by W. H. Vega
“Huh,” I say, smiling despite myself. “Yeah, send them up. Thank you.”
I hear the elevator whir to life and dawdle by my front door. Probably, the flowers are for Carly. She tends to attract the more romantic types. Most of my dates end up being as practically minded as myself, preferring short visits and good sex to long walks on the beach. What can I say? I’m a woman who knows what she wants.
A ding sounds out through the hall, and I pull open the front door to admit the unexpected delivery. It isn’t until I’ve already opened the door that I realize I’ve neglected to put a bra on, yet. Oh well. Guess the delivery man is in for a little surprise.
“I’ll just take those off your—” I begin, holding my hands out to the man at my door. My words trail off as I see what it is he’s holding. I’d been expecting some kind of over-the-top floral arrangement, but clutched in this man’s hands is a simple bouquet of five daffodils. Confused, I finally lift my gaze to his.
At once, my entire world is filled with that deep emerald green I’ve only known once before in my life. I’m immersed, blinded by that dazzling shade, unable for a moment to take in anything else. Little by little, other details begin to clarify: the freckles across the bridge of his nose, the strong jaw, the way my neck has to crane a little to truly look him in the eye. Finally, a single word comes swimming up from the depths of my mind, from the core of my heart where I’ve kept it guarded all these years.
“Trace,” I say. It isn’t a question, because there’s no mistaking him. In the ten years since I’ve seen him, he’s grown broader, more rugged. The features of his face are more sharply sculpted, his body is wound as tight as a spring. But even a decade removed, the way his eyes get when he looks at me hasn’t changed.
“Nadia,” he says softly, “I’m—”
But his words are cut short as I slam the door in his gorgeous face and press my back against it. My chest tightens painfully as I struggle to force calming breaths into my lungs. This can’t be happening. Trace O’Conner cannot be standing on my doorstep with a handful of flowers and a case of nostalgia. This...this is not allowed.
A tentative knock sounds out through the door, and I brace myself against it. “You can’t be here,” I croak.
“I’m sorry,” Trace says through the door. His voice is changed, gruffer. “I didn’t know how to get in touch with you. I know it’s early, but—”
“Early?” I say, aghast. “Try ten years too late, O’Conner.”
“Don’t say that,” Trace says, his voice straining with hurt, “You know it was never as simple as picking up a phone. Which you could have done too, by the way.”
“It wasn’t my—”
“Just open the door, Nadia. Please. I really...I just need to see you. Won’t you let me in? Just for a minute?”
My heart is lodged firmly in my throat as I turn and stare at my heavy front door. Do I open it, and let the only boy—man—I’ve ever loved wander back into my universe? Do I risk dismantling everything I’ve managed to build since Trace was ripped from my life?
“Please,” he says. And I know that I have no choice. I could never deny him anything, even if I wanted to.
“God help me,” I mutter, and slowly pull open the door.
He stands before me, daffodils outstretched. The cautious hope in his eyes is enough to shatter me. His cozy flannel shirt and sinfully well-fitted black jeans look just slightly rumpled, and less-than-subtle traces of fatigue plague his features.
“Well don’t just stand there like an asshole,” I say, stepping back, “Get in here.”
Trace steps across the threshold of my apartment as if walking into the promise land. My eyes are fixed on him as my mind scrambles to reconcile seeing him here, in my home. The collision of past and present is overwhelming, and totally disorienting. I close the door behind him and cross my arms tightly across my chest. Jesus, it would be nice to be a bit more clothed for this unexpected reunion.
“Just, wait here...” I say, hurrying around him in a wide circle.
He nods, looking as dazed as I feel. I rush into my bedroom and throw on the first heavy layers that I can find. I refuse to deliberate about what I throw on, even though my mind berates me for it. I can’t be thinking about looking nice for Trace. That’s ridiculous. Clothed in boyfriend jeans and a baggy knit sweater, I reemerge and make a beeline for the kitchen.
“You want coffee? Something to eat?” I ask, desperate for a distraction.
“Coffee would be great,” he says, “I, uh, didn’t get much sleep last night.
“How much is not much?” I ask, spooning some coffee into the drip machine.
“Uh...Well. None,” he admits, sounding more than a little guilty.
“Why didn’t you sleep?” I ask, leaving the coffee to brew.
“That’s...not important,” he says with an overeager smile. “Nadia, you, uh...you look amazing.”
Heat rises to my cheeks at his sudden compliment. “Oh. Um. Thanks,” I say, “You too.”
“Liar,” he laughs, shoving a hand through his sandy blonde hair. It’s shorter than the last time I saw it. I can’t even begin to fathom how many changes, tiny and huge, have occurred in each of us since that December night so many years ago.
“You can sit down, if you want,” I tell him.
“Thanks,” he says, sinking down onto my irresistibly comfy couch, “Your apartment is incredible. I really can’t believe that you live here.”
“You’d better believe it,” I say, “I pay enough for it every month.”
“I’m sure,” he says, “But it’s probably not such a stretch for a fancy lawyer like you.”
“How did you know...?”
“Front page, huh?” he smiles, that wickedness I love—loved—about him shining through. “You must really be some kind of big shot now, huh?”
“I’ve had some good luck,” I say.
“Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” Trace tells me, “You were always freakin’ brilliant. I should have known, with all those mock trail meetings and whatever. My money was on astronaut, to tell you the truth. But...these are for you,” he says, holding out the flowers.
“Oh. Thanks,” I say, crossing the room. “I’ll...put them in some—”
As I take the small bouquet out of Trace’s hands, his strong fingers brush against mine. A surge of excitement runs up my arm, burning along my nerves. Even after all this time, the smallest brush of his skin against mine is enough to level me. Good god, this man is like a drug to me, even if I’ve been clean for a decade.
“I’ll put them in some water,” I finish in a hurry. The look in Trace’s eyes tells me that he’s exactly on my level. If I’m not careful, this little rendezvous could escalate in no time flat. I carry the flowers into my kitchen and arrange them in a thin porcelain vase. The smell of fresh coffee hangs heavy in the air as I pour two generous mugs and carry them out into the living room.
“I guess I don’t know how you take your coffee these days,” I say, placing the mug down in front of him.
“Black is perfect,” he smiles.
I sit across the coffee table from him, perched on the edge of my armchair. A weighted silence falls between us as we struggle to find words for this most unconventional occasion. As the steam rises from our twin mugs, the memories of all those early mornings we spent together at the Daniels’ come rushing back.
Trace used to drag himself out of bed at the crack of dawn just so we could have a couple extra hours of time together before shipping off to school. Those mornings were always quiet, almost sacred. We didn’t need to fill the air with words to feel like we were sharing something. I look up at him now and see that words are still somewhat superfluous between us. We’ve always been able to read each other like bold face print, and that hasn’t changed. He’s more guarded than he was, to be sure, but that’s just a simple matter of translation.
“Thank you for letting me in,” he finally says, breaking the silence. “I know t
hat this is...”
“Strange,” I say, “Unexpected. Bizarre.”
“Yes.”
“Trace,” I say, “I don’t want to sound rude, but...How did you find me?”
“I was in the neighborhood?”
“Trace.”
“Fine,” he says, “Actually, it was Garrick who helped me.”
“Garrick?” I ask, surprised, “You guys are still...?”
“Oh yeah,” Trace says, “We’ve been sticking together since we got...you know. Put away together.”
“Ah.”
“You’re not still in touch with Conway, are you?” Trace asks hopefully.
“No,” I tell him, not without remorse. “No, I don’t know where she is.”
“That’s too bad,” Trace says, “We could have had a reunion.”
I know that he’s joking, but a flash of anger flares up behind my eyes all the same. “Right. A little reunion,” I say harshly, “Just picking up right where we left off, as if nothing’s happened. As if everything is hunky dory.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Just because I’m giving you a cup of coffee and a minute of my time, doesn’t mean things go back to the way they were when we were seventeen,” I tell him, “I have an entire life now, all my own. I can’t just drop everything and reorient—”
“I have my own life too, thanks,” Trace says shortly, “It may not be as impressive as this, but I’m not looking to toss it all—”
“Then what?” I demand. No use beating around the bush. “What do you want, Trace? What are you doing here?”
“Can’t I...I just wanted...to see you,” he stammers, at a loss.
I lean forward, fingers digging into my thighs. “It’s been ten years, Trace,” I say quietly, “Ten years since I saw you last. Heard from you last. I’m going to need something a little better than ‘I wanted to see you’.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Nadia,” he says, his voice tinged with barely-restrained remorse.
“Tell me why it’s taken you all this time to show up,” I say, blinking back tears, “Why did you cut me out, abandon me to worry about you without ever knowing if you were OK? Why didn’t you find me the minute you got out of juvie, or write me letters, or—”
“Why didn’t you?” he shoots back. “Last I checked, I never got any love notes from you when I was locked up. I never heard your voice on the other end of the line. You can’t just pin ten years of silence on me, Nadia. I wanted you to move on without me, after...I honestly thought you’d never want to speak to me again, I didn’t want to hold you back.”
“What?” I say, breathless. “Why wouldn’t I want to speak to you? I didn’t want to weigh you down with worrying about me while you were getting through your trial. And doing your time. I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Bother me? Nadia, that’s all I wanted, was to hear your voice. See you on visitor’s day. But I figured...I’d already ruined your life. Why drag it out?”
“That can’t really be what you think,” I say, my voice thick with swallowed tears. “Trace...you saved my life. You saved me from that fucking prick...I owe you everything. I wanted to tell you. I thought you hated me for being the reason you were in jail.”
“Well...” Trace says, his eyes softening, “I guess we’ve got a few things to clear up?”
“I thought I heard a man’s voice out here,” says a voice over my shoulder. I pick myself up in a hurry and turn to see Carly leaning against her bedroom doorway. A silky vintage slip is all that covers those perfect curves of hers. As ridiculous as it is, I have the urge to cover Trace’s eyes, lest he feast them on my roommate.
“Carly,” I say quickly, “I’m so sorry. Did we wake you?”
“Not at all,” she says sweetly, “I was just getting up. But where are my manners?”
She crosses the living room, letting her hips sway sumptuously. Trace stands up from the couch as Carly approaches. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s standing at attention.
“I’m Carly,” my roommate says, holding her hand out to Trace. “And you are?”
“Trace,” he answers, curtly shaking her hand. It does my heart good to see that he’s not the slightest bit ruffled by Carly’s natural flirtatious manner.
“Trace. What a great name,” Carly says, looking back and forth between us. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything out here.”
“No,” I say, wrapping my arms around my waist. “No, not at all. Trace was just stopping by to say hello.”
I watch Carly notice the flowers in the kitchen. Her curiosity is practically palpable. One of the things I’ve always liked best about my roommate is her refusal to take no for an answer. But I have a feeling that, in this particular instance, I might begin to find that trait regrettable.
I have to stifle a frustrated sigh as Carly sinks down onto the couch beside Trace. She pats the cushion, inviting him to join her. He obliges, leaving me no choice but to follow suit. The three of us sit in silence for a long moment while Carly savors the tension in the room.
“Are you just passing through Chicago?” she asks Trace, crossing her smooth legs.
“Not exactly,” Trace tells her, keeping his hands folded in his lap. “I grew up here. Chicago’s always been home base. But I’ve spent the last couple of years abroad.”
“Traveling?” Carly asks, intrigued.
“Kinda,” Trace says.
“That sounds wonderful,” Carly gushes, “Where were you?”
“Kandahar, Afghanistan,” Trace tells her, lowering his eyes.
“Wh-what?” I stammer. The whole room seems to pivot around me. “You...You were in the army?”
“That’s right, well, the Marines actually,” Trace says, bracing himself for my reaction, “I did three tours over there. Just finished up the last one, uh, recently.”
“How recently?” I press.
“Um...Three days ago?”
My jaw falls open as Trace flashes me a grin that is at once apologetic and amused. His first act, after returning home from the goddamn war, was to come track me down? What the hell does that mean? How am I supposed to interpret any of this? I take a long swallow of coffee, wishing all the while that it was spiked with whiskey. Or, hell, just a mug of whiskey would be great right about now.
“That must have been terrible, being over there,” Carly says sympathetically.
“Of course it was terrible,” Trace says, “It was war.”
“But you’ve probably got a great support system back here, right?” she asks, “A family, or a girlfriend, or something?”
“Not really,” Trace says, shooting me a pointed look, “I sort of had my entire support system over there with me. Garrick. My best friend. We had each other’s backs, like always.”
“Christ,” I mutter, sinking back into the armchair, “Garrick was over there, too? Thank god nothing happened to the two of you.”
“Who’s Garrick?” Carly asks.
“A friend,” I tell her.
“Our old foster brother,” Trace says plainly.
The air is sucked out of the room in an instant. My entire body seizes up as I realize what an idiot I was, letting these two sit in the same room together. Carly’s head snaps my way, her eyes brimming with a million questions. For fuck’s sake...Why didn’t I see this coming?
“Foster brother?” Carly repeats, her intent gaze hot on my face.
I open my mouth to respond, to cover up, to evade her slew of questions. But I don’t have any words to stop this. The levee that’s kept my past so utterly separated from my new life has broken. I should have known that I’d never actually be able to rewrite my childhood, no matter how many degrees and accolades I accrued. Underneath the pencil skirts and staggering education, I’m still just some orphan girl from Chicago. No matter how big of a hot-shot lawyer I become, I can’t erase those long years of foster care, when no one in the world seemed to want me. No one but Trace, of course.
Ac
ross the room, Trace’s eyes darken. He takes a deep breath to calm himself before going on, “I guess Nadia never mentioned that part of her life to you.”
“Nadia, what’s he talking about?” Carly demands. All traces of coyness have left her voice, now.
“I...Um...” I stammer, looking frantically back and forth between the two of them. It’s clear that no one’s letting me off the hook this time. “I never mentioned...Er, told you that?”
“You sure as hell didn’t,” Carly says, crossing her arms.
“Must have just never come up,” I say.
“That’s a pretty big chunk of information, Nadia,” she goes on, “Things that big tend to come up. Unless they’re hidden on purpose, of course.”
“I didn’t mean to...It’s not like I lied to you or anything,” I say.
“Oh please,” Carly says, “You forget, my dear, that I’m a lawyer too. You think a flimsy defense like that would ever work on me?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Trace says, “It wasn’t my place.”
“It’s not your fault, Trace,” Carly says, “You simply assumed that my good friend Nadia here would have mentioned anything at all about her life to me. Come to think of it...I don’t know anything about where you come from.”
“You never asked,” I remind her.
“But still,” she says, “You’ve met, like, my entire family. You know everything about my entire life leading up to grad school, and I don’t even know that you were in a freaking foster home? What the hell?”
“What does it matter?” I say, exasperated.
“Uh, tons,” Carly insists, “What else don’t I know? Your parents are dead, I got that much out of you—”
“Hey,” Trace says firmly, “Cool it. If Nadia didn’t share the grim details with you, I’m guessing that there’s a reason. Those of us from her past may not like that reason very much...”
“You think I’m ashamed or something?” I ask quietly, training my eyes on Trace’s.
He shrugs his shoulders, hurt shining in his eyes. God, how well I know that expression of pain. How many times did I see it come over his face when we were kids? Whenever Garrick had too much to drink, whenever his junkie mother came after him for pocket change, whenever older guys leered at Conway...that same unknowable pain was always there. Seeing it here, in my home, ten years after the last time I laid eyes of Trace—it’s too much.
