Page 27 of The Midnight Frequency

“Both chemically and philosophically. You’ve somehow managed to be wrong on both disciplines simultaneously. Which would be impressive if it wasn’t so pathetic.”

I refreshed the page on my tablet, watching the comments start to post to the live feed.

Omg! She called again!

I brought the popcorn to anyone camping in the comments.

That’s right. Sic it to his cynical ass.

In the privacy of the little storage room, my lips curved.

This was it.

This was what I was hoping for.

If people were invested enough to comment, they would listen, talk about it, share online.

Silas paused. In my mind’s eye, I could see him leaning back, steepling his fingers, looking both pensive and condescending at the same time.

“If that is so, convince me.”

“I’m not here to convince you. I want you to sit back and wallow in the embarrassment of what you just said.”

“I’m not embarrassed.”

“You should be.”

“As embarrassed as someone who called a radio station at midnight just to argue with the host should be?”

“I called in because someone has to put you in your place. As a public service.”

“How generous of you. So, what do you think qualifies you to try to, what was it? Put me in my place? What are you? A therapist? Philosopher? A professional romantic?”

There was a beat on my part. Just half a second too long.

“Something like that.”

“That’s not an answer.” His pause was as short as my own. “Let me guess. You have shelves loaded with swooning heroines and heroes who would burn the world down to keep her warm. Perhaps,” he paused, the effect as dramatic as he was hoping for, “you even write those kinds of stories.”

“And if I did?” I asked, hating how squeaky my voice had gotten. But when I refreshed the page again, the views had doubled. And the comments were on fire. It didn’t matter how uncomfortable I was with the direction of the conversation. If it was working, I had to stay on the line. “Does it matter?”

“Enormously.” God, he sounded so smug. And I hated that some part of me reacted to it. “It means you’re infatuated with something that doesn’t exist.”

“So, it’s impossible for a man to love and cherish a woman?”

“I never said it was impossible. I said it wasn’t real.”

“There’s no difference.”

“Of course there is. A man may believe himself to be in love with someone. But he is simply confusing the combination of a base animal attraction and possession with love.”

“So in your mind, all men are completely at the mercy of their biological urges?”

“Men are animals after all. And animals all want to feed, fight, and fu—”

“Wow,” I cut him off, my heartbeat hammering at the possible FCC violation he’d almost made. “So, you’ve lived, what, hundreds of years and have only ever fed, fought, and… fornicated? You’ve never just enjoyed something for the beauty of it? A nice piece of music? A great book? A sunset?”

“I never said that.”