I wrap my arms around my chest and walk into the living room, sinking into the only chair. There’s an easel in the corner with a half-finished painting on it, a large pine tree in an otherwise urban setting. The detail is incredible, so realistic and vivid it could be a photograph. A book of poetry sits on one side of the chair, a huge science fiction novel on the other. I page through the poetry, paying special attention to the poems Sang has marked. They’re all about nature. My fingers trace the paper, and I only put it down when I hear the floor creak.
I jump up and rush into the bedroom. Sang is sitting on the side of his bed, wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, holding his head. His eyes light up when he sees me. “Hi,” he says, voice still groggy with sleep.
The pain in my chest gets worse.
“Hi,” I say. “Headache?”
He nods, and I walk to the kitchen and strain the bark from the water before pouring it into a mug. I hand it to him, and he takes a long sip.
“I found your stash of willow bark,” I say.
He gives me a grateful smile. “I would have cleaned up if I’d known you’d be coming over.” His voice is shy, and I almost laugh. There isn’t a single thing out of place.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, sitting next to him. My dress pools on the floor around my feet, and I wish I had changed into something of Sang’s. But the thought of having to give it back to him makes me glad I didn’t.
“My skin feels like it’s on fire, and my muscles are really sore. Otherwise I’m fine.”
I take a deep breath and try to erase the memory of him being struck by my own lightning, but I know I’ll never forget it. It will stay with me and haunt me the way the images of my parents and Nikki and Mr. Hart do.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. I can’t look at him.
He rubs his hand over my back. “It was an accident,” he says, the words so gentle.
“It was foreseeable,” I say.
“You had no way of knowing. It was just a game that got out of hand. That’s all.”
“That isn’t all, and you know it.”
We’re silent for several moments. “Why don’t we get you some tea first, and then we can talk about it?” He stands up and offers his hand to me, but I don’t take it. He looks at his open palm and frowns, then walks to the small kitchen. I follow behind him.
“I started the water, but I got overwhelmed by the selection,” I say.
He laughs, but it’s superficial and small. “Do you like black tea in the morning?”
I nod, and he grabs a jar from the cupboard labeled ASSAM. “This one’s my favorite,” he says, scooping the leaves into a porcelain teapot, a routine that’s clearly second nature to him. It’s soothing, and I think it would be nice to start the day with the clinking of teapots and scooping of leaves.
Nice to start the day with him.
And not just today. Every day.
When he’s done, he pours me a mug. He motions for me to sit down in the living room, and he brings out his desk chair and sits next to me, sipping his willow bark tea.
My eyes catch on the painting on the easel. I could have an entire house covered in his art, and it still wouldn’t be enough of him.
“It’s for my mom,” he says, following my eyes. “Her birthday is coming up.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s a Korean pine; she had a huge one that she loved in her backyard when she was growing up, but since she moved to the States, she’s never lived in the right climate to grow one herself. She still has a jar of preserved pine cones sitting on her dresser that she took from the tree before she moved.”
“She’s going to love it,” I say, and I force my voice to remain steady. I want all these stories, all these moments, all these details that make him him. I don’t want to lose them.
“Talk to me,” he finally says, looking at me with such tenderness that I think I might cry as soon as I open my mouth.
I swallow hard.
“I thought I had control over my magic, but I clearly don’t. If I can lose control like that during a stupid game, I can’t even imagine what could happen during a dangerous event where I’m using all the magic I can.” I take a sip of tea, and the warmth feels good as it slides down my throat. “My magic went after you last night, and I can never let that happen again. I would never forgive myself if—if—” But I can’t make myself say the words. My unfinished sentence hangs in the air between us.
“We’ll be extra careful going forward,” Sang says, touching my arm.
“Careful how? There is no careful with you,” I say, my voice rising. “I care too much.”
“I don’t know, but we can figure it out. I know we can.”
“We’ve already figured it out. The solution is isolating me in a cabin in the woods and making sure I never use my magic around people I care about. Making sure my magic never even knows there are people I care about. That’s the solution.”
Sang shakes his head. “That is not a solution. We’ll find another way.”
“There is no other way!” I practically shout the words. “As long as I care about you, I can’t—we can’t—” But I don’t know how to finish the sentence.
I can’t come near you.
We can’t be together.
We can’t be anything.
I set down my tea and stand up, pacing around the room.
He stands as well and reaches for my hands. “Clara, we can make this work. Please.”
I shake my head, back and
