by Calia Read
My brother’s right. I can’t survive the past. This is a mistake. What am I thinking? I begin to step forward, but then I feel the warmth and strength of Étienne’s hand on my back. He briefly soothes my fears and stops me from calling out for my parents.
“Everythin’ all right?” Étienne asks.
Shaking my head, I turn around and point at the closed door. “Do you realize what this means?”
“That you have memory retention issues?” he suggests.
“No, Étienne. It means something in time has shifted … again.”
“I don’t believe I fully understand you.”
“All right.” I take a deep breath. “When I killed Edward, it changed the trajectory of my family, right?”
Étienne nods.
“When you saved Emmeline, it changed the outcome of my family. I thought that was the end of it, and all the memories I had in McLean with my family would be something I carried, but what Ian just said blows that out of the water. He’s wrong about that Oregon Trail story. I was the one who sucked at the game. I was the one who beat him twice. And that memory? It happened when we lived in McLean.” I shake my head. Afraid to utter my next words. “It’s almost as if I was removed from that memory and replaced with Bradley.”
Étienne watches me intently. “What are you sayin’?”
“Something is happening in the past, which is all the more reason to go to Charleston.”
“Even with a hurricane on the horizon?”
“Perhaps that’s no coincidence,” I suggest. “Maybe Mother Nature is even bound and determined to make sure we don’t unravel the truth.” I round my words out with a smile, but goose bumps still coat my arms.
I know my façade isn’t convincing enough because Étienne steps closer to me and envelops me in his arms. He squeezes tightly for a few seconds before he pulls away to look at me. “We don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, we do,” I say even though I’m terrified. “We have to do whatever it takes. Too much is on the line.”
Étienne stares at me carefully. “Are you positive?”
“Absolutely.”
“It’s settled then.”
“Charleston, here we come,” I declare.
Since we boarded our first plane at O’Hare, I’ve been carefully watching Étienne. Of course, his signature somber expression never left as he took everything in, but by the furtive glances as we hustled to our gate, boarded, and the plane prepared to take off, I knew he was overwhelmed.
The tense set of his shoulders never relaxed as the seat belt light was turned off. When the stewardess came by and asked if he wanted a beverage or snack, he looked at her as though she was offering him poison. I’d like to say I knew what was running through his mind, but I think my guesses only grazed the surface. When I saw Charleston in the 19th century, only to see it in the present day, it was surreal. But Charleston is Étienne’s home; it’s the epicenter of his life. And he’s about to see it through a crisp telescope where no detailed is left untouched. For the remainder of the trip, I leave him alone and only talk when he asks me a question.
Once we arrive at Charleston’s airport, the tension in Étienne’s shoulders has gotten worse. It has nothing to do with the energy, with the people departing and arriving, going through TSA, or hustling toward their gate. Or the heavy crowds gathered around the carousels as we all search for our bags.
No, it has everything to do with what he’s thinking. Étienne may appear nonplussed, but I know from the way his eyes are darting all around that he’s a bit overwhelmed.
The hotel isn’t as busy. I park in the underground parking lot. As we roll our luggage toward the hotel, Étienne is quiet. I thought the drive here would help him relax, but it didn’t. Sunlight beats down on us, causing me to pluck my sunglasses from the top of my head and cover my eyes. “I know everything seems weird,” I say, breaking the silence, “but this is still Charleston.”
Étienne doesn’t reply. I can only imagine how he’s feeling. To say Charleston has changed since he’s seen it last would be the understatement of the year. For me, I see the modern upgrades, the good changes. For Étienne, he sees every layer of the past that’s been torn down, brick by brick, to make way for the present. He sees the bad.
A scowl remains on his face as he watches a car drive by us, the wheels methodically beating against the brick road. The person behind the wheel blares their music and presses their hand down on the horn when someone jaywalks. The first time Étienne heard loud music, he nearly jumped out of his skin. But now he whips his head toward the car. His eyes blaze with annoyance as the car moves down the road, the music fading. It’s always amazing what time can do. Étienne continues to walk by my side, carrying most of the heavy luggage as though it weighs nothing. He pays no mind to a group of girls who pass by him. Once they pass, I hear their giggles. It’s only then Étienne lifts his head. Étienne will never recognize that in my time his ruggedness is attractive and borderline alluring.
We walk into the lobby of the hotel. Étienne’s hulking frame presses close to mine. People give us a wide berth because when Étienne’s tense, every part of him becomes tense, and his energy becomes suffocating. Even the jagged scar near his right brow is more pronounced. Maybe it’s a trick of the eye, but I swear that thing pulsates.
“Hello. Checking in?” the man greets.
I give a half-smirk because the luggage should be pretty self-explanatory. Étienne gives a quick nod. “Yes, sir.”
The man merely widens his gaze as he looks up our reservation on his computer. “Are you guys taking cover from the storm?”
Étienne rests his elbows on the counter and leans in, scrutinizing the man’s face before he looks at his name tag. “Yes. Are you from Charleston, Dillon?”
“Uh … not really. I’m from Columbia.”
At the mere mention of Columbia, Étienne’s eyes light up. I know he’s thinking about Clearwater Real Estate and the buyout, but that’s the last thing I want him to focus on. Thankfully, Dillion hands us our room keys and tells us our room is on the third floor, preventing the conversation from going on any longer than necessary.
We make our way to the room with no issue. Étienne drops our bags with a heavy thud and investigates the room with a thorough eye while I check my e-mail on my phone.
Before we left Champaign, I reached out to Sylvia, a genealogist who lived in Charleston, to ask her about more information on the Alton House and a distant relative who might be a relative of the Alton family. I asked her if she’d be willing to meet us tomorrow. She replied that she’d be happy to meet us around twelve. I write her back and smile at Étienne. “Don’t forget we’re going to visit the Lacroix House tomorrow.”
He turns to me. “Only it’s no longer the Lacroix House.” His somber gaze meets mine. “Is it?”
I hesitate before replying. “No. It’s not. But we know the truth. So between us, it’s always going to be the Lacroix House.”
Étienne is quiet for a moment, his gaze sweeping across the hotel room before he says, “I’m goin’ to take a shower.”
Quietly, he takes a change of clothing with him. He leaves the bathroom door cracked. Moments later, the water sounds. Sighing heavily, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare down at my hands.
Under different circumstances, we could make this a fun trip, but it’s cloaked in a heaviness that cannot be ignored. It doesn’t matter what I say or do. We’re both aware of what can happen if we’re not careful, and it’s terrifying.
I let my head hang as my panic takes over. I don’t know what’s going to happen from the trip. The adrenaline that’d built before we boarded the plane is beginning to wane. I need to be near Étienne. I need to feel him and know everything is going to be okay.
Without a second thought, I walk toward the bathroom. I step through the cracked door and see Étienne’s clothes on the tile floor and a fine steam coating the mirror. As I quietly remove my clothes, I hear the water splash
onto the tub floor as Étienne remains unaware of my presence.
Not even the heat of the room can prevent goose bumps from covering my bare skin. I walk over, pull back the shower curtain, and step inside. For a millisecond, I’m given a wonderful view of Étienne’s ass before he whips his body around and looks at me with surprise. Suds of soap trail down his six-pack and fall between his legs.
He doesn’t ask why I’m here, but the question lingers in his gaze.
“I missed you,” I say.
Étienne remains quiet, and I’m freezing so I slip past him. In such a small space, my ass brushes against his dick. I feel him flinch. My body fills with warmth. I turn so my body is beneath the showerhead. I close my eyes as the warm water beats against my skin and over my face. At first, it burns, but I adjust to the heat. I turn and let the water fall onto my shoulders before I tilt my head back, so it can fully soak my hair.
When I open my eyes, Étienne’s watching me with hooded eyes.
The tips of my breasts brush against his wet chest as I slowly outline his lips. I step out of the waterfall to give him one soft kiss on the lips, then a second and third. The tension in his shoulders remains. I mold myself to him. Slowly, his arms wrap around me. With his hair wet, the tips graze his shoulders. He hasn’t shaved since he’s been in the present day. He’s the wild and untamable Étienne I first met. I can’t help when I rub myself against him. After the fourth kiss, Étienne finally responds. His head slants to the side, and his mouth parts for me.
Breathing through my mouth, I slip my tongue in.
With every kiss, I’ve run the risk of giving Étienne a piece of my soul. I think the two of us have known that from the very beginning. Maybe that’s been a challenge to us. To see if we could beat the odds.
But we are zero for three. There are no more shots left, and nothing left for me to give. If he goes, I’ll be a hollow shell of the person I once was and vice versa.
We will be empty vessels doomed to only love one another.
Bleak? Yes. However, there will be no other for me, so why fight it?
We don’t use words, but we speak with our hands and lips. I taste every unspoken I love you. The anguished groan that spills from his mouth and into mine. His hands fall to my hips, and his grip tightens.
He flips me around so my back is against the tile wall. His massive hands palm my ass. My legs hook around his hips while Étienne pushes me higher against the tile until we’re eye level. A thrill shoots through me. Gone are the days when he’s afraid to touch me. And thank God for that; this is what I came for. As shocked as Étienne appeared when I stepped into the shower, I know he needs this, too. I prop my elbows on his shoulders and enthusiastically dive back in, kissing him as though it’s been days and not minutes since his lips have been on mine.
The anxiousness and worry I feel from being here? I want Étienne to wash it away; to kiss me hard and hold me in his strong arms so time will take one look at us and never toy with us again.
Étienne does just that. He takes control of the kiss, and I let him. His tongue glides against mine, expert strokes that have the heels of my feet digging into his lower back so his dick rubs against my pussy.
I tease him to see what his reactions will be, and I love how he groans or jerks forward as though he’s lost his balance. Or, like now, when he squeezes my ass even harder. But in this game, I play myself. Inevitably, I always become wild for more of him.
I’m the one who loses sight of it all and sees only one thing: Étienne.
Ripping my lips from his, I pant, unable to say what I want. The water’s made Étienne’s shoulders slippery, so I dig my nails into his skin and arch upward.
Étienne positions himself between my legs and teases me back by moving his dick along my entrance. A droplet of water trails down his face, settling on the tip of his nose. His hair is plastered to his strong neck. I’ve never wanted him more.
With my legs wrapped around him, Étienne settles his palms against the wall for better balance.
“I can have a life without you, but do you know how it will be?” Étienne doesn’t give me time to answer. “Utterly miserable.” He gives me a searing kiss. “All I need is you.”
His words are proof that a desperate heart will learn to speak any language and all I need to hear. I bring his head back down for another kiss. It’s ironic that my brusque and, at times, savage soul mate can articulate the things we’re both thinking so perfectly.
My tongue glides into Étienne’s mouth the same time he surges inside me.
Gasping, I hold on to him with everything I have. If his shoulders didn’t bear marks from my nails before, they do now. I don’t hold back and let my screams mix with his groans. They block out how our world is crumbling ever so slowly around us.
Resting my head against the tile, I close my eyes and sigh. “That was amazing.”
Étienne kisses the inner corner of my shoulder and grunts. So much for my romantic, sweet-talking Étienne.
Gently, Étienne slips out of me and places my feet back on the tub floor. We’ve been in the shower for so long the water’s become cold. Étienne turns it off while I snake an arm out of the shower and grab two towels. Sex will never cure all, but if you don’t feel at least somewhat relaxed after the act, then you’ve done something wrong.
Stepping out of the shower, I smirk when I see the bathroom is filled with steam. It feels as though we’re in a sauna.
After we dry off, we slip into the robes placed in the bathroom and settle down on the bed. Étienne draws the covers around us and holds me close. He turns on the TV and leans his back against the headboard. I look at him from beneath my lashes before I lay my head on his chest.
“Not tired?” I ask.
“No. Thinkin’ about tomorrow.” His chest rumbles from his reply.
“It’ll be fine.”
Étienne doesn’t reply. He just squeezes my shoulder and rubs his fingertips up and down my arm. While he watches a late-night talk show, I drift off to sleep …
The sound of a hundred clocks softly ticking pulls me from my slumber.
As I sit up, I look down at my clothes and see I’m wearing a pale pink gingham dress with ruched white sleeves and a white belt. The material is light for the humidity. A light breeze comes in from the open windows.
I’m back at Belgrave. And I’m in the old pink room. Everything is how it was left.
The continuous sound of the ticking clocks causes me to stand. The skirt slides down my legs, and I realize my small, protruding stomach is gone. I run to the mirror in the corner of the room and stand to the side.
I’m no longer pregnant.
The sound of the clocks becomes louder and in tune with the rhythm of my rapid heartbeat. Where did my baby go? And why won’t the clocks stop ticking?
Panicked and lost, I run to the open window. My fingers curl around the windowsill to find the source of the sound. Before me is the endless driveway, and the trees flanking it. But instead of leaves collecting on the Spanish moss branches, there are silver pocket watches. I lean my body out of the window to get a better look. It can’t be.
In the expanse of land surrounding the plantation, the grass is tall. At first glance, it appears to be cotton grass interspersed throughout the fields, but it’s not. Like the tree branches, the cotton grass has turned into white pocket watches.
There must be hundreds, if not thousands of them, and the sound continues to increase. Almost as if time has control of the volume and is slowly turning it up. What is happening?
Covering both ears with my hands, I wince and attempt to back away from the window, but I can’t move. Rather, some unseen force pushes me out of the window. I look over my shoulder for a second to see if it’s any use to cry out for help, and when I face forward, I’m on the very edge of the windowsill.
A white chain wraps itself around my ankle. Yards and yards of the chain gather beside me as though it’s materialized out of thin air, and then a pocket wa
tch lands on top of the pile. The small and big hand is set at 11:39, and the second hand methodically moves forward. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the irritating sound. I need to get back into the room, attempt to get this chain off my ankle, and close the window to block out the noise. But there’s a weight against my back, almost like a pair of hands trying to push me out. I try to dig my heels into the windowsill as best as I can. It’s meaningless, though, because I’m hurtling toward the ground. The chain slides off the sill with me, leaving only the pocket watch as a makeshift anchor.
As I’m airborne, my body slowly does a somersault so I’m looking up at Belgrave. The times before, someone’s always been standing in the shadows, but no one’s there this time.
Instead of falling into a black abyss, something’s happened that’s never happened before. I’m now inside Belgrave and falling through the wooden floor. I close my eyes for the impact of the pain and open them in time to see shards of wood and plaster falling around me.
The shadows freeze as the scene around me becomes a familiar sight, and one I’d hoped to never experience again. I’m back in the Belgrave basement with the dank smell permeating the air, dust coating the surfaces of the shelves, and the love of my life bloodied and bruised to my left. I’m supposed to be cradling his head in my lap, and Asa would be on the opposite side of him. Before Étienne’s head dropped into my lap like a lap dog, Asa and I would have to dig out the bullet from his shoulder. But Asa isn’t in the basement. Only Edward with the gun pointed directly at Étienne.
I had the opportunity to write a wrong, yet now I’m being forced to watch one of my worst nightmares. My eyes widen with terror, and my mouth parts. I moan in fear. My body begins to shake.
