The Hearts Series

by L.H. Cosway

  “What are you saying, Lille? That I should write my brother a letter, tell him how much I fucking despise him, is that it?” he scoffed.

  I gave him the most sincere look I could muster as I replied, “If you think it will help, then yes.” I paused, summoning up the courage to whisper, “I care about you, and I don’t want you to hurt on the inside.”

  His head turned, and he looked at me for a moment that dragged on forever, like my words had meant something to him. I saw a war wage within his black eyes before some of the tension went out of him in a long exhalation.

  “Go get me a pen and paper,” he said, and I literally felt my heart leap. He was actually going to do it. I couldn’t have been more shocked if he told me he had a penchant for wearing women’s underwear every now and again.

  Not saying a word, I went inside and checked on Lola for a minute (she was sleeping), then tore a few pages out of my notebook and grabbed a pen. Going back out, I handed them to Jack, our fingers brushing absently, then returned to my painting. He sat there for a long time, fiddling with the pen, before he began to write.

  My belly was all aflutter as I watched him. I tried to focus on my painting, but I couldn’t help it. I was dying to know what he was writing. It was private, though, and I wouldn’t pry. I got lost in my painting for a while, working on the details of the stained glass windows of the Spiegeltent, and how they caught the light.

  “Fuck,” Jack swore, startling me out of my concentration. I looked up to see him stand from his seat, scrunch up the paper he’d been writing on, and throw it in the bin. “This is bollocks.” He glared at me, and I felt my throat tighten. Jack McCabe was not the kind of man anyone wanted glaring at them, and I certainly didn’t relish being the recipient of said glare.

  “I never said it worked for everyone. Maybe writing stuff down just isn’t cathartic for you like it is for me,” I suggested quietly.

  “Why’d you even bring it up, Lille, huh? I told you about Jay because I trusted you. That doesn’t mean you have permission to start discussing it all casual like you’re commenting on the fucking weather.”

  He kicked the side of the camper in frustration, which caused Violet to stick her head out the window, looking pissed. “What the fuck, man?”

  Jack gave her a withering stare, and she shrank in on herself, muttering something under her breath that sounded a lot like “psycho” before she retreated back inside and shut the window tight. I stood and strode toward him, reaching out and pushing his shoulder. “Hey, that was uncalled for. I was only trying to help you.”

  He grabbed my wrist, clutching it harshly, and I sucked in a breath. “From now on, my past is off limits. We don’t talk about it. You understand?”

  “You’re angry. People that angry need to sort their shit out, Jack. You can’t just keep ignoring it. Burying your head in the sand just leaves you with sand in your eyes.”

  He arched an eyebrow, and okay, yeah, what I’d just said sounded stupid, but I didn’t know how to get through to him. I also didn’t know why I felt it was so important that he come to terms with his feelings about his brother’s abandonment. All I knew was that it made me sad to think of what he might be missing out on. From what I’d learned about Jay Fields, he was an amazing person, and Jack deserved to have someone like him in his life.

  Something about Jack’s story just didn’t ring true, and it had been niggling at me for a while.

  “Stay out of my business, Lille,” he said finally, voice harsh but eyes sad, as he let go of my wrist, turned around, and walked away. I stood there even after he was gone, wondering if I’d just ruined whatever we had before it had even begun.

  Then my eyes landed on the rubbish bin, where Jack had thrown his scrunched-up paper. My curiosity was about to get the better of me.

  Eleven

  In secret Lille stole Jack’s letter

  Tears stung my eyes and ran down my face.

  I didn’t know what I thought I’d find when I read Jack’s letter, but I certainly hadn’t expected to feel like someone had just buried a bullet in my chest. I was bawling as I crouched behind the camper for privacy, holding the uncrumpled sheet of paper in my hands. Even the way he wrote broke my heart. He used short, simple sentences, with frequent misspellings, and I remembered him telling me about the gaps in his education. You could tell simply from the lines he’d written.

  When I woke up I wondered wer u wer 1st.

  The last ting I remembered was suffocation and smoke.

  Not being able to breathe is the scariest ting.

  I cryed when they said Mam and Dad were dead.

  I cryed when they said our uncle took u and not me.

  I still hate hospitals.

  Being alone feels worse when ur a kid.

  Life seems endless. Endless loneliness.

  U have no 1 and they give u to people and the people don’t want u but they do want u becos they can get mony for u and they want the mony and they’re all so greedy and they take everything until you have nothing and they don’t even care.

  I’ve done bad tings.

  I thought about u every day.

  Remember u taught me how to throw plastic knives?

  U were so much better than me.

  I’m probably better than u now.

  Sometimes I want u 2 see.

  But I hate u.

  I hate that I still love u.

  Why didn’t u come back for me?

  Why did u leave me?

  Why did u leave me?

  Why did u leave me?

  Those last lines became harder to make out the more he repeated the question, like he’d stabbed the pen in so harshly it tore the paper, a manifestation of the pain he felt inside. I read it so many times the letters started to blur, mostly because I was still crying.

  I hate that I still love u.

  That was the line that made me cry the most. Jack still loved his brother. Even though he hated him, he still loved him. The declaration was so raw, I could almost feel the hurt like it was my own. Somehow I had to figure out a way to help him. I smoothed out the letter more, then folded it neatly and tucked it in my pocket. I had an idea, but it was so fucking risky. I definitely wasn’t Jack’s favourite person right now, but if I did this, I could ruin things between us completely.

  Would it be worth it to reunite him with Jay?

  Inside the camper, Violet gave me a look as if to ask, What the hell was all that with Jack earlier? Then she saw my reddened eyes and kept quiet. It was clear that I’d been crying. Lola was groggily eating tea and toast in bed. She still wasn’t over her flu, and last night’s attack had only worsened matters. I asked how she was, then asked if I could use her phone. Weakly, she told me I could use it whenever I wanted, that I didn’t have to ask.

  It didn’t take me long to find two mailing addresses for Jay Fields. One looked like a P.O. Box, and the other was for a hotel in Las Vegas. I decided to use the latter, because who knew how many adoring fans sent letters to his P.O. Box, and mine would only get lost amid the masses. I was incredibly nervous as I composed my message to him, and I still questioned if I even had any right to be doing this. My heart fluttered like an electrocuted butterfly. It was completely dodgy, but I couldn’t sit back and do nothing. Something in my gut told me this was the right thing to do. I had to sacrifice what little Jack and I had in order to give him something more.

  Dear Jay,

  You don’t know me. My name’s Lille Baker. Very recently I met a man named Jack. Our relationship isn’t an easy one to explain, but I feel very protective of him. I want to help him, even if he doesn’t know he needs it yet.

  He confided in me. Told me about how his parents died in a house fire and how his brother abandoned him.

  I think that brother is you. And somehow, I feel like there’s more to this story than meets the eye. Jack’s feelings are still all messed up, so I encouraged him to write you a letter telling you how he feels. We never planned on sending it. It was
supposed to be therapeutic. After he wrote it, he got upset and threw it away.

  I picked it out of the rubbish and decided to send it to you.

  He doesn’t know I’m writing this. He’s a performer with the Circus Spektakulär. We’re currently doing shows in Orléans in France; next week we move on to Lyon, and after that I’m not sure. I think you should come find us. Come see your brother after all these years, Jay. He’s an incredible person, and I’ve been fascinated by him since the very first time we met.

  I hope you read this letter sooner rather than later.

  Yours sincerely,

  Lille.

  I walked to the post office and sent the letter right after I’d written it, because if I waited, I knew I’d lose my nerve. After that I explored the city for a while, visiting an old church and browsing in the shops, mostly in an effort to calm my beating heart. Sending that letter could either turn out to be the best thing I’d ever done, or the worst.

  I found an electronics store and bought a cheap phone, then sat in a little café by the river and had something to eat. When I arrived back at the circus, there was only enough time for me to give Lola some flu medicine before I had to go and cover for her at the refreshments stand. It was much harder work than painting faces, and by the time the show was over, I had blisters on my feet from standing for so long.

  My stomach complained about not being fed, so I made my way to the gazebo to see if there was any food left from dinner. There wasn’t. In fact, I briefly considered leaving right away because there was a wild party going on, lots of local men and women mixed in with the circus workers. It was a little too rowdy for my tastes. Still, seeing King sitting by himself in a corner, nursing a bottle of cheap-looking vodka, I went and sat beside him. He didn’t smell so great, which made me all the more curious about my urge to be in his company. Even though he was drunk all the time, and even though I was a tiny bit scared of him, there was something about him that made me feel like he saw the world more clearly than any of us sober people.

  “Your boyfriend’s over there,” he muttered, his head turning lazily to me, eyes bleary and bloodshot.

  I looked in the direction he gestured, and saw Jack sitting with a group of men and women. He held a can of beer in his hand and wore a blank stare as a brunette spoke in his ear, alternating between touching his arm and running her hand along his leg. My heart lurched possessively to see another woman all over him, especially considering what had been brewing between us. I swallowed back the emotion, trying not to let the pain I felt inside bubble to the surface.

  “If he was my boyfriend, he wouldn’t have some French tart all over him right now,” I said, my skin prickling with jealousy.

  King laughed loudly, which garnered Jack’s attention. His eyes found me immediately, blazing with some kind of emotion. His gaze darkened, and then all of a sudden he wasn’t blanking the brunette anymore. He put his hand over hers on his leg and spoke into her ear now, returning her attention.

  “Fucking hearts, who’d have them, eh?” said King in a surprisingly sympathetic voice, nudging me with his elbow.

  I looked to him, and he seemed like he was actually trying to make me feel better. It made my heart squeeze. Here was a man at his lowest ebb, drowning in his own addiction to alcohol, showing me kindness. “Sometimes we don’t get a choice in the matter, unfortunately,” I replied.

  King raised the bottle to his mouth and drank. A long quiet elapsed and I got the feeling he was somewhere else in his head for a moment. “Yeah, you’re right about that,” he finally whispered.

  I was distracted when I heard someone coughing. At a nearby table, I saw Pedro with Luan and Raphael, and he looked a little worse for wear. He’d clearly caught the same flu as Lola, which got my mind racing. Was he the one who’d attacked her last night? Given his previous behaviour, it wouldn’t surprise me to discover it was him. Then Luan blew his nose with a tissue, and my theory cracked. Luan and Lola were close. I didn’t know all the details of their relationship, but it would make sense that he caught the flu from Lola and Pedro caught it from him.

  My attention went to Jack again. This time the woman was straddling his lap and kissing her way down his neck. And he was just sitting there, letting her, while he stared at me. My stomach twisted, and all of a sudden I felt sick. This situation was so messed up.

  “Ah, the push and pull,” said King. I was so focused on Jack that I couldn’t pay much attention to King’s words; my head was too preoccupied trying to figure out what he was playing at. His behaviour was so confusing. Maybe he was some sort of sociopath who got off on making girls think he had feelings for them and then pushing them away completely. Because that was clearly what he was trying to do now, letting some strange woman grope him while I watched. He might as well have been pissing all over my emotions.

  I stood, made sure to concentrate all the disdain I had inside me into a single look, gave that look to Jack, then strode out of the party. I was proud of myself. I might have been feeling like crap on the inside, but at least I’d kept my dignity. I hadn’t gone over and started shouting at him like a jealous lunatic. When I reached the camper, I stood outside, my hand on my heart. This shit hurt so bad. I was dangerously close to ticking off item number eleven, and it felt truly awful.

  Perhaps my list was just a load of bullshit after all.

  The next morning, I made my way to the gazebo to get some breakfast for Lola. I had to pass by Jack’s camper to get there, and I hurried my pace as I approached. Much to my dismay, he was already outside, hair damp from a shower and a mug of coffee in his hand. I muttered some choice words to myself and plastered on a brave face.

  “Good morning,” I said to him curtly, and continued walking.

  “Lille,” he called after me, and I stopped, turning around. It would be just my luck that he’d want to torture me, make this so much worse than it already was. The sad thing was that even after last night, I still cared for him immensely. Perhaps I was being foolish, but I couldn’t seem to turn my emotions on and off like he could.

  “Yes?” I replied, glancing over his shoulder and inside his camper. My heart was thumping fast as I wondered if the woman from last night was there. I wondered if he’d taken her into his bed and let her touch him in places I wanted to belong only to me. His gaze followed mine, and he frowned.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Just checking to see if the latest notch on your bedpost is still hanging around,” I bit out, and instantly wanted to take the words back. Now he knew he’d succeeded in hurting me.

  He knocked back the last of his coffee, ran a hand through his hair, and looked away. “She’s not here.”

  “Oh, kicked her out after the deed was done, did you? How gentlemanly.”

  Now he looked at me, and the expression on his face made me shiver. “There was no need to kick her out. She was never here.”

  I folded my arms and rolled my eyes. I was so pissed off, and I think he knew it. “Even more gentlemanly. Gave her a knee-trembler behind the gazebo, then?”

  His lips twitched before he let out a chuckle. “A knee-trembler? Only fifty-year-old men are allowed to use that term, Lille.”

  I scowled at him and turned to leave. I’d only gotten a few steps away when he caught my arm to stop me. My back was to his front as he locked my arm out and held it firmly to his chest. His breath hit my neck as he said quietly, “I wasn’t with her, okay? How can I possibly be with anyone else when you’ve taken over my every thought?”

  I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. His question melted my insides. The way his voice shook slightly told me he was telling the truth and that it was hard for him. All the strength went out of me as my body sank into his.

  “You can’t say stuff like that if you’re going to do things like you did last night. You can’t keep pushing me away, then pulling me back all the time,” I whispered.

  “I know,” said Jack, his big, warm body pressing into mine. “That’
s why you need to stay away from me.” He loosened his grip on my arm and I stepped back, turning to face him.

  “I don’t want to stay away.”

  His eyes scorched. “If you knew the truth, you would.”

  “The truth? What truth?”

  “About the things I want to do to you. With other women I can restrain myself, but with you, I’m not sure I could. That’s why it will never work between us. The way you look at me, Lille, like you’ll let me own you, all I have to do is say the word. You don’t want to be owned by me.”

  I frowned at him, remembering how he’d said something like this before.

  “And what if I do want to?”

  “You don’t. Life twists some of us in strange ways, ways that shape us to always be alone, and I’m one of them.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just stared at him. Our staring contest ended when Julie sauntered by wearing a tiny sundress, her hair curled like a fifties pinup.

  “Looking good this morning, Jack,” she said sweetly. I felt like telling her to piss off, that she was interrupting a private and perhaps monumental conversation. She gave me a narrow-eyed glance, then focused her attention back on Jack. He barely even registered her presence, just kept on staring at me with an intensity that was far too overwhelming. I couldn’t take much more, so I turned and went.

  He didn’t follow.

  Four days passed by in a blur. A good deal of the circus workers had fallen ill with the flu, so we were all working double time in an effort to keep everything afloat. When I felt the beginnings of it coming on myself, I took a whole bunch of vitamin tablets, made sure I got a full night’s sleep, and that seemed to work in staving it off.

  By the time we were moving on to Lyon, Lola had recovered; however, she still wasn’t back to her usual self. I’d often catch her with a haunted, faraway look in her eyes, and I knew she was thinking of the night of her attack. I couldn’t blame her. It was at the forefront of my mind, too. I was constantly wondering about the attacker’s identity. Was it just some random person? Or was it the very same person who’d killed Vera, the burlesque dancer?