Page 57 of Roses & Ruin

My breath wreathes me like a halo when I step out into the cold, white day. Hayden rounds the car to brush snowflakes from my dark hair, my eyelashes. There’s a melancholy to him here, more than usual, at least, a grief in his gaze he either won’t or cannot hide.

“This was once all forest,” he says. Behind him, a swirl of snow-bitten wind shoves a row of sailboats against each other, clanging and clattering over the slap of the water. Seagulls are diving in the water, crying for their meal.

The most stunning thing, though, is the lighthouse. The great lamp at the top has switched on now that the snow has darkened the sky, the fog of the sea grown thick with ice. It sweeps in a circle, and I imagine my first father sitting there, drinking something hot, all wind-chafed skin and steely eyes. Did he have a beard? Did he like Hayden?

“Behind you.” Hayden points. I look up, find the sorrowful blue of his gaze has gained amethyst edges when he looks over my shoulder. “Behind you is where I saw you for the first time.”

I whirl around. There’s a shabby, tiny shed meant to be a paying station. It looks perpetually closed. Beyond that is a small shop that sells fishing equipment and live bait, a brick road that winds up a hill lined with colorful houses.

“I can’t picture it,” I whisper. He moves beside me, my shoulder brushing his arm.

“Your father took his supper in the forest every afternoon. I’d wandered down from Canada, lost. A mess.” Hayden presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, rueful. “I was thirsty, and he was so strong. I could feel his heart beating miles away. But that day, I guess, he’d forgotten his lunch pail at home. You brought it to him. The flutter of your pulse was so sweet, a surprise. You surprised me,” he says, voice distant.

“Why didn’t you drink from me?” I look up at him, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. He looks ashamed.

“Have you ever been chased by a barking dog? Running only makes them hungrier for the hunt. They say that sometimes, if you turn around and sprint right at it, it stops, confused. Occasionally, it’ll flee, surprised.” Hayden turns to me. “Here I was, top of the food chain, and here you were, this little flower of a human, with your soot-covered face, floppy ribbon, and big silver eyes, coming right up to me, one of the deadliest predators on this earth. You told me I looked hungry. You offered me your apple.” His laugh is thick, and he wipes a hand across his mouth. “Like I said, you surprised me. You often do.”

I look back at the pay station, the handwritten sign fluttering in the wind. Closed. Does it count as me if I can’t remember? Hayden shoves his hands in his pockets and jerks his head toward the sea, where a sidewalk moves steadily uphill toward the heart of downtown.

The wind swirls around us, but I know he can’t get cold, so the hunch of his shoulders is something else. The body language of vampires is not easy to translate; they like it that way. Especially my vampire. But I’m learning, and in the set of Hayden’s muscles, I can see it: Grief. Guilt. Shame.

I jog to catch up, then walk beside him.

“Where are we going next?” I ask.

Hayden’s eyes drop to the sidewalk, flick to the weather-worn brick road. “You got me a job assisting your dad at the lighthouse. Every day, you’d meet me at day’s end, and I’d walk you home.” His gaze finds me, that shining, mournful blue. “This is where you first fell in love with me.”

“Oh,” I say, the knowledge so overwhelming, I stop walking for a moment. I look at the snow-covered brick street, wondering if I can see our history in the cracks in the red. Impulsively, I drop to a squat, press both my palms to the freezing road, close my eyes.

The weight of our bodies formed this road. The weight of our love.

I open my eyes to find Hayden looking down at me, his eyes glistening. I know he’s hurting, but I wish he’d let me hold him. Wish he’d hold me. But I remind myself that this is new for him too. This is the first time I’ve known about my past lives. The first time he’s not needed to hide his grief from me.

I’ll help him carry that burden.

When we reach the top of the hill, Hayden points out a metal bench overlooking the harbor, the cliffs farther down the waterline, the ungodly beauty of the horizon, the expansive stretch of the sea.

“This was just a couple of wooden crates back then,” Hayden says, running a hand across the iron back of the bench. “But it was comfortable enough.”

I wipe snow off the metal so I can sit where he and I once sat two hundred years ago. On the backrest of the bench, there’s a peek of gold through the snow. I wipe it clean to reveal a small inscription engraved on a gleaming plaque.

For my heart, my Rose, who would have wanted you to share her favorite view.

“Hayden?” I turn to him, heart high in my throat. An ocean wind tosses his thick dark hair as he blinks down at the inscription, clears his throat.

“We came here even on rainy days. Hell, probably especially on rainy days. Even when you couldn’t really see it, you loved watching the sun set.” His voice is rough and quiet.

“What about you?” I ask, hungry for details. “Did you love watching the sun set?”

Hayden lifts his eyes to mine. They roam my face, and his lips curve up.

“I loved watching you,” he says. “I…” He turns away, hunching into the wind, continuing his walk toward town. “Come on. Something else I want to show you.”

Hemlock Cove is as historic as they come, nearly every building preserved from the eighteenth century, a brass plaque mounted on every brick wall, a tiny summary of its history. The stirring in my chest grows.

Hayden stops us in front of a small, colonial brick building. The wooden sign swinging above the door reads Hemlock Cove Maritime Museum. He’s looking up at the sign, his brows furrowed, his jaw clenching.

“I’m sorry I’m so…” He shakes his head, making a frustrated sound. I reach out, tentatively take his hand.