“So all I need to do is forgive myself and my heartmate will be right there waiting for me? I won’t have to be lonely anymore?”
She chuckled that wholesome grandmotherly chuckle that was like a kiss from a hummingbird. “Oh, Charlie. You’re still so young.”
And with that, I knew that I wasn’t going to get anything else out of her. As a last-ditch effort, I asked, “…do you have any tips for forgiving someone? It’s not the same as forgetting.”
“Just do what feels right,” she said tiredly. “Now, I’ve got to run an errand Charlie, so I’m going to let you go. Though in two weeks, I’m vacationing to Morocco. I trust you’ll be there too?”
My heart was pounding. “How did you know?”
“I just know. The same way you’ll just know when you meet him,” she teased.
“Oh! Speaking of that, I met someone that I felt those fireworks with,” I said, thinking of when I first met Leo.
“What did it feel like?” she asked patiently.
“It felt like my heart was tethered to his immediately, and like my whole world shifted,” I said breathlessly. “Could it be him?”
She laughed, then said, “Like I said, it’s complicated. You’ll find out.”
I frowned.
“But you’re not all the way there yet. First, focus on forgiving yourself. Get rid of all that poison in your aura.”
“Forgive myself for what?” I pressed.
“Goodbye, Charlie. I’ll see you in a few weeks — we can talk more then.”
I watched as her name on my phone screen turned dark. And just like that, she was gone and I was alone again.
As I resumed walking through the woods, I reached out and tore a leaf off a tree. What did I need to forgive myself for?
I plucked at the leaf, tearing the smooth parts off the skeleton.
As I thought more about it, I frowned. I always did things by following what I thought was moral, good, and right. That’s the thing that Oliver complained to me about — being on my “high horse.” That was also the root of the reason why Alina wasn’t speaking with me… she thought I was judging her for making a bad choice when she was a teenager; exchanging her body for a chance at fame.
It wasn’t right, and it didn’t sit well with me.
And if that’s what I needed to forgive myself for, it would be a long time before I could do that. I was only doing what I thought was right, and there was no way I would ever think that her sleeping with her director was excusable.
That must’ve not been it, then.
Perhaps I needed to forgive myself for being such a crybaby in high school. Occasionally I thought about that past version of me; the weakling with thin skin who got upset at everything. I should have reacted differently when I was bullied. I should have stood up for myself. I should have told a teacher, or the principal before things got really bad.
I should have never slept with that guy, that guy that started all the rumors.
Internally, I cursed my past self for being so stupid.
Try as I might, it was impossible not to feel angry about the whole thing and the way I handled that situation. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got.
Was this a normal part of forgiveness? And if forgiveness was separate from forgetting, was I digging myself into a pit of rage by repeatedly thinking about it?
I came to a clearing after a while, and jumped when I saw a figure leaning against a rock in the middle.
It was a man, tall and slim, wearing tight black pants, expensive-looking boots, and a sea-green v-neck t-shirt. He had a shock of bright red hair that was styled into extra-long locks that fanned out on top of a sharp undercut.
My hairstylist knees went weak.
He looked over at me, and the rest of me went weak too as my world shifted.
This wild-looking, over-the-top man could only have a wild, over-the-top name.
He had to be Crimson Sin.
“Hello?” he asked in my direction, craning his neck. “I see you there…”
I stumbled out from behind a tree and tried to regain my balance.
He took one look at me and the corner of his mouth went up; he was amused.
“I— I didn’t know anyone else was out here,” I said quickly, brushing dry grass blades off my knees.
“I’m not. I’m a figment of your imagination,” he said, waving his hand in a circular motion.
“Does that mean you want me to go away?” I asked breathlessly.
“On the contrary. I want you to tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Everything,” he said simply, tucking his phone into his pocket.
I approached him in the clearing, feeling like I was having an out of body experience. As I drew closer, each step revealed something striking about him: He had a cuff and chains hanging from his ear, shining silver in the Italian sun. His nails were painted black, and tattoos swirled up and down his forearms, bleeding vivid red and blue colors in an intricate pattern.
But nothing prepared me for his stunning purple eyes.
I got lost in them for a second, trying to figure out if they were natural or—
“They’re contacts,” he explained, watching me as a smirk bloomed upon his face.
I felt the urge to say sorry, but Hazel’s words telling me not to whipped me like a slap on the wrist. Instead, I said, “I’m guessing you’re used to people staring at them.”
He raised a rust-colored eyebrow and nodded with a smile. “I get a lot of questions about them. But in my opinion, they look better than my natural eye color.”
“Which is…?”
He reached up to his eye and gently moved the contact lens to the side. Underneath was a pale blue iris — so pale it was almost white.
I scrunched up my face in disgust.
“I know, they’re a little off-putting, right?” he winked.
“Sorr— I’m just not used to people touching their eyeballs in front of me,” I said.
He ignored me, instead peering deeply into
