by Scott, S. L.
One Mississippi.
Two Mississippi.
Three Mississippi.
Four Mississippi.
Five Mississippi.
Six Mississippi.
Seven Mississippi.
Eight Mississippi.
Nine Mississippi.
Ten Mississippi.
When I come up for air, Ethan is sitting on the far edge of the tub. “Do you want to come in?” I ask, my voice sounding more normal than it should.
“Are you sure?”
Pouring body wash under the rushing waters, I reply, “I wouldn’t have asked you if I wasn’t.” I’m curt. Rude. When I shouldn’t be. I don’t like this. This version of me. This version of us. It’s tainted like the clothes he’s taking off.
When he gets in, the water rises higher before crashing over the edge into the draining reservoir. I move without him having to ask. I don’t even know if he wants me on his side, but I want him on mine, so I move. His arms wrap around me when my back presses to his chest.
My best friend is dead and . . . the image of seeing her moved into the ambulance—lifeless—clenches my heart, my breath stopping in my chest. Will it away. Will it away. My hands squeeze his. Will it away. When I start breathing again, the moon draws my attention.
The pain becomes an unbearable ache in my chest. His silence deepens the open wounds already swallowing me. “I know what you’re doing, Ethan. You’re taking the blame to justify what happened. You’re trying to coax reasoning into something that has none. It’s murder. We can’t make sense of that.”
“If we wouldn’t have been dat—”
“We wouldn’t have found love.” I lean my head back on his shoulder. “We’re damaged, but not broken.” Maneuvering through the silky waters, I sit sideways so I can see his face. Daring to touch him, I’m gentle when I caress his cheek, and turn him toward me. “Look at me.” When he doesn’t, or can’t, I beg, “Look at me, Ethan. Please.”
“I can’t.”
“Why? Why are you keeping me out?”
“Because I caused the pain that hurts you too much.”
Taking his face between both hands, I plead, “You didn’t. Please don’t shut me out. I can’t bear it. I won’t survive.” I move even closer, pressing my lips to his, forcing him to feel me if he won’t look. “I need you, Ethan.” I kiss the side of his lips. “Hold me.” When his arms come around me, I push for more. “Touch me. Please.”
“How?” When I kiss him this time, I receive one lighter in return. “Show me.”
I lean my head against his cheek and find his hand under the water. Lifting it, I bring to the curve of my neck. “Touch me, Ethan. Touch me with the love you feel.”
His fingers span the back of my neck and he brings me closer. We kiss, this time with the purpose I’m wanting, the feeling I need. With one hand on my back and the other sliding down my front, my breathing becomes jagged. His tongue is firm, but pliable, wrapping around mine and owning the rest of my mouth. The hardness beneath me tempts as I try to forget the outside world and live in his for a while. I lift up and position him, easing down and watching his face, the ecstasy that forms from our bond taking over.
Finally.
I can breathe.
His gaze lifts to mine and I feel the pounding of my heart beneath my hand.
The air leaving my chest.
The love I feel for this man.
Finally.
We exist again. My heartstring reattached to his. The gentle, but stormy-colored eyes. I’ll take them. They aren’t bright like the day I met him, but they’re his and mine, and I’ll take this over shame and guilt and pain any day.
My hands find the muscles in his thighs and I lift. He pulls. I push. He thrusts.
We love.
We love.
We love.
I wrap my arms around his neck, needing every part of my body touching his. All of my soul tangled with his. All of me, his.
His.
We make love until we both find the peace we used to take for granted. We make peace until we both find a place to land. We land in each other’s arms a knotted mess, keeping the outside world at bay for a short time. We keep the lights low and our voices lower, but in the dark of the safest haven I know, only three words are uttered. First by me. Then by him.
“I love you.”
Words that come with unspoken promises. Something we lost in the wreckage is found in each other’s arms.
Hope
. . . and then I cry.
31
Singer
I awoke when the phone rang and sat up to see Ethan and Lars sitting at the table. The call came around seven in the morning. Aaron was out of surgery and was resting. With no complications they said he could have visitors mid-morning. I wanted to be his first.
I wasn’t.
His daughter was.
At fourteen, I could see the resemblance to her father. They share the same eyes that seem wise beyond their years. After meeting her quickly, I watch her from down the hall, giving her time and space with her father despite feeling anxious to see him myself. “Did you know he had a daughter?” I ask Ethan quietly as we walk to the waiting area.
“Yes.”
“He works all hours of the day for you and sometimes night. When does he see her?”
“She’s in school, but sometimes in the evenings she rides along with him. He closes the glass and they talk upfront. They’re very close.”
“I didn’t even know there was a glass divider in the car.”
I catch the roll of his eyes. “That’s because he never used it with you. With me, he’s not so polite.”
I refuse to think about Melanie, and with Aaron set to recover, I focus my thoughts on him. “He was young when he had her.”
“He was young. He’s only thirty-two.”
“Is he married?”
After sitting, Ethan looks around before leaning forward and resting his arms on his legs. “She died in a car accident when Caroline was seven.”
My gasp is heard before I cover my mouth. “That’s awful.”
“He once told me that they dated all through high school and when she got pregnant he had no doubt about what they should do. They eloped and came back a married couple, living with his parents until he graduated from college. His wife was happy to stay home and raise their daughter.”
“Caroline is a pretty name.”
“She’s a great girl. Very levelheaded.”
“Like Aaron.”
“Just like her father.”
“Ms. Davis?” I look up when I hear my name. A nurse smiles. “Mr. Westinghouse can see you now.”
Taking Ethan’s hand, we walk down the hall to Aaron’s room. When we push open the door, his daughter is next to her father, and Aaron turns toward us. With a smile, he says, “Good morning, Singer. Morning, Ethan.”
“Good morning.” I go to him and hug him gently.
Jokingly, he says, “Careful or you’ll make the boss man jealous.”
Ethan comes over and says, “Too late.” They shake hands, keeping it professional, but I can see Ethan getting choked up. “How are you?”
“Good as can be after being shot twice.”
One of his arms is in a cast and his leg is wrapped the same. “Twice?”
He nods. “Once in the arm. Once in the leg. Neither was life-threatening fortunately.” The smile falls from his face when he looks at me. “I’m sorry, Singer.”
The words of reassurance I want to give him get caught in my throat, the sharp edges stabbing me. Ethan is behind me, his hands on my shoulders, speaking for me when I can’t. “We’re glad you’re okay. I don’t want to think about training someone else.”
Aaron laughs and when it turns into a hacking cough, Caroline pours him a glass of water. When his throat is clear, he asks his daughter to excuse them for a few minutes. She goes and as he watches her I can see the love in his eyes. As soon as the door closes, he says, “She doesn�
�t know the details, and she doesn’t need to.” His eyes find mine and his voice shakes. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save her.”
With my hands on the railing of the bed, I hold myself up while walking around to the chair on the other side. I sit, but I don’t look at him. I can’t. He continues, “She held on as long as she could.” My pain resurfaces like a bullet to my own heart when he adds, “You were a sister to her.”
“She said that?”
He angles toward me despite his own pain. “She said she loved you like a sister. I promised I would tell you.”
I bury my face in my hands unable to look at him, though he bears no responsibility for something he couldn’t control. I want to make him feel better, but my own heartbreak prevents me from giving away something I don’t have. Finally, I ask what I know her parents are going to ask of me, “Did she suffer more than she had to?”
“She said what she wanted to say.”
“Did she say more?”
“She sent love to her parents and said she was in love. Life was good because she fell in love.”
The tears cloud my view and my cries make me barrel over and rock. “She was my best friend. She was my sister.” The deep-seated guilt bubbles. “When we came to New York, I promised we would make all our dreams come true. And look what’s happened. I will never forgive myself.”
Ethan is there, right in front of me, kneeling. The pressure of his hands breaks through my spinning mind, and I look at him. “Don’t do this, Singer. You’re the one who told me it’s not our fault.”
Standing, I go to the door. “She was killed because they were trying to kill me. How can I live with that?” Turning to Aaron, I say, “I’m thankful you’re okay, but I can’t stay. I’m so sorry.” I run out of the room and down the hall. As soon as I exit the hospital flashes go off and reporters start shouting my name, aiming questions and their cameras at me.
Desperately searching for the SUV, I can’t find it and my body starts caving in to block them out. My body is shielded, Lars directing me to stay close as he puts himself between them and me. “Twenty feet northeast.” We hurry ahead. The door is opened and I climb in. He’s next to me, and says to the driver, “Drive.”
I’m quiet for minutes, but with him sitting so close, I can’t let this opportunity slip by. “It’s true, isn’t it? Someone meant to kill me, not her.”
A miniscule squint of Lars’s eyes reveals the break from his usual composure, but then his expression loses emotion. “I think you should speak to Mr. Everest.”
“I have. I want the whole truth now. He’ll say anything to protect me. I don’t need emotional protection. I need answers.” I stare at him, not letting him off the hook. “Please tell me. I’m better with information. I can’t move on when I don’t have answers.”
Mulling it over, I see him shift his gaze out the window, a debate raging between his professionalism and his humanity.
I push harder. “Please, Lars. Please.”
He swallows hard enough for me to pick up on the action. Looking me over, he says, “Without the suspect in custody, this is only my opinion.”
“I’ll take it.”
There’s a coldness that he relies on, protecting himself with a clear wall that divides us. I’m starting to think it’s how he protects himself from getting attached to his clients. It’s sad that he seems detached from people in general. But maybe that’s why he’s so good at his job. “I do believe someone meant to kill you, and that Ms. Lazarus was murdered because of mistaken identity.”
My unfounded conclusions are founded in an expert’s confirmation. My best friend is dead because of me, because of my relationship with Ethan. That’s the part that’s the hardest to stomach. Could I have prevented this? Is it as simple as saying if I wouldn’t have started dating him, she’d be alive?
I have a feeling it’s not.
Conflicted, I say, “Thank you,” and turn back to my own thoughts.
“I’m sorry about your friend.”
Hearing him continue speaking so openly surprises me. He’s an observer, but right now, he feels more like a confidant, a friend. When our eyes meet, the coldness that was there is gone, the ice melted into warmer browns. “Thank you.”
“How are you doing?”
“The best I can.” We’re having a conversation. Lars and I are talking and it’s not uncomfortable or weird. It’s . . . nice. “I’ll see her family today. They fly in—”
“I have a car scheduled to pick them up.”
“Ethan thinks of everything.”
“I know in your mind, amidst the chaos of emotions you must be sorting through, on the surface it will be easy to fall into the trap of blame. I’m not trying to butt in where I shouldn’t, but he’s hurting inside. The attack on you was awful, but he carries that blame on his shoulders. Now the death of your friend and Aaron being shot . . . ” He stops as if he’s said too much.
“I worry about him. I do. I feel like I’m worrying about everyone, and I’m struggling.”
“You’re allowed to mourn, Singer.”
I close my eyes, tired of this nightmare I can’t seem to wake from. Turning back to the not-so-fascinating sidewalks of Manhattan, I say, “I hate the guilt I’m feeling for everyone.”
“He’s a grown man who can handle himself.”
“Lars—” I don’t want to talk about it anymore.
“I think people have this impression that he can handle any tackle life throws his way.”
“Is that a football reference?”
“He can throw down. I’ve seen him stand up to assholes, but on the inside, he’s this guy who created something phenomenal, this incredible brainy tech company. So Ethan has this unique balance that allows him to relate easily to a variety of people. What they don’t see is his struggle to be all things for everyone.”
“I think there’s a life lesson in here somewhere.”
“There always is when there’s a sport reference involved.” His own joke makes him smile.
I’m not in the mood to laugh, but seeing a man of his disposition smile, forces mine out on this overcast day. “Okay, but the point is?”
“Sometimes we don’t choose the load we’re meant to carry. Sometimes we do. But we have to stay in the game. Despite a bad play or fumble, we have to fight for the ball to get a touchdown or the other guys win. Don’t let the bad guys win, Singer. Fight.”
We’re shadowed in darkness when the SUV pulls into the parking garage, stopping in front of the elevator. A man I don’t recognize is stationed in front of it, and I take a deep breath, not sure if I’m ready to be locked away in the tower. Going back to my apartment is not an option though.
Lars opens the door and gets out, holding it for me. I slide across the black leather and step out. Our eyes meet, and I say, “Fight.”
He nods with a small smile, but says nothing. Within seconds, his façade of indifference is back in place.
The ride in the elevator is quiet despite the man in here with me. I’m too tired to make polite conversation, so I lean my head against the stainless steel wall and wait in silence.
The door opens and I walk into the penthouse, rounding the corner to the living room and almost stumble over two suitcases.
Two suitcases.
Two suitcases I recognize, but they’re not mine. Standing there, I’m baffled and my heart hurts. I grab my phone from my pocket and call Ethan.
“Hey,” he answers right away. “Where are you?”
“The penthouse,” I reply, kind of hating myself for calling it that more often than not lately.
“Will you be there when I get back?”
“Ethan,” I say, resting against the back of the couch. “I know this is hard on you. I’m not trying to take that away, but I’m feeling suffocated in this place, by the security, by people all around me, needing me to react or respond or be one thing or the next. I’ll be here. I don’t mean to sound like I’m not grateful, or I don’t want to see you. I do
, but I need time with my thoughts.”
“I’ll give you whatever you need, Singer.”
“I know. I know you will because you’re putting yourself last when you need to be putting yourself first. Don’t bury your feelings like you did over the last year. Deal with them head-on. I’m going to try my best to do the same.”
“It’s a dark place to go.”
“You don’t have to live there. You can just visit, but you need to do it for you, and for me.” His breathing is the only sound shared from the other end of the line. “I need to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Why are these suitcases here?”
“I had someone pick up some of your clothes for you. You needed more than a pair of jeans and my T-shirts.”
“Those are Melanie’s suitcases.”
“What do you mean? They weren’t supposed to touch anything except clothes from your room.”
“They did,” I say, tearing up again when I thought I had cried them already. “My clothes are in her suitcases.”
“I’m sorry. They must have misunder—”
“They were under my bed. They didn’t know, but now I’m here, staring at her suitcases.” My anguish rolls through me and I start to cry. “She got them for college graduation to take her on all the adventures she dreamed of going on. They’re hers, but they’re here.”
“I can have them removed.”
“Removed like her.” No. We can’t . . .
“Jesus, Singer.” His voice is panicked. “I didn’t mean. Fuck. I’ll be there in less than fifteen minutes.”
I hang up, drop the phone on the couch, and kick the cases as hard as I can, and they land with a thud. I don’t feel better like I thought I would. I feel worse.
Melanie’s dreams were stolen from her just like her life. Sinking to the floor, pain shoots through my scabbed knees, but I don’t care. I rest my head on the large navy-blue suitcase; my arms extend over it, wishing it were my friend.
Why bother wiping tears away? Who’s that for anyway? Me? I don’t need to lie to myself by pretending this doesn’t hurt.
The metaphor of my stuff in her cases isn’t lost. She’d want me to eat life up, to live it fully, to celebrate the little things like romance movies at Christmas and the big things like finding love in a city of eight and a half million people.
