ETHEREAL

CHAPTER 5

Once I'm home, I listen to the cd that Damien made for me, and I like it, although the majority of the songs seem to be bitterly sad. I stay up all night, unable to want to sleep, although it is nothing new for me.

The next day, I text Damien, I had fun last night... do you like the mix cd?

He types back, I like you Skye.

My heart produces an audible thud in my chest. Well, that didn't answer my question, but I feel a small burst of happiness bloom within me. I don't know what to say, and decide to not reply back for now.

One of my best friends, Brit, texts me and asks if I want to go to Towson to the mall and to eat Persian food. "Skye Valdis, what's up with you and Damien now? Are y'all talking?"

I push the saffron rice around my plate and say, "I don't even know... it seems like I don't know about everything in my life lately, and what do you mean by 'talking'?"

"Well, do you like him? It seems like y'all would make a cute couple."

I scrunch up my face, roll my eyes, and groan. "I think I do like him, and he texted me that he likes me," I sheepishly glance up.

"Skye!! You need to text him back now! Be honest, don't give up on something before it has even started. I know Caleb's bitchass broke your heart, but Damien isn't him. You should give him a chance."

I text him back, I like you, too. We make plans to hang out again next Friday.

Two days later, I'm at work and there are barely any customers in the junior's section at Nordstrom, a rare occurrence lately, and I feel like I can finally breathe, although it is incredibly dull. The weather outside is dreary and the rain is just pouring down. I'm wearing one of my favorite bodycon purple velvet mini dresses, black lace tights, and one of my recent birthday gifts, my new short black UGGs. I'm spacing out and organizing the clearance rack by color within the various sizes, a task that I abhor, much like working here, even though I love to shop at Nordstrom. I can't stop thinking about Damien.

A high-pitched, funny-sounding voice behind me says, "Excuse me, can you tell me where the bathroom is?"

"Yeah, it's -"

I turn around to point them in the right direction and start laughing. "OMG Damien! I thought you were an actual customer with a weird voice."

"Who says that I'm not?" He smirks and laughs with me. He reaches out to touch my velvet-clad arm, and says, "I like how smooth this is."

Gazing into his blackest, bottomless eyes, I manage, "I love velvet, too." Strangely enough, a client actually shows up at this time, and asks for my help finding a new outfit. I glance over my shoulder, and Damien reassures me, "I'll be around."

Twenty minutes later, I've helped several clients, ran back and forth to the fitting rooms, and rang up multiple purchases. My manager, Veronica, who is also obsessed with Rihanna and changes her hair to match hers anytime Rihanna changes up her hair, which is often, but we get along, because I also love Rihanna, exclaims to me, "Skye! You've got fan mail!"

I look at her and simultaneously look around to see where Damien disappeared to, "What?"

"The client service surveys, someone filled out one and they thought very highly of you, so keep up the great work!" She hands the small piece of paper to me, and I read it: "Skye is the best stylist here. She always wears the latest fashions (so inspiring) and she genuinely tries to help you by listening to your needs/wants, and coming up with the best possible solution for you."

"Wow... that's amazing," I try to recall if I saw anyone actually fill out one of these surveys for myself or any of my coworkers before, and I can't remember one person, ever. Veronica walks away, humming "Only Girl (In the World)," and says, "I'll be in the back watching Rih's latest tour footage." I used to think she was joking when she said things like that, but last week, I walked in on her watching Rihanna on stage singing, "Russian Roulette," and Veronica was just sitting there with a glazed-over, dazed look on her face. I asked her what she was doing and she replied that she was mentally memorizing every single outfit, so that she could recreate it somehow to wear to work - and she did.

Damien pops up out of nowhere again, and remarks in his sultry, deep voice, "So, she was happy with your survey?" It clicks in my head, and I push him playfully. "It was you, wasn't it?!"

"It's what all of them should say about you, I wanted to put more, but I wanted it to be believable as if it was from a teenager," he confesses.

"I can't believe you did that... but thank you." I feel flattered but strange. "Alright, I'll see you on Friday," he saunters away and I'm left wondering, did he come to the mall, about a 20 minute drive in the pouring rain, just for me?

Next Friday comes around faster than I thought it would. It seems like time doesn't exist in Damien's world, in which seven hours with him feels like seven minutes (in Heaven, I sarcastically think to myself, but it feels true, although it is corny).

We text back and forth about what our favorite movies are. Mine are: Breakfast at Tiffany's, A Clockwork Orange, and The Nightmare Before Christmas. We decide to watch A Clockwork Orange, and not even halfway through, Damien is aghast and stunned that I would even like this type of movie. "But, aren't the visuals and made-up language cool, though?" I ask.

"Um, yeah, but... I'm just surprised."

"What were you expecting? Twilight?" I snicker, "I mean, I like it, but I guess I like a variety of movies."

He laughs, and exclaims, "That's what makes you so interesting."

Grinning, I reply, "Really, are we quoting Twilight now?"

The movie ends, and he walks me outside to my car. I look up to see the blackest night studded with the brightest, beaming stars. There appears to be millions of them, and I've never seen a sky like this, ever.

"Wow, look at the stars, they're so beautiful." I'm craning my neck up at the sky and walking in circles, to stare at all of it at once, and I must look ridiculous.

"Not as beautiful as you," Damien solemnly states in his velvety, syrup voice.

"What? Wow, you're so smooth. I thought you said you weren't cheesy," I squeak.

I look down at him, and he is staring at me. He bends down to my 5'3 height and kisses me, and I feel weightless.