. He picked up another, his eyebrow raised in humor as he ran his hand over the cover. “The Picture of Dorian Gray. Ironic book to have, yes?”

From my cross-legged position on the floor, I observed him as he stood barefoot in front of the giant, built-in bookcase with the leather bound book in his hand. His bright blond hair was messy and rumpled, his navy blue t-shirt snug against his chest. He leaned against the wall and crossed his denim clad legs, skimming through the pages of the book, reading at what seemed to be super speed.

“I suppose it is now that I think about it. A beautiful man that doesn’t age,” I said. He glanced up from the book and his tongue swept over his lower lip as he waited for me to continue. “You don’t have a painting of yourself stashed away in an attic somewhere that is revealing your true age and evil deeds, do you?”

He chuckled and waved the book in front of him. “No, I can assure you I do not. I am going to assume this goes in the keep pile. Should I mention I happen to have the 1891 First Edition copy of this very book?”

My mouth gaped for a moment. I tucked a piece of hair that escaped from my ponytail behind my ear, trying to act nonplussed about the fact that he owned a First Edition copy and he’d been around to purchase it, instead trying to refocus on packing. I couldn’t help watching him from of the corner of my eye. “Please.”

He sighed and placed the book in what was the unofficial “keep” pile. He started on the last shelf, pulling out another leather bound volume. He examined the book in silence, opening it and flipping through the pages. He stopped and concentrated on a page, tension pinching between his blond eyebrows.

“What?” I asked, distracted by packing books away in a box. Each book I touched made me think about the only man I would ever call my Dad, my adoptive father. Seeing all of these books always made me think of him, remembering the joy he would feel when he would read them, the happiness apparent in his dark blue eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

“This book. The Life of Napoleon by John Holland Rose. The 1904 version. Interesting.” He held on to the volume and crossed the room to sit on the floor beside me, one leg bent with his arm resting on his knee. “How did you come to own this edition?”

“It was another gift from my adoptive father. He was a book lover as well as a collector. When my adoptive parents died, his collection became mine.” I shrugged and went back to packing.