The Crone was right to make him choose between the past and the present. Straddling both has brought nothing but pain and danger. He was selfish for having done it so long.
“I’m sorry I let you down,” he says. “If it’s of any consolation, you won’t have me as the Sandman for much longer.”
“Metis . . .” the Crone says in a gentle voice. “You forget that it was you who found me. I only hold the memory of how to make Absinthe, but it was your hands that made it. Your effort is what built the group. You have devoted most of this cycle to the cause. You’ve protected Absinthe and the Dreamers. I could not have asked for a more devoted Sandman.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t be the Sandman anymore.” He had chosen Aris. Even if he cannot be with her.
The Crone glides to him and places her wispy hand on his shoulder.
“Never regret making a choice. It’s a right you must defend and uphold.”
She touches the side of his face. “How is she?”
“I don’t know. Devastated probably.”
He has not seen her out of her apartment since he learned about Benja. She is in seclusion, grieving, just as he would be if someone he loved had their dreams ripped away. He wants to hold her hand and comfort her.
“I should check on her,” Metis says.
“If she’s with Benja, then she’s being watched. Be careful.”
“Do you think he will be okay eventually?”
“We can only hope. Like I said before, there’s a side effect to Dreamcatcher, but it does not affect everyone,” the Crone says.
Metis hopes Benja will simply go back to his old life, like Bodie. To a life with no Absinthe and no memories of past cycles. A life with only the present—like one Metis will have. Except in Benja’s, there is Aris.
Chapter Fifteen
Aris stares at the entrance, waiting. The end of the year fast approaches. She should be excited by the idea of the fresh start Tabula Rasa will bring, yet she can’t shake the feeling of impending doom.
The restaurant is just as it was on her first date with Benja three months ago. Crisp linens. Dimmed lighting. Couples sit holding hands. Except now, excitement has been replaced by apprehension. Her hands play with a corner of the tablecloth. Her legs jiggle under the table. She feels like a ball of restlessness is about to burst out of her chest. Guilt. It torments her like a bad dream.
She has not been able to bring herself to talk to Benja about the Interpreter Center. Although she does not trust Apollina, Aris feels she should heed her caution about causing damage to Benja’s psyche by reminding him about his Dreamcatcher experience. He has not mentioned it. Perhaps he does not even remember it.
Aris takes a big gulp of wine. The warmth travels down her throat and fills the hollow space in her stomach. She feels tattered, as if she has been physically dragged through the streets of Callisto. There is no peace for her, neither while awake nor asleep. The recurring dream has increased even more in its intensity. Last night she woke up drenched in sweat.
Her tongue unconsciously flicks to her lips. The taste of salt lingers. She can almost feel the warm hand on her skin, molding it like clay. The hair on her arms stands up. She shakes the memory off.
Benja comes to sit next to her, startling her.
“I didn’t see you come in,” she says.
She pushes a glass of wine in front of him. “I ordered us a bottle.”
He picks up his glass and drains it. Pale purple haunts the skin under his eyes. Stubble shadows the terrain of his face. His wavy hair looks like a bird has nested in it.
“You’re a little worse for wear,” she says.
“Am I?” he asks. “I haven’t looked in the mirror.”
“Are you okay?”
He wipes his face.
“Yeah. I’ve just been writing through the night,” he says.
Good. Back to being productive again.
The restlessness inside her subsides.
“But it’s shit. It’s all shit,” he says. He pours another glass and drinks it.
“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” she says.
“It doesn’t even make sense anymore. Sometimes I just stare at the blank page and—nothing.”
“Writer’s block is not uncommon.”
Her legs shake again. She holds them down with her hands, trying to still them.
“Not for me. Before, the story came easily as if I were just retelling it. But now . . . I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Benja says.
Aris drains her glass and refills it. There is nothing she can say or do that will help. But she must say something.
She sucks in a deep breath. “Just start over.”
He scoffs. “Start over. Just like that?”
“Yeah. Like a blank slate. What would you want to write if you could start all over again? What would you write if what you wrote in the past didn’t matter?” she asks.
“Like Tabula Rasa,” he whispers.
She nods.
Benja sighs. “You know how much work I’ve put into it? The idea of starting over makes me want to die.”
“Maybe a good night’s sleep will help.”
“Maybe,” he says. His voice trails off.
Aris takes a gulp of wine. A question eats at her.
“So, do you still dream of him?” she asks.
“Who?”
“The man in the white hat?”
He gives her a puzzled look. “No. I don’t have dreams.”
Aris lies with Benja’s head on her lap. She pulls the sheet up to cover her bosom. She does not know why she took him back to her apartment or why she suggested sex. She just wanted to make him feel better. Or maybe it was so she could feel better.
“Sorry,” he whispers.
“Don’t worry. It happens.”
“Does it? It never has to me,” he says. He buries his face in her lap.
“I don’t know what’s wrong. I just haven’t been feeling like myself lately. I still find you as sexy as a fox,” he says with a forced laugh.
She picks at a curl on his forehead. “Don’t worry.”
“I can’t help
