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let’s not tell anyone, or they’ll
start naming the coffee things we can’t pronounce, and the lines will get unbearable.”
    I shake my head, and I can’t help but
smile.   “Fine.   It’ll be our secret.”
    He stares at me, his dark eyes shining.   “Good. I like secrets. Everyone’s got
‘em.”
    I almost suck in my breath, because
something is so overtly fascinating about him.   The way he pronounces everything, and
the way his dark eyes gleam, the way he seems so familiar because he’s been in
the intimacy of my dreams.  
    “What are yours?” I ask, without
thinking.   “Your secrets, I mean.”
    He grins.   “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
    Yes.
    “My name’s Calla,” I offer quickly.   He smiles at that.  
    “Calla like the funeral lily?”  
    The very same.”   I sigh.   “And I live in a funeral home.   So see?   The irony isn’t lost on me.”
    He looks confused for a second , then I see the realization dawn on him.  
    “You noticed my shirt yesterday,” he points
out softly, his arm stretched across the back of the cracked booth.   He doesn’t even dwell on the fact that I’d
just told him I live in a house with dead people.   Usually people instantly clam up when
they find out, because they instantly assume that I must be weird, or
morbid.    But he doesn’t.  
    I nod curtly.   “I don’t know why.   It just stood out.”   Because you stood out.  
    The corner of his mouth twitches, like
he’s going to smile, but then he doesn’t.  
    “I’m Adair DuBray,” he tells me, like
he’s bestowing a gift or an honor.   “But everyone calls me Dare.”
    I’ve never seen a name so fitting.   So French, so sophisticated, yet his
accent is British.   He’s an
enigma.   An enigma whose eyes gleam like
they’re constantly saying Dare me.   I swallow.
    “It’s nice to meet you,” I tell him, and
that’s the truth. “Why are you here in the hospital?   Surely it’s not for the coffee.”
    “You know what game I like to play?” Dare
asks, completely changing the subject. I feel my mouth drop open a bit, but I
manage to answer.  
    “No, what?”
    “Twenty Questions.   That way, I know that at the end of the
game, there won’t be any more.   Questions, that is.”
    I have to smile, even though his answer
should’ve annoyed me.   “So you don’t
like talking about yourself.”
    He grins. “It’s my least favorite
subject.”
    But
it must be such an interesting one.  
    “So, you’re telling me I can ask you
twenty things, and twenty things only?”
    Dare nods.   “Now you’re getting it.”
    “Fine.   I’ll use my first question to ask what
you’re doing here.”   I lift my chin
and stare him in the eye.  
    His mouth twitches again.   “Visiting.   Isn’t that what people usually do in
hospitals?”
    I flush. I can’t help it.   Obviously.   And obviously, I’m out of my league
here.   This guy could have me for
breakfast if he wanted, and from the gleam in his eye, I’m not so sure he
doesn’t.  
    I take a sip of my coffee, careful not to
slosh it on my shirt.   With the way my
heart is racing, anything is possible.  
    “And you?   Why are you here?” Dare asks.  
    “Is that your first question? Because
turn-about is fair play.”
    Dare smiles broadly, genuinely
amused.  
    “Sure.   I’ll use a question.”
    “I brought my brother.   He’s here for… group therapy.”
    I suddenly feel weird saying that aloud,
because it makes my brother sound less
than somehow.   And he’s
not.   He’s more than .   Better than
most people, more gentle, more pure of heart.   But a stranger wouldn’t know that.   A stranger would just slap him with a crazy label and let it be.   I fight the urge to explain, and somehow
manage not to.   It’s not a
stranger’s business.
    Dare doesn’t question me, though.   He just nods like it’s the most normal
thing in the world.
    He takes a drink of his coffee.   “I