Find Me Alastar

by T L Swan

  Who am I?

  Everything I thought I knew about myself is a lie. I slide down the tiles and squat in a ball on the cold, hard tiles in the muted light of the bathroom. I’m unsure how to feel about this. I have no point of reference or anyone I can talk to. I haven’t even watched a movie on this subject. Is it really true or am I losing my mind along with Alastar?

  “Emmaline…” Alastar calls from the bedroom.

  I put my head into my hands in confusion.

  He comes to the bathroom door. “Princess,” he whispers as he drops to the floor next to me. “What is wrong, my love?”

  Tears form along with a huge lump in my throat and I shake my head, unable to speak. Through blurry eyes, I stare at him.

  “Speak to me, Em. What are you thinking?” “I…” I hesitate to try and pull some sense from my mashed thoughts. “I don’t believe in reincarnation, Twinkle.” I’m so confused.

  He smiles sadly and sits next to me against the wall.

  “Me, either,” he replies softly.

  I look at him and frown. “You don’t?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope.”

  I turn away and stare straight ahead at the bath. Fear fills me. “It scares me. This whole story scares me,” I murmur.

  “I remember how much it scared the hell out of me when I found out, too.” he replies softly. I continue to stare in front of me as a cluster fuck of emotions swirl violently through my head.

  “If you don’t believe in reincarnation, how do you explain this?” I ask. “How do you explain us?”

  He hesitates for a moment. “Love.”

  I frown in question.

  “It is the only answer I can think of.”

  My eyes meet his.

  “Where does the love go when our bodies leave Earth, Em? It can’t just disappear?” he replies softly, as if this is something he has thought long and hard about. I stare at him, unblinking.

  “You take the love with you when you leave,” he whispers.

  “I…” I stop myself from speaking.

  “To be honest, I think that everyone goes through many lives with their loved ones, but are unable to remember it. Have you ever met someone before and had an unusual easiness and instant connection with them, as if you already know them?”

  I frown at him.

  “Em, listen, I don’t know why we have been put in this position, why we have been given this gift or curse or whatever you want to call it. It’s frightening and overwhelming.”

  We both sit on the tiles and stare in front of us.

  “But I will take it,” he murmurs.

  I glance over at him.

  “I will take any gift of time with you.”

  I smile softly.

  “One life of loving you could never be enough,” he whispers softly.

  My eyes glaze over in emotion.

  “Don’t be scared,” he whispers as he cups my face in his hand.

  “I am,” I whisper, and my bottom lip quivers as I try to hold in my tears.

  “I know this is frightening. But it’s also a gift. Don’t you feel slightly empowered knowing that, no matter what packaging we both come in, where in the world we are born, what heritage we come from, our love still shines through and finds its way back to where it belongs?”

  I smile.

  “That we made history together...” he whispers as he gently kisses my lips.

  I smile through my tears.

  “We belong together, Emmaline, and no matter how fucked up this story seems to anyone else, it doesn’t matter to me. This is our story.”

  I kiss him softly.

  “I believe the word soul mate comes from circumstances just like ours.” I smile. This beautiful man.

  “You never hear of body mates now, do you?” He raises an eyebrow sarcastically.

  I smile broadly.

  “A soul does not die with our bodies. And soul mates will always find each other. Every time, in every life.”

  “I love you,” I breathe.

  “I love you, too.” His eyes close as his lips touch mine.

  “Because of us,” I whisper through tears.

  He smiles into my lips. “Because of us.”

  * * *

  I grip the steering wheel with white knuckle force as I wait for the garage door to go up. “Come on. Come on.” I tap my hands nervously on the wheel as I watch the rearview mirror. “Just hurry up,” I whisper to myself. The garage door opens. I rev the car and fly out of the garage and down the street to the sounds of the tire’s screeching. I have just stolen Alastar’s car while he showers. He is going to kill me. I glance to the backseat at the three large garbage bags tied up at the top. The rolled up canvases of stolen art are inside and I have a plan. Alastar and I had heated discussions on and off all day yesterday. He is under the ridiculous opinion that this art belongs to us and that we can keep it in the basement; that nobody will ever know.

  Realistically, I know that it’s only a matter of time before he gets caught and I will not let him be a fool and go to prison to prove some stupid point.

  His memories of painting those paintings of me have clouded his judgment.

  They are not ours to keep in this life.

  The phone rings. It’s Alastar. Shit. I flick the button on the steering wheel.

  “Hello.”

  “What the hell do you think you are doing?” he screams in his deep Irish accent.

  I screw up my face. Oh, he’s never yelled at me before. “I’m, umm, returning the art,” I stammer as I stick my tongue out in concentration to turn the corner. Ah, it’s weird driving on the wrong side of the road. I could die here any minute. “Get back here now. You don’t have an international license.”

  I frown. Is he kidding. “Last time I looked, a fucking valid license was the least of our problems, Alastar,” I shout back.

  “They will blame you,” he screams. “Come and get me and I will tell them I did it.”

  “No.” Shit, what will I say? “I have already told Mark that it was dumped on my doorstep this morning when I woke up.”

  “What?” He screams. “He’s not fucking stupid, Emmaline.”

  “Yes, he fucking is!” I yell. God, I don’t need this shit. I’m stressed out enough already.

  “If they blame me… come and bail me out.”

  “Emmaline!” he yells.

  I push the button on the steering wheel and disconnect the call. I inhale deeply and wipe the perspiration from my forehead as I grip the steering wheel hard again. Holy crap, what am I doing? This is insane. My heart is beating so fast. I pull up into a loading bay outside of work and look around for a parking spot. Shit. I glance into the back seat and I know the three bags of paintings will be heavy for me to haul a long distance. Screw the parking ticket. Alastar can frigging pay for it. He got me into this mess. After parking the car, I put my handbag strap across my body and grab the three bags. I struggle up the steps and into reception. Oh, great, Stephanie is here early.

  She raises an eyebrow in question. “Collecting trash now?” She smirks sarcastically.

  “Something like that…” I answer, distracted. Jeez, these bags are heavy. “You could give me a hand, you know.” I groan.

  She smirks. “I could.” Then breaks into a broad smile. “But I won’t.”

  “Why are you such a bitch?” I frown.

  “Takes one to know one.” She waves sarcastically as I get into the elevator.

  I give her the bird and the doors close. Fuck, I hate that chick.

  I breathe heavily as I watch the dial turn, and finally I arrive at my destination. My floor. I drag the bags through the office and knock on Mark’s door. I hope he’s not in yet. Please don’t be here.

  “Come in,” he calls.

  My stomach drops. Shit. Go time.

  I open the door. “Hi, Mark.”

  “Hi, Emerson.” He looks me up and down. “You’re early.” I fake a smile. “Yes. I came out of my apartment and these
bags were on my doorstep.”

  He looks at them and frowns.

  “Did you get them delivered to me for some reason? Or am I supposed to know what they are?” I ask calmly.

  “What is it?” He frowns as he stands and walks around his desk.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I just opened one bag and it looked like some kind of old samples or something.”

  “Hmm.” He bends and opens the top of one of the bags and pulls out one of the canvases and opens it. “I’m not sure,” he murmurs deep in thought as he studies the painting.

  Oh, man, he really is stupid. Even I would know this is the stolen artwork.

  I put my hands on my hips. “Anyway, I will leave them with you. Maybe the auction team had them delivered to my home address by mistake or something,” I offer him as an explanation. He shrugs. “Hmm, I will look into it. Thanks for bringing them in.”

  I smile broadly. “No worries.” I hesitate, I need to keep him sweet. “I’m going to the café before I start work to get a coffee. Would you like one?” I ask, looking for an excuse to move the damn car before it gets towed and the police can trace Alastar ever being here.

  He smiles. “Thanks, that would be great.”

  I bounce out of the office and back to the lift. Damn it, I have to walk past dog patrol again. I put my head down and walk back past reception.

  “Where are you going?” Stephanie sneers.

  Oh, mind your own business stupid wench. “I’m getting a coffee,” I reply.

  “I’m telling Mark,” she threatens.

  My fury starts to simmer. “I am getting Mark a coffee, actually.” I fake a smile.

  She looks at me, deadpan.

  “With extra sugar.”

  “You don’t impress him, you know,” she sneers.

  I smile my first genuine smile for the day. “I’m not trying to, Stephanie. I kind of feel that it’s embarrassing trying to impress a man who doesn’t want you, you know?”

  She narrows her eyes just as the front door opens and we both turn. Horror hits me like a freight train when I see it’s Alastar. What the hell is he doing here?

  “Bye, Stephanie,” I grunt as I walk Alastar backwards out the door.

  “What are you doing here?” I whisper.

  “What are you doing?” He growls.

  “I gave the artwork back,” I whisper as I lead him to his parked car in the loading bay.

  “I told you I was going to handle it.”

  “It’s okay. I pretended it was delivered to my apartment. They don’t even know it’s the stolen art yet.”

  He puts his face into his two hands. “Emerson.” He sighs.

  I glare at him. “My name is Emmaline and don’t dare tell me you are handling it. I will not have you in prison.”

  He gets into the car and slams the door and I bang on the window and he opens it. “What?” He snaps, furious.

  “Book the castle for the wedding,” I tell him.

  “You will probably be in fucking prison,” he grumbles.

  “Shut up and do it,” I snap.

  He shakes his head angrily as the window winds up and pulls out into the traffic. I calm my pulsing heart and walk into the coffee shop to get a quadruple shot of anything.

  * * *

  As I wait for my coffee I ring Brielle.

  “Hi, babe,” she answers happily.

  “Can we meet for dinner tonight?” I ask.

  “Sure, where do you want to go?”

  “Italian. Our favourite?” I ask hopefully. “About eight.”

  “Cool. I will pick you up.”

  “No, that’s okay. I will meet you there. I am coming straight from work.”

  “Sounds fun.” She smiles. “See you then.” I hang up. She’s going to freak when I tell her what’s going on, and it’s going to go one of two ways. She’s either going to freak and run, or she’s going to embrace the weirdness of this whole fiasco and be my bridesmaid on Saturday. I’m telling her everything.

  I have to. She’s my life-long best friend.

  Twenty minutes and a million regrets later, I walk back into the office like I’m walking into prison. This was a stupid idea and I have no doubt that I am about to be arrested.

  Hell. What was I thinking? You can’t just waltz into your office with stolen artwork and pretend it was dumped at your door. The only good thing is that I know my building doesn’t have security cameras because they have been petitioning to get them.

  I knock on Mark’s door as I juggle our coffees in my hands.

  “Come in!” he calls.

  I walk in, trying not to act too nervous, and he is sitting back, swiveling on his chair whilst holding a pen, his knowing eyes holding mine.

  “The three bags of samples you found.”

  I swallow. “Yes.”

  “Is the stolen artwork…”

  “Oh... what?” An intelligent reply escapes me. Gosh, I really need Brielle here with her fast thinking, bullshit ways.

  “But you already know that, don’t you?” He raises an eyebrow in question.

  I drop my eyes to the floor. I’m not lying to him. I’m not being that sneaky person ever again.

  My eyes meet his. “I had my suspicions,” I whisper.

  “Who did this?” he asks.

  I drop my eyes back to the floor. Fuck. What do I say?

  “Star?” he asks. My eyes meet his.

  “Did Star do this? He is the only person around you that knows art like this.”

  “He’s not a thief,” I whisper.

  Marks eyes hold mine. “That’s not true. He stole you from me.”

  I swallow nervously. “I wasn’t yours to steal, Mark.”

  “You could have been,” he whispers. I stare at him through blurred vision, and for an extended time, we stay still as if grieving the friendship that we once had.

  I finally drag my eyes from his and he stands and looks out his window with his hands in his pockets.

  “Hand your resignation in immediately.” I stare at his back, unsure what to say next.

  “Hand it in now and I will tell them the art has turned up from an unknown source.” I swallow the sandy feeling in my throat. “Why would you do that?” I whisper.

  He turns and faces me. “For you, Emerson. Not him. You will be implicated in all of this and you know it. I can’t believe he would involve you.”

  “Mark,” I whisper.

  “And because, unlike you, my friendship was real,” he sneers.

  I frown as my irritation rises. “Mark.” How do I say this? “Stop making yourself out to be the hero here. You were sleeping with Stephanie all along. You didn’t have my best interests at heart, either, so stop pretending that you did.”

  His eyes hold mine.

  I close my eyes as regret fills me, knowing that wasn’t needed.

  “We were never going to work out,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

  His eyes hold mine for an extended time. “Not as sorry as I am,” he murmurs.

  I hesitate, and for the first time since arriving in London, I want to do something foreign. I want to hug him… but I wont.

  “Goodbye.” I smile softly through tears and I head toward the door.

  “Emerson?”

  I turn back. “Yes?”

  “He’s not good enough for you.”

  My eyes meet his. “You are wrong, Mark. I’m not good enough for him.” I turn and without further words, walk back to my office. I slowly pack up my desk before my colleagues arrive for the day and as I walk through the front doors and out into the London street, I say goodbye to my old life.

  I sit nervously at a table in the restaurant as I wait for Brielle. Alastar will be back in two hours and I know she will probably be long gone by then. She won’t understand this. Hell… I know I wouldn’t. Finally, she comes into view and takes a seat at the table.

  “Hey, babe.” She smiles as she grabs my hand.

  “Hi.”

  She opens the menu
straight up. “I am fucking starving. What are we eating?”

  I watch her for a moment as she peruses the menu. What do I say to her?

  What possible words could come out of my mouth to make this sound logical? Just come out with it.

  “I have something to tell you.”

  “You are not going home to Australia, so forget it,” she snaps without looking up from her menu.

  I rub my lips together as I watch her. Shit. “You know how I have been having weird things happen to me?” “Uh-huh.” She keeps reading.

  Will you just look at me?

  She keeps reading.

  “I worked out what they are. The pictures, the lights, the stories.” The waitress walks over. “Can I get you any drinks?”

  “I will have a margarita, please,” I reply. Brielle’s eyes light up. “Oh, sounds good. Me, too.” Her eyes lift to meet mine. “Sorry, yes. What were you saying?”

  “You know how I have been drawing and writing down my story about the young couple?”

  She smiles. “Yes, my famous author friend.”

  I swallow nervously. “Do you believe in reincarnation, Brell?”

  She purses her lips and frowns. “I don’t know. I have never thought about it, to be honest.” She shrugs. “Why?”

  My eyes hold hers as my nervous heart starts to pound. “I think…” I pause because I can’t believe the words that are coming out of my mouth. “I think—”

  “You think what?” she interrupts.

  “I think I may have been here before.”

  She frowns. “Here we are. Two margaritas.” I sit back guiltily as the waitress smiles and puts them onto the table. “Thank you,” I reply.

  Brielle looks at me in horror and leans into the table. “What?” she whispers. “Have you gone mad?”

  “I remember things, Brell. Things that I shouldn’t know.”

  She frowns.

  “The letters I have been reading and the story I have been writing are about me.”

  Her disturbed eyes hold mine. “What are you talking about, Emerson?”

  “I remember who I have loved in my past lives.”

  She shakes her head and tips it back as she begins to drain her margarita.