When Fates Align

by Isabelle Richards

  “Gavin?” she asks as though she’s uncertain of the answer. She looks at her white-knuckled grip around my arm then drops it as if it’s burning her. “I’m so sorry.” She looks around the room, taking in her surroundings. “I woke up and it was dark, and I could have sworn I was back there.”

  Oh god, I’m a wanker. How could I have been so thoughtless? “It’s my fault. I turned the lights out after you fell asleep. I should have known better.” I circle my shoulder a few times to make sure everything’s still attached. It’s sore but fine. I forgot what a strong fighter she is.

  She drops her head in her hands. “I hate that they have this much control over me. He’s everywhere. In my thoughts, in my dreams. His voice echoes in my head. I can still feel his calloused hands all over me, inside me. I just want him gone! He’s dead, yet he’s still here, haunting me! I don’t want him to have this much power over me. He’s ruined our home. He’s ruined us. He’s ruined me!”

  I tentatively put my arm around her. She tenses for a moment then relaxes and leans into me. “First, we are not ruined. Nothing they could ever do could ruin us. You and I are impenetrable. They have not ruined our home because our home is more than a building or the furnishings—it’s wherever we are, wherever we build our life together. They can never destroy that.”

  “But what if I’m not the same? I’m scared of my damn shadow. How will I ever be who I was?” She runs her fingers through her hair, pulling at the roots in frustration. “I want to be stronger than this, but I’m not. They’ve broken me, and now I’m as weak as a house of cards. I might be able to stand up, but I crumble in an instant. It kills me to think that they’re winning, but they are!”

  I gently rub circles on her back. “You’re still here, so you’ve already won.”

  “Then why can I still feel him?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  She furrows her brow. “What? Of course I do?”

  “I know this may be hard, so tell me if it becomes too much.” I reach for her foot and run my thumb across her toes. “These toes. I remember almost stepping on them when I ran into you in the hall at the police station. You had chipped purple nail polish and were wearing flimsy flip-flops, and I almost stomped all over them. So these aren’t the feet that were bound together—they’re the beautiful feet that brought us together.” I gently kiss each toe then the top of each foot.

  My eyes find hers. I try to read her as my hand slowly moves up her leg to the long cuts from the knife. “When I look at your legs, I won’t see these marks. I’ll see this mark.” I place a soft kiss on a faint scar that runs down her calf from just under her knee. “What did you tell me happened there?” I know the answer, but I want her to remember.

  “When I was ten, my father and I went camping in the Savoy Forest. I wanted to climb Spruce Hill, which is one of the highest peaks in Massachusetts. We got to the top, and I was screwing around—fell and snapped my tibia. It was a compound fracture. The bone was sticking out of my skin and everything. Daddy had to carry me down the mountain and two more miles to the first aid station so they could call the ambulance. He tried so hard to distract me, to keep my mind off of it, but he was so nervous, he couldn’t think of anything. So he ended up recalling every play from the time the Sox lost the World Series in 1975. The funny thing is, I hate baseball, but that day, I hung on every word.” She laughs. “When he ran out of baseball stories, he sang songs he learned in camp. Disgusting ones about barf and diarrhea and smelly feet.”

  My lips travel up her leg as I kiss each wound. My actions aren’t sexual in the least, and I pray she sees it that way. My goal is to drown out her terror by bringing happier memories into the forefront of her mind. I have no idea if it will work, but anything is worth a try. “When I look at your legs, I’ll remember that story and the light in your eyes when you tell it.” I take her hand then slowly kiss up her arm. “Do you know you flail a bit in your sleep?”

  “I do not,” she protests. She giggles then tries to hide it with her hand.

  “Oh, trust me, you do. Quite a bit actually.” I kiss her arm again. “When I look at your arm, it isn’t the arm that was taped to a chair by a madman. It’s the arm that smacks me across the face at least once a night.”

  Her stomach seems to be the most sensitive area for her. But I have her smiling and laughing, so I hope my next step won’t push her too far. “Almost every time we eat ice cream in bed, you dribble a bit.” I softly kiss her stomach over her T-shirt. “A big glob usually ends up right here.”

  Gripping the sheets, she inhales sharply. I worry I’m going to cross that line from helpful to hurtful, but when I look into her eyes, she nods, so I continue.

  “When I think of your stomach, I’ll think of how you unbutton your trousers and flop on the bed after you’ve eaten too much. And the happy sounds you make when I rub your tummy. I’ll never think of anyone else’s hands on you, because I’ll think of how perfectly my hand fits there when I pull you close at night. I’ll think of how beautiful you’ll look one day carrying our child.”

  She looks at me with tears in her eyes. The hand that was gripping the sheets relinquishes its hold, then she runs her fingers down the side of my face.

  I put my hand over hers. “Horrible things happened to you. These scars won’t be a reminder of them but a badge of honor that you survived. They aren’t a sign that they beat you, but that you beat them. But these scars only make up one part of you. Four awful days in a lifetime with so many good memories. I’m not trying to downplay the atrocity you suffered. I just hope in time, somehow, you’ll be able to see through the horror and see all the love.”

  She leans down and kisses me. It’s the first time she’s kissed me since she’s returned, and it feels like our first kiss all over again. Tingles shoot through my body when her lips touch mine. It’s not about lust but about connection, not a promise of sexual exploits to come, but a hope that there will be a million more kisses in our future.

  She pulls away and looks me in the eyes so deeply I feel exposed. “Thank you for helping me forget.” Never flinching, she takes my hand and places it on her stomach then lies down on her side, guiding me behind her. She releases a sweet sigh of contentment. “This will be hard, but I’m so lucky to have you to remind me why the fight is worth it. I love you.”

  I kiss her temple. “I love you too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Lily

  I’ve been dozing on and off all afternoon while Gavin went to work. Now that Mrs. Smythe knows I’m alive and relatively out of danger, she’s put on the full-court press for him to at least make an appearance at the office. Gavin fussed about it at first but ultimately gave in. While there are some things only he can do, the day-to-day operations of the company practically run themselves, giving him the flexibility to disappear for weeks on end when his girlfriend gets herself in trouble again. If he worked at a factory or ran a shop, he’d be out of a job. But he takes his responsibility to his employees very seriously, so when Mrs. Smythe said he was needed, off he went.

  Gavin returning to work, even for a few hours, is good. We need to resume some sort of normalcy. Our lives may be anything but normal, but maybe if we pretend that they are, I can trick myself into believing it. I need to feel normal again. This emotional merry-go-round is making me crazy. I’m up. I’m down. I’m angry. I’m crying. I want to kill the cartel. I want to put them into therapy so they can be rehabilitated. I’m losing my freaking mind, and I’m fed up with it. I just want to feel like me again.

  The worst part about post-traumatic Lily is that when Gavin leaves, I come apart. I jump at every sound. My hair stands on end, and I have this cloud of impending doom hanging over my head. When he comes back, it all fades away. But he can’t mitigate my stress forever. I need to learn to do that on my own. Codependent is a dirty word in my book, and not the kind of dirty word you secretly long to say. It’s the kind that makes me want to wash my mouth out with soap just for thinking it. D
espite all that, every time he leaves, my heart races, and I feel as though someone’s squeezing my windpipe.

  It’s foolish. I know I’m safe. This place is a fortress. Max is here, and Gavin’s team of army buddies, whom I think I met at the storage unit, is also here. In my head, I know no one can get to me, yet I never thought anyone could get me at the flat. That thought always creeps into brain, spreading doubt and fear like a virus. This old house moans and groans all the time. With every sound, I have an internal debate about whether it was the wind or a team of ninjas coming to shish kebab me. Talking to myself has to be sign that I’ve moved past “going crazy” to “certifiably insane.”

  Chills run through me, and I throw another log on the fire, hoping it’ll warm this place up. I don’t know how Gavin’s family lived here. The wretched place is always freezing. I suppose that’s why they drank so damn much. A constant flow of booze is probably the only way to tune out the fact that you can’t feel your toes. But something tells me drinking all day after a traumatic life experience isn’t a wise choice for my physical or mental recuperation. So I’m wearing long underwear, sweats, and three pairs of socks, and I’m still freezing. It’s time to be brave, venture outside this room, and find some hot chocolate.

  It’s not that I’m afraid to leave the room, exactly. This house is still so unfamiliar to me. I don’t know the layout at all, and much like the country house, it’s easy to get lost in. Not knowing where I am seems to trigger my panic attacks. That’s understandable considering the situation, but I can’t live in fear forever.

  I used to love to explore and travel and discover new places. I refuse to lose those things to my fears. I survived, thus this experience should make me stronger, bolder, and more fierce. If not, the cartel wins, and that is simply unacceptable.

  Or at least that’s what I tell myself as my heart pounds while I walk down the hallway outside the bedroom. Sweat forms along my hairline when my trembling hand clutches the banister. But with each step, I become more comfortable and feel my confidence growing. By the time I make it to the kitchen, my pulse has steadied and I’m breathing normally.

  Of course Mason doesn’t stock the packets of instant hot chocolate with little dehydrated marshmallows that I’m used to. Too low brow, I’m sure. After digging around in the cabinets, I find ground cocoa and attempt to wing it. One scorched pan later, I settle for tea. Who knew milk burned that easily?

  With the exception of ruining my hot chocolate, I’m moving around the kitchen with ease, relaxed and feeling almost normal. I feel so good, I decide to push the envelope and check out the first floor. With so many priceless works of art, this house is like a museum in here. With my tea cup in hand, I continue down the hallway, checking out each painting and sculpture.

  All of the doors are closed with the exception of the room at the end of the hall. I peek in. Wow, it’s a studio. There are tall bookshelves with various types of sculptures, pieces of blown glass, and mosaics. Along the back wall hangs a clothesline with black-and-white photos that look similar to the ones Gavin sent me when I was living in DC. I step farther in and see several canvases in various stages of competition. A gigantic canvas leaning up against the wall looks like a physical manifestation of volcanic anger.

  “Oh, hello.”

  Startled, I scream and drop my tea cup and turn around. It’s not a cartel henchman but rather a stunningly beautiful woman. My hand goes over my heart. “You scared me.”

  She looks down her nose at me. “I see that.”

  Something about this woman is off-putting. Maybe it’s that she’s wearing shorts and knee-high boots in the middle of February, or maybe it’s that she looks so good in them while I look like the Michelin Man in my bulky sweats. “I’m sorry, who are you? Did Mason let you in?”

  She looks at the pieces of tea cup on the floor. “Pity, Mason told me those were from Gavin’s grandmother’s set.”

  Now I feel like a buffoon. I just grabbed the first cup I found because I assumed anything in the kitchen would be everyday dishes. The tea seeps into my socks, alerting me that I need to find paper towels. I scan the room and find some rags by the paints and brushes. I quickly mop up the mess.

  She continues to glare at me, making me feel as though I’m the intruder. “You must be Lily.”

  The edge to her voice makes me want to yank out that pretty red hair. The floor could be cleaner, but with the amount of attitude this chick is throwing, I don’t want to be on my hands and knees in front of her. “And you are?”

  She tosses her hair over her shoulder then bends to look under one of the work tables. “Here to look for my earring. I lost it when I was in here last week.”

  I toss the wet rags into the sink. “You were here last week?” She’s being intentionally obtuse, and it’s obnoxious. My patience is dwindling by the second.

  She looks over her shoulder. “Yes, I was in here with Gavin whilst he was painting. It’s really marvelous. Have you seen it?”

  The longer this goes on, the faster my pulse becomes and the harder it is to breathe. I don’t suspect this woman is a physical threat, but she’s up to something. Not knowing how she got in here is setting me off kilter. I take a deep breath and try to keep my panic under control. I want to run back to my room, but I have a feeling that that’s what she wants me to do. Something about the way she’s speaking to me, baiting me, indicates that this is some sort of a test.

  She clucks her tongue then flashes me a look of pity. She pulls out a chair. “Here, you should sit before you get light-headed. Still not comfortable with strangers yet, huh? Don’t worry. It’s only been a few days. It’ll take time, but you’ll get there. Just keep breathing.” Her words are kind, but the patronizing way she says them makes me doubt her sincerity. She walks across the room, opens a cabinet that’s really a fridge, and pulls out a water. She opens it and hands it to me. “Drink this. You’ll feel better”

  “Look, I get that you know Gavin and apparently have permission to wander around his house, but I’m going to need you to tell me who you are or get the fuck out of this house until Gavin gets back.”

  She chuckles. “I’m Isla. I work for Interpol. I specialize in cases like yours—victims of cartel violence.”

  Urg. There’s that word I despise. Victim.

  She sits next to me then leans back on her hands. “Gavin brought me in to help rescue you.”

  Rescue?

  “You know, Lily, I’ve worked with hundreds of woman just like you who have lived through what you have and worse. Don’t be surprised if coming back to your old life is hard. This experience will profoundly impact your life. Who you are. What you want. The way you see the world. You’re a different person now, and I recommend embracing that. Women who fight it and try to force themselves into the mold of what they once were always end up failing.”

  While I can’t stand her, I know what she’s saying holds merit. I open my mouth to respond, but she just keeps speaking.

  She crosses her legs then leans forward. “Relationships moving forward will be tricky. Gavin was expecting the Lily he knows to come back, and she didn’t. He’s changed too. All the stress and worry—my God, he thought you were dead. You’ll expect him to be the old Gavin, and he can’t. As time goes on, you’ll both become frustrated by the constant disappointment.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Sometimes it’s better for everyone if you just start fresh. I mean, you bit off a man’s todger. You can’t really think Gavin’s going to let you anywhere near his now, can you?”

  I think I’ve had enough of her “Interpol therapy hour.” “Lila, is it?”

  “Isla,” she corrects.

  “Right. Look, your concern is sweet, and while I’m sure you’ve had oodles of experience in your, what, whopping twenty-two years? Gavin and I will be just fine. You know how I know this?”

  She folds her arms across her chest, looking bored. “How?”

  “Because before this ‘experience,’ I would have been threate
ned by a girl like you. You’re beautiful and posh. Obviously you spent time with him while I was gone, and you think you’ve gotten to know him. You were with him when he went through this unarguably life-changing experience. I know better than anyone that he has a way about him—the way he looks at you when you talk or the way he seems to care about every word that comes out of your mouth—that makes a girl feel so damn special. It’s how he is. The old me would have been petrified of you. I would have been positive he would realize there’s nothing special about me and rush to you and your twelve miles of legs. New me, on the other hand? Well, new me just doesn’t give a shit.”

  “That’s the depression talking,” she says condescendingly.

  “No, honey, you’re missing my point. This experience has only brought Gavin and me closer. All the petty crap that used to bother me, I couldn’t care less about anymore. I’m more confident in our relationship than I’ve ever been. He sees me—all of me. I showed him my dark, ugly side, and he didn’t run from it. He loves me because of it.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “If you haven’t experienced that, I’m sure you can’t imagine how this could possibly work. It’ll take time, but you’ll get there.”

  From her dumbfounded expression, I’m guessing people don’t usually bite her back. But if she’s working with Gavin, I have to learn to play nice. Well, I’ll learn, just not today.

  “On that note, I think I’ll head out. Good luck finding that earring,” I say as I leave the room. When I get to the door, I turn. “One last thing. I wasn’t rescued. I saved myself, and I’m nobody’s victim.”

  I return to my room and reflect on what just happened. I ruined a pot and an antique tea cup, but it seems I shed a little of my crazy and got a little of myself back. What I said to Isla wasn’t bravado or BS to put her in her place. I meant every word of what I said. I may not have realized it until the moment the words came out of my mouth, but her arrogant prodding helped me put things into perspective. I suppose I should thank her for that, but I won’t give her the satisfaction.