Page 59 of Roses & Ruin

“I suppose there’s no true way of knowing,” he begins slowly. “All I can tell you is I had spent the past century lost and directionless all over the globe. When I met you, I…Something settled within me. Something I’d never felt before in my existence.” He tilts his head. “It’s a tiny detail, but…in your first life, I got really close to your dad. Your mom had already passed, but…he was like you. Same kindness in his eyes. Same gentleness. Not terribly common back then. I’ve gotten to know your parents in every lifetime, and it’s clear he’s the only one who really feels like you.”

“Huh.” I feel that strange jealousy, that weird left-out feeling again, like I’ve slept through the most important parts of my life. You should have been there, I think, a pinch in my heart. “How do you even find me?” I whisper. “After I die every time?”

Hayden leans back against an oak barrel set near the front entrance. “That’s like asking someone how they breathe to stay alive. I just do. I—I lose you…” Hayden’s face flares with revulsion when he says lose. “And then I begin my search. It’s not exact. The years, the method.” Hayden casts his eyes out the window, pensive.

“Remind me how many Roses there have been?” I ask, an edge to my voice. It’s my turn to drop my eyes. I can feel Hayden looking at me.

“There’s just you, Rose,” he says softly. “There’s only you.”

“You know what I mean.”

How many Roses have you kissed? Made love to? Shared inside jokes with?

How many Roses knew you in every way possible, while you’ve pushed me away over and over?

I look up to find Hayden watching me, unreadable.

“A few,” he says vaguely. I feel a lurch of anger.

“Come on,” I say, and he lets out an exasperated breath.

“I don’t want to think about it,” he snaps. “Because it’s the number of times I’ve let you die, that I’ve failed to save you, that I’ve…” He drags a hand through his hair, and it stands up, beautiful and rumpled. “Sorry. This isn’t about me. I know you, Rose. The fewer details you get the better. But it’s something around ten. Okay?”

Ten. Ten Roses he’s fallen in love with. Ten times I’ve died. Ten lifetimes of knowledge he has and I don’t.

“Right,” I say, confused by the surge of pain. “Okay.” I rub my eyes. I can’t help my next question. “Do you have a favorite?”

Hayden’s face softens. He steps close and takes my fingers, tracing my knuckles.

I wish he wouldn’t hold back. After last night, he’s being careful again.

“Let me ask you this,” he says softly. “Do you love me more when I’m sitting down than when I’m standing?”

“No,” I finally say.

“There you go.” He looks up to find the hostess waving us over, and he drops my hand, heading to the table overlooking the lighthouse.

I wonder if he’s thinking what I’m thinking right now: that I haven’t actually said the words out loud yet. Hayden shut me down the first time I tried to tell him I loved him in the heat of the moment.

Now I’m scared to say it. In the wake of all the Roses that have loved him before, the Roses that he has loved, I feel inferior. Scared. Is it even fair for me to say I love him? Do I even know what love is?

Hayden probably doesn’t care about that sort of thing, anyway: hearing me say “I love you.” I, on the other hand, have been replaying the urgent, desperate way he said it that night in the church, when he first showed me his fangs, his true self.

I’ve since realized he only said it with such abandon that night because he was sure he’d have no other chance. He was, in his way, not just saying he loved me: He was saying goodbye.

Does he notice that he hasn’t said it since?

I’m feeling open and raw as a shucked oyster as we slide into the wooden booth opposite each other. Hayden scans the menu, and I gaze out the window at my father’s lighthouse, silhouetted in the snow.

“How are they all me?” I say, clipped. “And, like…I mean, surely it’s like…having a favorite outfit of mine? Or something. You know?” Hayden looks up from the menu, amusement coloring his features. He sets it aside and folds his hands.

“You are my favorite. You. The one sitting in front of me right now, because it’s the same you who’s been sitting in front of me for centuries.” He cocks his head. “Your soul is the same, Rose. I know that it’s hard to understand, but if you were there, if you…” Hayden makes a frustrated sound, searching for the words. “It’s like I said. Whether you’re the apprentice for a dressmaker, a publisher, or a print shop, whether you’re a photo lab tech in Canada or attending a community art college in San Francisco, you’re always searching for broken, scattered pieces in the world to put together to make something new and beautiful.

“You’re always curious, always a little bit anxious, and always brave enough to push through it. Nothing crushes your spirit. Not gossip, not cruelty, not war.” Something fractures in his eyes. “Not—not my failure. Not you reliving your deaths every night, not—” He presses his face into his palms. “Trust me, okay? I— This is—”

“Had a chance to look at the menu yet?” Our waiter, a distracted youngish guy, pulls a pad out of his pocket. Hayden drops his hands, his face smooth and impassive.

“I’ll have an old-fashioned, and she’ll have a glass of your house malbec.” He watches the waiter jot it down and walk to the bar. “Still serving teenagers.” He snorts. “Some things don’t change.” I’m about to ask him what a malbec is, but his soft expression makes me swallow the question. “Come here, look at this.” Hayden pulls out his phone, clicks on the flashlight, and gestures for me to duck beneath the table. When I do, he shines the light on a spot on the old tavern wall.