Until I Die

implications for our own story sank in.
Whether or not Vincent or I found a way to keep him from suffering, we couldn’t avoid one of several tragic endings. And if he managed to live as long as I did, someday he would get to that point that no revenant could pass—at eighty years old, or whenever. He would sacrifice his life for someone else’s and wake up three days later at eighteen. I would die and he would remain immortal. There was no getting around it.
Sensing my hopelessness, Vincent pulled me to the side of the bridge. We stood hand in hand, watching the water surge forward in tiny, quickly moving whirlpools. The perfect metaphor for the unstoppable flow of time.

TWENTY-THREE
     
    THE NEXT DAY, VIOLETTE TEXTED ME AT SCHOOL , asking if I wanted to go to a movie that night.
    Me: Too much homework. Sorry!
    Violette: Then how about coffee?
    Me: Perfect! After school. Sainte-Lucie.
    Violette: I’ll see you there.
    I smiled, thinking of how her English was coming along. She was actually using contractions! In just a few short weeks, she had begun to sound more like a normal teenager and less like a dowager duchess. And when I heard her speak French with the others … well, she definitely was picking up more “street” expressions.
She was already seated when I arrived at the café, and stood to greet me with a huge smile on her face. Kissing my cheeks, she exclaimed, “Kate! You were so amazing Saturday night!”
We sat down, and she continued to gush, but in a softer voice so the people nearby couldn’t hear. “I still can’t believe how well you fought after just a couple months of training. We told Gaspard about it, and although he insisted he couldn’t take any credit, I could tell he was really proud.”
“You were pretty awesome yourself!” I said, meaning it. “That guy was so much bigger than you, and he never even had a chance.”
She waved away the praise like it had been nothing. “So … what did you think about Vincent? Wait— monsieur ?” She flagged down a passing waiter so I could order a hot chocolate. I leaned back in toward her.
“He was incredible. I’m glad he got my numa when he did, though. I don’t know how much longer I could have fought him off.”
She hesitated, watching me.
“What?” I asked, her expression planting a seed of worry in my chest.
“He didn’t seem to be operating at one hundred percent, I thought,” she replied quietly. “He has those circles under his eyes. And he’s so sallow-looking. I mean, he battled like the expert fighter he is, but he just didn’t seem to have much physical strength.”
I looked down at the table. “You’re right, Violette. I mean, I’ve only seen him in practice, but he could probably have taken those guys on by himself if he weren’t …” My voice trailed off.
“In bad shape.” She finished my sentence for me, and touched my hand. “That’s what I thought. But I wanted to get your reading on it since I don’t know how he usually performs. I hadn’t realized how much his project was affecting him until I saw him fight. Don’t worry about it, though. Things will get better,” she said gently. “But how about you. Any progress?”
“Zilch,” I answered.
She pursed her lips pityingly and sighed. “Don’t worry, Kate. I’m sure things will get better.” Although she didn’t look it. Unsure. Worried. Troubled, maybe. But I didn’t see “sure” anywhere on her face.
Just then my chocolate arrived. I sipped the steaming froth off the top while inhaling the rich aroma of cocoa, and wondered for the hundredth time why Vincent couldn’t just be a normal human boy.
    “Good morning, mon ange ! Where’s your dress?” Vincent called, from where he was leaning against the park gate across the street from my front door. Instead of his regular jeans and jacket, he was wearing a suit and tie. And, oh man, did he look yummy. I stood there in my workout gear and looked him up and down.
“It’s time for fight training. What’s with the suit, Mr. Wall Street?”
“Didn’t you get my text?”
I pulled out my phone to see a message from Vincent logged at three a.m.: Dress up tomorrow. I’m taking you to a formal event .
“Formal event?” I asked, my eyes widening. “What kind of formal event takes place on a Saturday morning?”
“A wedding,” Vincent said simply.
“You’re taking me to a wedding?” I asked, aghast. “Why didn’t you tell me before three o’clock—the morning of?”
“Because