Valentine Kisses: A Kiss to Last a Lifetime

by Abigail Drake

  She turned the lights off and peeked out into the hallway. Her heart raced when she descended the stairs in the silence, two, three at a time, praying she wouldn’t sprain an ankle. Once out in the nippy night air, she breathed more easily. She ducked into shadows, furtive and quick. She found the hiding part surprisingly easy and familiar. Still, she felt terror and desolation trickle down her spine under the too-warm shell of winter clothes. London streets have never before felt more unkind and chilling. Her direction never more unknown.

  ***

  She hurried toward Holborn Station. The map seller that usually sat on the sidewalk outside was long gone at this hour. There were a few hurried Londoners about, a tourist or two, but no one seemed particularly suspicious as she kept glancing over her shoulder.

  Relieved, she went through the turnstile and waited on the platform. She kept her back to the wall. Her dread had changed ordinary Tube stations into dark places full of lurking threats. The two minutes it took for the train to arrive passed with excruciating slowness.

  In the train, she stared through the dark window at the blackness outside. Her thoughts buzzed, fear mingled with confusion and awe. She could not believe the sudden turn her life had taken the past few days. A simple, clear picture had suddenly become a pixelated shadow, just like when the train gained speed and the images outside became blurred. That thought woke her from her reverie, and in the black window, she caught a silhouette of a cap behind her. The man seemed to be looking at her sideways, unaware that she’d caught his reflection. She jerked around, but it was just an old man in a tweed jacket and a cricket cap, struggling to his feet to get off at the next station.

  “Stupid,” she mumbled under her breath. She was losing her mind.

  She ran up the steps and into the street, panting. She’d done more running in the past two days than in the last five years. She wasn’t herself anymore. She was forced to change, to swap everything familiar with this alien part of London, enveloped in midnight darkness, punctuated by footsteps and the howling of a dog, all distorted the way only night can deaden sounds and amplify them at the same time.

  She stopped in front of a hotel entrance. She didn’t know what street she was on, but the lit sign above the door invited her to Drop Inn.

  She signed in and earned herself a raised eyebrow from the night clerk when he saw her only luggage was the backpack. She scurried up the stairs to her third-floor room and closed the door behind her. She dropped onto the bed, exhausted. The day seemed to have lasted a week.

  Before she fell back onto the too-soft mattress, she set the alarm on her phone although she would never be able to fall asleep with the adrenaline pumping through her system.

  The phone alarm shocked her into wakefulness. Her heart thundered in her chest when she looked about and found nothing familiar. Then, bits of memory trickled back into her consciousness and her heartbeat became even hollower.

  Her head felt as if it were filled with concrete when she lifted it off the pillow and dragged herself into the bathroom. The eyes staring back at her from the dirt-specked mirror were bloodshot and she shuddered at the purplish smudges underneath them. She’d turned into a wreck of a woman in less than a week.

  She splashed her face with icy water. There was no other sort anyhow. It woke her up some, at least.

  She cleared her throat a few times to get rid of the sleepiness in her voice before she dialed her father’s office number.

  The moment Miss Em answered, she heard it in her voice—the awkward regret.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Anaïs. He couldn’t wait for you. He asked me to give you a message.”

  “He’s not in? Again?”

  “They went away on a hunting trip this afternoon. It wasn’t planned. He said to tell you that he’d call when he gets back. There will be no reception at where they’re going.”

  “What if this is an emergency? Did he...” Did he what? An emergency to him was missing out on the latest reception or pissing off a colleague by sleeping with his wife.

  “Is it? I can contact our offices in London. I...”

  “No. No, it’s fine.” Anaïs toned it down with a fake smile in her voice. “No emergency. I was just...” She was too embarrassed to tell her of her fears. What if she was imagining things? Father would enjoy telling stories about her going mental to his friends and they’d laugh together.

  Resigned, she asked, “Did he say anything else?”

  “He said to tell you that he’ll call you back. That he misses you.” The last part was supplemented by Miss Em, there was no doubt about it.

  As if she thought there would be no opportunity to speak to her again, she said, “You’ve always been kind to me, Em. Thank you.”

  She could imagine the woman blush at her unexpected sentimentality. She cringed, but the mortification passed and then all she felt was a sort of peace.

  “Well...”

  “Bye, Miss Em. Take care.”

  “You, too.”

  The feeling of hurt surprised her. She should have expected this, she knew better than to expect her father to go out of his way to be there for her. He had never done it, not even when she was a hopeful girl waiting for him to come home on time to take her to her ballet recital where she was the lead dancer. She got kicked out of the group for leaving them in the lurch. Dad had got home four hours too late, tipsy, and a brunette hanging off his arm like a soaked umbrella. Anaïs had spent the night crying and throwing up, Mme. Renó holding her hair back and changing her nightgown, all the while pretending she didn’t hear the sounds of ecstasy coming out of Mr. Harford’s bedroom. In the morning, the old housekeeper still had flushed cheeks from embarrassment while Father ate his scrambled eggs like nothing improper had happened the night before.

  The memory brought her an unwelcome realization. She remembered Damon’s trusting face, his willingness to do anything she asked for. He may be lovesick, but at least he was sincere. For all her disdain for her father, she invested remarkable effort in copying his actions to the last despicable detail.

  “Oh, God.” She needed to make things right.

  She checked the time on her phone. There was no point in going back to sleep. Damon would be up in less than two hours.

  She braved the cold water for a rousing shower. She packed her belongings into the backpack, checked around the room that she wouldn’t be leaving anything behind—she couldn’t afford to.

  She dropped a coin into the coffee machine in the foyer. The noise of coffee brewing attracted the clerk out from the back office. His eyebrows shot even higher than five hours earlier when she had first walked in through the door.

  “Early sightseeing tour,” she said, and tried smiling as she took the paper cup and walked out the door before he managed to ask any questions.

  Sometime between his surprised look and her answering him, she decided she could pose as a tourist. She could pull it off. Thanks to her French mother, she had never looked very British and she could fake a mean accent if she had to. She could fit in without really fitting in. Not bothering was the secret. When you tried too hard, others rejected you. All that extra effort you invested into belonging put them on high alert, exposing you as an outsider, in turn giving them the reasons for why you shouldn’t belong with them. Being nonchalantly indifferent was the way to go, and Anaïs was a master of disinterest. She’d had the best of teachers.

  She looked around, trying to get her bearings. She passed a wooden facade of an old shop that had a “For Rent” sign nailed to it. The stonework around it was darkened with grime. There was a pub on the corner, its brick walls painted green, a blood red Valentine’s heart taking up much of the window. In emerging daylight, everything seemed normal, as if the past twelve hours had never happened.

  She walked out onto the A11 and then into the Aldgate Station. After the short ride on the Tube, she walked the few streets to Damon’s place. Every few seconds, she checked behind her to see if anyone had followed her, but at this ear
ly hour, the streets were almost empty.

  The closer she was to his apartment, the heavier her feet were. She slowed down to postpone seeing his accusatory stare, at the same time desperate for his closeness. Wrapped up in her inner struggles, she jerked back when she was suddenly face to face with his front door. She couldn’t remember walking the last stretch of the journey and climbing up the dark stairwell.

  The tiny hallway felt stuffy and it reeked of mold. She waited for a minute but everything was quiet, so she knocked softly.

  The apartment number hung lopsidedly on the door. The knob was hand-polished to a high shine.

  She waited for a full minute before knocking again. The door opened a fraction.

  “Anaïs?”

  He pulled her in and closed the door. “Are you okay?” He hugged her, quickly and tightly.

  “I’m fine,” she said, and then she realized that she wasn’t. “I’m not, really.”

  God, she’s not going to cry in front of him. She’s not.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be.”

  He sighed, closing his eyes for a brief moment as if trying to prevent her from seeing his angry core. “I forgive you.”

  The prickling in her nose predicted tears. She wouldn’t let them fall. She blinked a few times, looking anywhere but at Damon.

  She was ashamed of her backpack when she dropped it from her shoulder. A week ago, she wouldn’t be caught dead with it. Now, it contained all her life.

  When she looked up, she noticed he wore his jacket.

  “If you have to go...” She jumped at the excuse not to have this conversation, and then felt like a coward.

  “It can wait. Tell me.”

  “What?”

  “About last night.” He looked confused at her.

  Of course. The attack, the visitor in her apartment. He couldn’t know she was here to tell him things worse than that. There was still time to retreat.

  No, there isn’t. For once, be the good person he thinks you are.

  “They barely left any traces, but someone went through my things.”

  “Hell.”

  “Yeah.”

  He looked at her wide-eyed. “Bloody hell,” he repeated.

  He went through his hair with his frenzied hands. He started pacing in front of her, making her dizzy with his abrupt moves.

  “There’s more,” she said.

  Without asking, he led her to his couch and offered to make her coffee.

  She rubbed her forehead again, a gesture which was becoming constant over the past few days.

  “God, I never thought I’d find myself in the middle of the fucking Fugitive.”

  Damon chuckled from where he stood in the kitchenette. “You’re prettier than Ford.”

  Kimble was at least innocent.

  “You’re sweet.” She stood up and walked to him. She couldn’t bear the distance between her and the only human being who was on her side.

  “I’m sweet on you.” He turned and then stopped, obviously surprised by how close she stood.

  “Are you angry with me?” she asked.

  He shook his head as he poured the coffee and spilt some on the counter.

  “Disappointed?”

  “Mostly, I’m just confused. Where does this leave us?” His cheeks were flushed when he looked up.

  “You’ll have your answer once I tell you what I came here to tell you.” Her voice sounded defeated even to her ears.

  “What do you mean?”

  She grabbed her mug and blew on her coffee before taking a sip. The mug warmed her fingers so profoundly she felt it all the way to her chest in the form of a little flickering spark. But then it fizzled out and was left lying there, heavy as a rock.

  “I need to come clean, Damon. I’ve been lying to you long enough.”

  He looked alarmed at her words.

  “It’s not just about last night...”

  “You mean to say you didn’t...That you didn’t...I mean...”

  “No, Damon, it was...beautiful.”

  Doing her mental inventory on her way here, she had realized with shock that being with Damon was one of the highlights of her life. It was simple and honest, a couple of hours of fondness and oblivion.

  She drank the last of the coffee and put the mug into the sink.

  “But it makes all the rest so much worse.”

  His relief at her admission was only momentary. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m a terrible person, and I don’t say that out of fake modesty.” She paused. The words she was about to say felt heavy and rough, but they had to come out.

  “I told you about my dad, what a prick he is and how he ruined Maman’s life. I’m not much better, Damon. I’ve done terrible, terrible things.”

  “Come on, it can’t be...”

  She stopped him with her hand. Standing by the counter, her coffee mug sad and empty in the sink—a lot like her standing next to it—, she told him about her first lover when she was a girl.

  “Fourteen?” He gaped.

  “I was a precocious child.” She shrugged. “When Maman was gone, Father insisted I come back to England with him. In the summer, we stayed at our Cornwall cottage. Ralph was a drifter who came into town that summer. Father took to him for some reason. Well, it turned out they were both abusive bastards, so they bonded over that, I suppose. Ralph was around the house often. There was opportunity, there was...desire. It happened. A few times. Until, I didn’t want it anymore but he still did. He pushed me around, slapped me.”

  “Did you tell your dad?”

  “What for? So he could correct his technique?” She snorted. “Anyway, he left me with two broken ribs and a temporary hearing impairment.” She paused, too vulnerable to continue right away.

  “I’m sorry.” His hand found its way to the side of her neck and rested there like a warm compress on her wrecked soul. Hearts must be broken for them to be able to expand and grow.

  But there’s a limit to how much damage they can take, surely?

  “You have to understand this was six months after Maman died.” She had to force the words out.

  “I...”

  “Take your time.”

  She wished he weren’t so nice. “I think I did what I did out of some sick sense of revenge. For Maman. It feels so now, anyway. Back then, I was just raving mad.”

  “What did you do?”

  He turned her to him, cupping her face in his large palms. His blue eyes stared at her like he had the moon stashed away in his back pocket because she’d asked for it. How could she ever tell him the truth?

  “The creep that attacked me in the Underground yesterday, I couldn’t see his face. But I thought I recognized his eyes. It was the same man, Damon. I’m willing to bet.”

  He shook his head. “You think he’s here to get you back? You’re not considering it, are you?”

  “If it is him, he’s not here to get me back. He’s here to get back at me.”

  He raised his hands in a plea for an explanation. Her story was all over the place, but so was she.

  “Father wasn’t home the day Ralph beat me. I took my bicycle to the local A&E. Every breath was excruciating. Twice I had to stop, so I didn’t faint. The blood coming out of my ear matted my hair into a knot that I had to cut off. When a friend of Father’s brought me back in the late evening, I felt murderous and I...”

  Walking away from Damon was like breaking a vital connection. The further away, the more she felt like she was suffocating. But maybe it was just the guilt and sickening knowledge of what she’d done weighing down on her chest.

  “Anaïs, what? Just tell me.”

  “Instead of going into the house, I went to the garden shed. I found a can of petrol and some matches. They were damp from lying there on the bottom shelf. It’d been years since we had a family barbecue. I walked two miles up the road, toward a grove by the lake where Ralph had parked his van. I knew for a fact he slept in it. I’d been
in his makeshift bed.”

  Damon looked like he was going to be sick, but she couldn’t stop now. She had to explain. He was the only person whose forgiveness mattered. The only one whose forgiveness she probably wouldn’t get. She had to try, regardless of the fear and self-loathing which made her knees wobble. She felt a stitch in her side. She had to stretch her fingers because they were cramping from her fisting them so hard.

  “When I arrived, the lights were out. It was past eleven. All was quiet, except for my dog barking at my trail.

  “I pulled a blanket from the line he’d strung up between two trees. I soaked it with the petrol, making sure I used every last drop. I threw it across the hood. I remember it stuck on because it was so wet. I lit it on the third attempt. It took all of ten minutes for the entire van to erupt in flames.”

  Sobs forced her to stop. She convulsed, bent forward. It was a few seconds before she realized Damon held her in his arms and they were both huddled on the grubby floor of his flat.

  “I’m sorry, Damon. I’m so sorry.”

  He held her as her body drained of the revulsion she felt for herself. Utterly exhausted, she let her head hang forward so she didn’t have to see his eyes.

  Finally, as the sharp silence began to prickle her skin, he asked, “Didn’t he try to escape?”

  Her voice sounded raw and not like hers when she said, “I saw his face in the passenger door window. He was trying to open it, but couldn’t. H-he looked at me, and I ran.”

  He let out a slow breath. His hold on her upper arms hurt but she didn’t dare move for fear that once he let go, he would let go forever.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “What you did was terrible, Anaïs.”

  She struggled to catch her breath.

  “It was most terrible for you. You didn’t know any better, and he should’ve. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  “I killed a man. I should be locked up.”

  For the first time, she felt true remorse. It was ironic how she experienced regret for killing a man once doubt occurred about him being dead. But she knew this had nothing to do with Ralph, either dead or alive. It was Damon’s compassion which ripped her conscience into pieces and made it bleed. It was as if everything bad focused around Ralph, and everything good around Damon.