“If you want, we can stop and get another one, if you feel like you need it.” All of my secure stuff is at my dad’s house. He’d definitely have an extra one or two hanging around.
There’s no way in hell I’m calling him though.
Sylas gathers up the rest of his things and puts them in a duffel bag.
“Were you serious about the coffee table?” he asks.
“Totally. I want you to feel at home at my place. Our place, I guess.” The apartment is definitely decorated 99 percent me and 1 percent Sylas at the moment.
“But you’re a much better decorator than I am,” he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek.
“That may be true, but I still want it to look like our apartment instead of just mine.” We haven’t discussed how rent or utilities are going to work yet, but we’re definitely doing this and I can’t help but feel giddy.
Commitment has always somewhat terrified me. I never thought I would want the kind of relationship I’m in right now.
“Let’s take this stuff down and then we can come back for the coffee table,” he says. I know the table will fit in the BMW since I’ve seen it crammed in before. That was so long ago. Feels like another lifetime.
The car is full when we go back to my place. Unloading the car seems to take a lot longer than putting the stuff in and by the time we’re done and his coffee table has taken its rightful place, I’m sweaty and exhausted.
I flop on the couch and Sylas joins me.
“I can’t believe we’re living together,” he says, putting his arm around my shoulder and lacing our fingers together.
“I know. I had no idea we’d be here, but I knew when I met you that you were going to change my life.” I turn my head and rest it against his chest.
“I knew, too. I remember seeing a picture of you Cash had given me. Your hair was all over your face and you were laughing. Your dress was black with little skulls all over it. I kept telling myself it was just a physical reaction. You were just another beautiful woman. It was so much more than that, though, Saige.” I know exactly what he means.
“I want to show you something,” he says and then motions for me to let him up. I move and he goes to get the duffel full of items he took out of the safe. He rifles around until he pulls something out.
“This was one of the only things that I was able to save from the house during the fire. Except for the coffee table, but I went back and got that later,” he says, holding the album on his lap. I scoot over and he opens it.
“Oh, Sylas.” The album is filled with pictures from his childhood. Birthdays and summers outside and school pictures. He’s in a ton of them, but then so is his mother. She really was a beauty. I’ve only seen the few pictures Dad was able to save.
He turns the pages and I drink in all the snapshots of his life before his mother died. There he is, missing teeth and grinning as he opens a Christmas present. And again playing t-ball in a blue uniform.
I stop when I get to one of his mother. She’s wearing an apron with little blue flowers on it as she looks up from a cake she’s frosting. It looks like one of the cakes from Sylas’ birthday. Her face is radiant with a smile, the sun streaming in from the window behind her, lighting her up.
“She’s so beautiful,” I say, but that’s such an understatement.
“I know. Too beautiful for this world. She was too good.” I don’t know about that, but it’s a crime that her life was severed by the one man who was supposed to protect her, take care of her.
I’m about to turn the page of the album when I notice something. The floor of the kitchen looks familiar, but I can’t place it. Huh. I discard the feeling and turn the page of the album, but something in the back of my mind flickers and itches. I don’t know what to do to scratch it.
“What is it?” Sylas notices my discomfort somehow. He really must be able to read my mind. Or I’m just not very good at hiding my expressions anymore. Out of practice.
“Nothing. I’m just sad for you,” I say. “That she was taken from you, taken from Lizzy.” He sighs.
“There’s nothing we can do about it now and the person responsible is dead. That’s the best we can do.” I suppose it is. The picture is still bothering me, but I keep going through the album until I get to the end. There are tears in my eyes and they finally spill over. I wipe them away and Sylas lays the album aside.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to cry.”
“It’s okay, Saige. I wish I could cry. It’s normal to cry. But I can’t.” I’ve seen him cry before, but only when he’s at his emotional breaking point.
“I can’t seem to stop crying,” I say. I never thought of myself as all that emotional, but maybe it’s because I bottled everything up for so many years and it’s all getting squeezed out of me now.
“I love you anyway,” he says, tickling me in my ribs and turning the serious moment into something much lighter.
“Stop it,” I say, collapsing as he attacks me. The assault ceases and he smiles down at me.
“Thank you for letting me share that with you. I’ve never shown anyone those pictures,” he says. I reach up and stroke his stubbly face.
“Thank you for trusting me with them,” I say.
I love him. I love him so much I can’t even comprehend it. Can’t hold it in my hands. It would spill over my fingers. So much. Too much.
“How about I make dinner for a change?” he says. Neither of us are very good cooks, but we do our best.
“Sounds good.” It get a kiss on my nose before he climbs off me and heads to the kitchen.
I pick up the album and go back to the page with the picture of his mother. I stare at it, but I can’t figure out what is sparking something in my mind. It’s going to bother me until I can figure it out, but then there’s a crash in the kitchen and I have to go rescue Sylas from a frying pan with nefarious intentions.
Twenty-Five
This time when I wake from the nightmare, I know.
“I was there,” I gasp into Sylas as he holds me. The nightmares don’t always strike at the same time, but he’s always there with me when my eyes snap open.
“You were where, Saige?” he says in a soothing voice.
“The floor. The floor in the picture.” I can’t get the words coming from my mouth to come out right and explain what’s going on in my head. Everything is happening too fast, the images and thoughts bursting like too many fireworks.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to talk about it right now,” he says, but I need to make him understand.
“I saw her. I saw her bleeding on the floor, Sylas. Your mother.” His entire body stiffens, his muscles locking up and he’s holding me so tight it hurts.
“You need to tell me what you mean, right now, Saige.” His voice has a dangerous edge to it, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
“I was there when she was killed. At least after. I can see it all now. Her body on the ground, the blood everywhere. I was outside in the rosebushes under the kitchen window.” He makes a sound that doesn’t seem human.
That’s what was bothering me about the linoleum floor. I’d seen it before. Now that I’ve uncovered the memory, it all rushes forward.
I was fourteen and angry with my dad for not letting me work more for him. He’d only give me simple jobs. Play jobs, really. I knew they weren’t real and it drove me crazy. So I did what I could to find out what he was doing. I’d hide in his office, in his closet, anywhere. I was small and limber enough from dance I could get myself in tight spaces and stay there for hours.
I would also hide in the trunk of his car whenever he’d go somewhere and lie to me about it. It was easy to pull the trunk release and let myself out when he got wherever he was going. Then I’d sneak around and find out what he was doing. In my brain, I justified it and I loved doing it. Yet another facet of my stupid teenage rebellion.
I’d been to Sylas’ house once before that afternoon. I didn’t know why Dad came here. He’d park and
then I’d wait for him to get out of the car, but he would just sit with the engine off and then drive away. He stopped once and got out, but he was back so fast I barely had time to hop back in the trunk and pull it shut.
That day I’d pretended I was sick so I could stay home from school. I did that a lot and my mother never questioned it. She was far too busy shopping and getting her nails done and gossiping on the phone all the time. Dad was home for most of the day, but I heard him on the phone and knew he was going somewhere in the afternoon.
I got in the trunk and rode until the car stopped. I waited for the sound of Dad getting out and it happened a few minutes later.
Popping the trunk, I slipped out and shut it as quietly as I could. I was in a residential neighborhood, but parked in the driveway of what looked like an abandoned house.
I searched and found Dad walking between the houses. He’d taught me how to follow someone without being seen and I employed all of those skills, darting behind cars and bushes to make sure he didn’t see me.
Finally, he stopped just beyond one house. It looked like all the others and I wondered what my dad was doing here. Who was he following?
I crept closer and closer and watched as Dad looked into the one of the windows. He froze and then he was running, yanking open a side door. I rushed to see what was going on and pulled myself up on a windowsill.
Blood. A woman. My father.
Dad, cradling a woman who was covered in blood.
I was frozen until there was the sound of a beeping school bus. Dad kissed the dead woman’s forehead, in a place clean of blood and then bolted out the door again.
His front was covered in blood. It was so bright against his white shirt. Like paint.
I nearly tripped over myself to run back to the car. And then I did, falling. I wasn’t thinking about getting caught. Just getting away from the horrible scene. The woman’s eyes were blue and open and staring off into space. Something horrible happened in that house to that beautiful woman.
Someone picked me up and carried me back to the car and put me in. And then I blacked out.
I’m violently sucked back into the present by Sylas shaking me so hard my teeth knock against each other.
“What the hell are you talking about?!” He’s screaming at me and I don’t know what to say.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” I say, over and over and over. He finally stops shaking me and gets out of bed, shoving me aside.
“What the fuck are you telling me right now?” he yells, raging around the room like he’s a trapped beast and needs to get out.
“I’m telling you that I was there. My father was there. And that’s all I know.” How is it possible we were all there on that day? And how is it possible that my brain locked up that memory for this long and I’m only now remembering it?
“I can’t fucking believe this. Can’t fucking believe it,” he says and the leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.
I’m unable to move. My lungs are hesitant to draw breath. It’s just too much work. I hear the front door slam again and I know I should chase after him, but moving is definitely not in the cards right now.
I’m absolutely still. Now I know what Sylas went through. My brain is still working, but my body refuses to respond. I struggle to flex my fingers and finally get them to wiggle. Then I work on my toes, legs and then arms. What seems like hours later, I slide my feet over the edge of the bed and stand. I need to find him.
I ignore the fact that I’m barely dressed in a pair of thin shorts, a tank top and no bra. I don’t even grab shoes as I leave the bedroom and walk out of the front door. He can’t have gone far, because the keys to the cars are still in the skull by the door.
My bare feet slap against the wooden floor of the hallway then down the stairs and out to the street. It’s the middle of the night and everything is quiet. Not even a car alarm. I look left and right and listen hard. Nothing.
I have to find him. I choose to go left and start walking as fast as I can. The uneven sidewalk bites into my bare feet and I know they’re going to be bloody soon. I go fast, running, and I start calling his name.
“Sylas!” I scream. Someone is probably going to call the cops, but I don’t give a shit. I have to find him. I get to the end of the street and look right and left again. Maybe I should try another direction.
And then I see him. He’s standing against the corner of a building, head bowed and his shoulders shaking. Oh thank God.
“Sylas!” I scream, running across the road and reaching him.
“Go the fuck away, Saige. Go away,” he says, but there’s no strength in his words. He’s breaking again. We both are.
“Come home, Sylas. Come home with me. We don’t have to talk about anymore. Come home with me, babe.” The endearment comes out without me even thinking about it. He lifts his head and swallows before nodding.
I throw myself at him, putting my arms around his neck. He hesitates for a moment before he hugs me back. Thank God. Thank God.
We walk back together and I realize how cut up my feet are. He’s also barefoot and just in a pair of boxer briefs. We’re lucky it’s the middle of the night so no one can see us like this.
We don’t exchange any words as we enter the apartment building again and go back upstairs. I shut and lock the door behind me and turn to face Sylas.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice rough. “I shouldn’t have hurt you like that. I just… you brought it all back to me and I got lost in that day for a moment. I just can’t believe you were there.” So was my father. And he never told me. I know he probably did it to protect me, but it didn’t work. The memory surfaced anyway and now I have to deal with something from my past that now feels as fresh as a knife wound.
Sylas wipes his eyes and then holds out his arms.
“I’m sorry I freaked out. I’m so sorry,” I hold him tight and then we go back to the bedroom. He sets me on the bed and then sees my feet.
“Hold on,” he says, going to the bathroom. With gentle care, he gets a washcloth and carefully wipes my feet before slathering them with antibiotic cream and putting a clean pair of socks on them.
“Talk to me,” he says, sitting back on the bed. “Or don’t. Whatever you want to do.” He seems to be overcompensating now for running out earlier. I want to tell him he doesn’t need to, but my words are stuck in my mouth.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I say. I’m trying to put the pieces together and I have so many questions I can’t answer. Why was Dad at the house? Why did he run away? Why wouldn’t he call the police? Why would he let Sylas discover the body? Why, why, why?
My father is the only one who can answer these questions and tomorrow (technically today) I’m getting answers. Once and for all.
“I know,” Sylas says. “What are the chances?”
“Shitty chances,” I say and he chuckles half-heartedly. Nothing is funny right now.
“I don’t know what to say.” He wraps me in his arms again.
“Me neither,” he says. “I don’t think there is anything we can say.”
So we sit in silence and hold one another until there’s light in the sky and the start of a new day.
Twenty-Six
Neither of us gets any sleep and we finally get out of bed around six. Without even asking, Sylas goes to the kitchen and makes coffee for both of us. I consider taking a shower, but don’t feel like it. Sylas comes back with the coffee as I’m trying to get dressed.
“What are you going to do now?” he asks as he hands me the cup and sips from his own.
“There’s only one thing to do. My father kept this from me. I want to know why. And I want to know how he could keep this from me for so long. And you deserve to know, too.” He sets his cup down and looks out the window, splitting the blinds.
I finish my coffee and go to the kitchen for more, wincing as I walk on my cut feet.
“You should have let me do that,” he says, coming up
behind me.
“It’s okay,” I say and top him off while I have the pot in my hand.
“I don’t want to put you through something that’s going to hurt you,” I say, trying to give him an out.
He steps behind me and starts massaging my shoulders. It almost hurts because my muscles are so incredibly tense.
“A part of me wants to confront him too. I want to see him explain himself. I think it will be good for both of us.” Good.
Sylas keeps massaging my shoulders and I wish we could just go back to bed and spend the day naked and sweating together. For the thousandth time, I wish we were a normal couple with normal problems.
I can’t deal with sitting around the house, so we both get dressed and head over to my parents’ before eight. My father is a morning person and my mother will still be too drugged out on sleeping pills and wine to know what the hell is going on.
Dad’s car is in the driveway and Martha seems thrilled to see me. She even gives me a little hug.
“Let me get your father. Would you like some breakfast?” I shake my head as she walks briskly to the dining room where I know Dad’s eating his breakfast and reading the paper. He does the same thing every morning. Like clockwork.
He comes out, still wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“Saige?” he asks and I can tell he’s wary, but happy that I’m here.
I take a breath and squeeze Sylas’ hand.
“Why didn’t you tell me I was there when Marina was killed?” The napkin drops to the floor and Dad goes completely white.
“When did you remember?”
“Last night.” He brings his hand to his mouth and I’ve never seen him look so spooked. So scared.
Sylas clears his throat.
“I think you owe her an explanation,” he says. Dad looks at Sylas as if it’s the first time he’s ever seen him before.
Dad blinks and then stutters as he says “Let’s go to my office.” He robotically walks back to the door and then holds it open for Sylas and me.
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