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I wasn’t a kid anymore, I was a woman who’d grown accustomed to her own space and time. I’d agreed to meet him at Chester’s after I investigated whatever was in the envelope from Mac, and spent a few more hours with Barrons’s ancient tomes.
I turned the envelope over, stripped off my glove, and opened it, withdrawing two sheets of paper and unfolding them.
My breath jammed up in my throat and all I could think was, What the bloody hell—how had Mac gotten a letter from Dancer?
I closed my eyes, evened my breathing, braced myself for grief and began to read.
Hi Mega.
“Hi Dancer,” I whispered.
I love you.
“I love you, too.”
I thought I’d say that first so I didn’t start right off with an ominous cliché like: If you’re reading this, I’m dead. But if you are, I am. Don’t worry about me, I’m fine and we’ll see each other again.
I wanted to leave you a letter but I couldn’t think of a place to leave it that A: you wouldn’t find it before I was dead, and B: you’d definitely find it after I was and, honestly, I didn’t want you to have it right away, so I asked Mac to give it to you when the time seemed right. I know my death will hit you hard, and I’m so bloody sorry about that.
I’ve suspected for a while the cosmic clock is winding down for me. I know the signs. You know them, too, and I love you to the ends of the earth and back again for ignoring them with me. That took more than courage, Mega. That took a heart of gold and a backbone of steel.
I used to worry that I’d never get to hold you and make love to you in this lifetime. That our red thread was going to have to be a platonic one because you were so young when we met and I had an impaired heart, and it drove me crazy because I knew we’d loved each other before. I knew it the moment I saw you, spitting “fecks” a million miles a minute, feeling everything in life so intensely.
Google the red thread of Japanese myth. If the Internet doesn’t work, look in my photo album, the brown leather one with all the selfies we took together when we were having crazy, stupid fun. Along with those other selfies where we were doing crazy, sexy things. I love you for those. Best. Porn. Ever.
So anyway, I printed out the myth for you, in case the world stays offline, but in brief, the Japanese believe our relationships are predestined by gods who tie together the pinky fingers of those who are supposed to find each other in life. People connected by red threads will have a profound impact on one another, life-changing, soul-shaping impact. They’ll make history together. Although those threads can get tangled, knotted, and snarled, they’re unbreakable. (As an aside, I think it’s best not to take the “unbreakable” part for granted. Choice is paramount. Red threads are sacred. Be gentle with them.) (As another aside, those red threads shoot out from our pinky fingers because the ulnar artery runs from the heart to the little finger and those threads are there to keep our hearts connected, across space and time.)
Thank you for being my red thread. I know how damned lucky I was to get you.
I know you, wild thing. Much better than you think. You thought I loved you because I only saw the good parts of you. You thought I saw you through a filter. I didn’t.
I know about the cage (I hate her for that more than you can know), the killing you were tricked into doing (I hate Rowena, too), the terrible injustices you suffered.
Yet, you came out of it with a heart so pure it takes my breath away. If I could, I’d have saved you a thousand times over. I’d have been your knight in shining armor. I’d have slayed dragons, rescued you, fought wars for you.
But no one saved you. So you save the world.
And now I’m dead and I left you alone and I hate that.
You remember when I asked you about Ryodan? You got mad at me when I said I wasn’t as super as him. You said that I was just as super, just not in the same ways. Thank you for saying that.
I view you the way you view Ryodan. I worship you. I’m in awe of you. I think you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever known.
I envied Ryodan. His strong heart, his immortal body. I envied his long life so much I nearly hated him.
Then one day he came to me, after you told him I was dying. He told me about you. The things you never let me know. He didn’t tell me everything, so don’t get mad at him. I know because I asked questions he wouldn’t answer. He wanted me to know what a miracle you are. He was also taking my measure, trying to decide if I was worthy of you. My respect and esteem for you grew even greater that day, and I hadn’t thought it possible. You’re a one in a googolplex kind of woman, Mega.
Before he left, he offered to get me the Elixir of Life.
When I said no, he offered to make me like him.
I dropped the letter and sat staring blankly. He’d done what? I’d asked him to do that very thing. He’d said no, it wouldn’t work, it might kill him. Then he’d gone to Dancer and offered to do it anyway. For me. I spent several long moments trying to process that, then resumed reading.
He said it wasn’t a guaranteed success, my heart might blow anyway. I might not survive the transformation. But because you loved me, he would try. He said neither the elixir nor becoming like him was without price, both came accompanied by significant problems. He said he would tell me those problems if I chose one of the options.
I’ve never been so tempted in my life.
But there’s a pattern and purpose to all things. I see it in the sublime truth of math, I hear it in the perfection of great musical compositions. This spectacular universe knows what it’s doing.
