When All is Null and Void

Chapter Thirty-Five

 The Gala was a waste of time. Not a single person in attendance had any interest in discussing anything of substance. Titus had been forced to endure long-winded interactions with elderly men whose lips resembled the flesh of an overly plump starfish, puffy and leaking saliva. Every other sentence sent a spray of spit toward Titus, and they would do nothing but wipe their mouths and carry on with their unending drivel; Titus couldn't get a word in edgewise.

Amidst this Titus was aware of Alaric Ralston's presence throughout the Gala--it clung to the room like the sweet, clovey scent of his cologne. Though Alaric attempted to make eye contact through the night, Titus couldn't bring himself to allow it. The phantom pressure of Alaric's hand on his shoulder remained.

Titus' orbit reconvened with his mom's as the evening forged on toward midnight. She offered him a bracing smile, and, as the string sextet on the far balcony finished another song, said, "It's been long enough, I think. You can go."

"I can?" he said though the attempted stifling of his enthusiasm fell flat.

"Yeah," her gaze was on the Gala and its revelers. "I'll see you in the morning." She gave Titus a hug, but it was swift and fleeting.

Titus went off toward the staircase at the far side of the room. He ascended a mere four steps when he was stopped by a hand on his bicep. Titus turned and was inches from Alaric's white teeth and clear, tan skin. Titus pulled away and stepped upward. "What do you want?" He didn't intend the razor-sharp tone, and Alaric's smile faltered for a moment before widening.

Producing a slip of paper and sliding it into Titus palm, Alaric said, "That's my Holo number..." he trailed off. "If you want a realinterview," he finished strongly.

"Oh," Titus said, unsure why Alaric hadn't dropped his hand. "Yeah, thanks." Titus pocketed the slip of paper on which Alaric had printed his information. "Have a good night."

Alaric retreated into the party, and Titus watched. The entire evening--at least the moments in which Alaric had been involved--had been too strange and disarming. What possible reason could the son of the country's most renowned reporter want to interview Titus for? People didn't normally seek Titus' company. Because it's what I deserve. His answer to Alaric's question bubbled to the surface. Did Titus really believe that?

The easy answer should have been no. He didn't think he believed it; so why did he say it? Titus certainly didn't need anyone to feel sorry for him, and he hated the idea that Alaric Ralston believed he could uncover some story. Despite the death, Titus knew himself to have nothing more to offer. No one shouldwant his company.

The closest chance he'd come to friendship was with Caleb Carlisle, and Titus had already ensured Caleb wouldn't ever want to be friends with him.

Which was the goal, right? No friends meant no one cared. He wantedthat. Titus stripped the layers of his tux off and hung them on their hangers. A brutal war waged in Titus' thoughts as he showered. He could give Alaric the interview--or he could screw it all and throw the card away. The latter was the obvious choice.

But as he tossed in his bed, the card sung a song to him of what could be. Titus wasn't sure when he'd pulled the covers back, nor when he'd picked up the card with trembling fingers. There's been something in the way Alaric had touched his shoulder. The way it had lingered throughout the evening. Furrowing his brow, heart fluttering, Titus used his perspiring palm to slide open his wrist Holo. He stared for ten minutes at the message he'd written, his breaths trembling through his lips. I'd love to do an interview. Come to the Estate on the twenty-third, and we can conduct it here.Titus signed it with his initials and a requested time.