Lake

I lay in Aras’s arms, feeling satisfied, safe, wishing that feeling could last forever. As I came back to myself, a deep, almost overwhelming sweep of emotion came over me.

In those moments when I was with him, everything went away.

But after…

I should have felt guilty, been disgusted with myself, but I didn’t and I wasn’t.

And that made me feel worse than if I had been.

There been a time, a time that felt like another life now, that I would have been.

Would have been horrified by him, by myself.

Would have dissolved into tears and hysteria at my situation.

That I wasn’t only told me how broken I was. How much had been taken from me.

“You’re thinking about him,” Aras said, his fingers idly stroking my shoulder.

I didn’t respond and instead tried to pull away from him.

I already felt raw, open, and touching him only exacerbated that feeling.

It wasn’t like the physical distance would change what had happened. Even if I wasn’t touching him, I would remember how it had been to do so, would still feel him on my body, inside it, but the space would be something.

I made it maybe an inch before he tightened his arm around my waist, holding me in place.

I waited for that familiar surge of panic, anger at being confined.

It didn’t come.

Which only made me that much sadder.

“Let me go, please,” I said.

“No,” he responded.

The word was clear, his denial of my request even clearer, but there was something almost tender in it. Something that made me feel better, or would have if feeling better had been possible.

I didn’t know if it was. The time with him, when I was able to forget, was amazing, the closest thing to a blessing I’d had in so very long. But now, when I thought about the reality of where I was, what I had lost, I felt adrift on a sea of despair.

“You were, weren’t you?” he asked.

“I was what?” I responded.

He didn’t answer, clearly swatting away my attempt at deflection.

He didn’t say anything else, either. He just waited, knowing that I would eventually give in.

I knew it too.

But for some reason, that stubborn streak of pride, that thing that always made me try, chose that exact moment to rear its head.

I lay there, my shoulders tense, my entire body rigid.

It was stupid, probably even dangerous, but for some reason I couldn’t make myself speak.

He didn’t try to make me, either.

He just lay there, his body unyielding, just as I knew his question was.

But he didn’t force the matter, only stayed silent, and that silence was what finally forced me to look at him.

What I saw in his eyes almost broke me.

I would have understood pity. I was nothing if not pitiable.

I would have accepted anger. I knew it well, and at the very least was confident in my ability to navigate it.

But the patient acceptance I saw in his face was my undoing.

I felt tears burning of the back of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.

“What if I am?” I asked.

I sounded emotional, bitter, wounded, which made me feel that much more pathetic.

“There’s no shame in it,” he said.

“I don’t need your permission,” I spat, those words even more bitter than the ones I had said before.

“I’m not offering it. It’s telling you there’s no shame in thinking about him,” he said.

I waited for a retort, something that might least give me a little more distance from him, but none came.

I stayed silent, and so did he, and I prayed that he would leave.

Oh, there was a part of me, a big part, that wanted more than anything for him to stay. But that core of me, that vulnerable, raw part that he somehow was able to access so effortlessly, needed him to be gone.

This man was chipping away my defenses, picking at the walls I had built up, and I couldn’t afford to lose those.

They were the only things that protected me, and without them, I would be who I’d been before.

And who I’d been before would have no chance of surviving this life.

So I stayed quiet, prayed for him to leave.

He didn’t go.

He stayed, his gaze on me, the feeling familiar, the irritation born of that familiarity equally present, equally familiar.

“Well, that was nice. But you have other things to do,” I finally said.

I felt a little rip in my gut, no doubt my body responding to the way I had tried to dismiss what had happened between us.

It wasn’t nice.

I had felt seen, touched, and his overwhelming, undeniable presence had forced me to expose parts of myself that I never would have otherwise.

And I was grateful for it, grateful for the chance to allow some part of who I was out, even if only for a moment.

But this needed to stop.

“I don’t have anything else to do,” he said.

Unbidden, a smile came to my face, though I quickly pressed it down.

He was being intentionally dense, something that was irritating, but also strangely endearing.

There was a relentlessness in him that I admired, one that reminded me of myself.

Which was odd.

He and I couldn’t have been more dissimilar.

Sure, there were the outside things, but our differences were even more fundamental than that.

He was strong.

I was weak.

It was that fundamental truth that made us as different as two people could be.

Yet here we were, him trying to pull things out of me for reasons I didn’t understand.

Me, doing as I always did, resisting, failing.

“What do you want?” I finally said.

Even asking the question felt like a defeat.

It was a defeat, but the words were out, and there was nothing I could do to take them back.

So I twisted in his arms to face him.

I had deliberately kept my back to him, knowing that if I saw his face again I would probably fold.

That had been true.

I would tell him whatever he asked, but for a moment, I studied his expression.

It seemed closed off as usual, but there was something like compassion in it.

It was strange, because in the warped world that had been mine for so long, compassion would have made me feel worse, would have reminded me that I was a victim and that everyone could see that.

But I didn’t feel that when he looked at me.

I wasn’t exactly sure what I felt, but it wasn’t bad, at least not all of it.

“Tell me how you ended up with him,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter,” I responded.

“No. But I want to know anyway,” he said.

“You don’t get that me telling you it doesn’t matter was also me telling you that I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.

“I get it. But I don’t care.” His expression hadn’t changed, but I could feel mine turning down.

“It’s clear you don’t care. If you did, you wouldn’t ask me a question like that,” I said.

He didn’t respond, probably choosing not to take the bait.

An argument, even one I knew I wouldn’t win, was better than the alternative he was suggesting.

But it still came as no surprise that he was able to sniff out my attempt at deflection, toss it aside without a moment’s pause.

“Answer,” he said.

“Is that a request or demand?” I said.

I wasn’t sure why his response mattered so much.

I also didn’t know which would be better.

A demand would free me from some of my responsibility. I would speak because I had no other choice.

A request would be even more devastating. Because when I answered—and I would definitely answer—it would be because he asked, because I cared enough to answer.

“It’s whatever you need it to be,” he finally responded.

Yet another response that didn’t at all let me off the hook.

I stared at him, his eyes unwavering on mine, his face focused, intense, but not scary.

I turned away from him again, needing whatever distance he would allow, which was so very little.

And even though I wasn’t facing him, it was still almost too much.

I didn’t allow myself to think of those days, wasn’t able to bear the memories.

But I allowed them in now, closed my eyes, and let the past overtake me.

Then

“Ma, we can’t celebrate yet,” I said.

I had my phone pressed against my ear as I walked down the sidewalk, so excited that I was surprised I managed to keep my feet on the ground.

“Why not? You killed the interview. There’s no way you didn’t get the job,” my mother said.

Even though she was on the other side of the city, I could hear the joy in her voice, practically see her face.

“Don’t say that. I don’t want to jinx it,” I said.

“Jinx it, my butt,” she said dismissively. “I’m claiming it.”

“Fine, though I don’t know where this new optimistic you is coming from,” I said.

“From you,” she answered without pause, her voice dropping with her emotion.

“Thanks, Ma,” I said, my own emotions rising. “I have a few things to finish up, but then I’ll pick you up around six thirty for dinner.”

“See you at six thirty, baby.”

I hung up the phone and pushed into my pocket, still on cloud nine.

I didn’t even care that the sidewalk was packed, that it had to be a hundred degrees out and felt like a thousand in my black suit and stockings.

I was superstitious, so I really didn’t want to jinx it, but I just knew I had aced the interview. I was going to be hired as director of outreach for a billion-dollar charitable endowment, which meant I was going to be able to do all of the good I wanted with a real budget and real power behind me.

I was finally going to be able to help people.

That was all I had ever wanted to do.

I decided to take a cab. After all, I was celebrating. As I turned the corner, I shivered, feeling like the temperature had dropped.

A strange feeling, one that was quickly forgotten when I collided with someone.

“Excuse me—”

I started my automatic response, but when I looked up, it died in my throat.

My gaze landed on dark, assessing eyes, eyes that made me want to take a step back.

“Watch where you’re going, bitch,” the man said, his intimidating height and build making his gruff voice that much more intimidating.

He pushed past me then and kept walking until he got into a limo.

“Charming,” I muttered, but then I continued on, unwilling to allow him or anyone else to ruin this special day.

“That was fantastic, Ma,” I said, leaning back in my chair.

“Yeah. Even dessert was a little bit sweeter,” she said, swallowing the last of her wine, a rare splurge for her.

She was practically beaming and had been since the moment I’d arrived at her house to pick her up several hours ago.

“I just knew you could do it,” she said, smiling and shaking her head.

We’d finished our dinner and were waiting for the credit card. The Italian restaurant was more expensive than we’d usually choose, but we had celebrated so many special occasions here.

My college graduation, and when my mother, the most relentless person I had ever known, got her contractor’s license. She’d lost my dad when I was five, and even now, I knew she still carried that loss.

But she’d pushed past it, gave me the best life she could, and believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. She was my best friend, the cornerstone of my life.

She was also falling asleep at the table.

“Let me go get the check,” I said.

I often teased her that she would turn into a pumpkin if she were out after ten, but she was out of the house every morning by five, so ten counted as a late night for her.

I went to the maître d’s desk, or at least would have if it hadn’t been blocked.

A shiver of unease when through me when I looked at the broad back of the man standing at the booth.

“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. A table is being prepared, sir,” the maître d’ said.

He looked nervous, unnervingly so, and I suddenly noticed that the rest of the staff seemed frazzled, that conversations had died down.

I glanced at the man standing at the booth, the source of all of the bad energy in the place, and was stunned when I realized he was the person I’d bumped into earlier.

I looked away quickly, wanted to slink back to my table, and probably would have if I didn’t fear that would bring me to his attention.

So I stood, waiting, but then finally saw when my waiter caught my eye and gave me a slight smile and waved the leather folio that held my card.

I went back to the table, grateful to put distance between me and that awful man, though I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he was watching me.

“I’m sorry that took so long, ladies. Thank you and please enjoy your evening,” the waiter said.

He smiled, was friendly, but I could see the tension in his expression.

“Is there a VIP in the house or something?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

“Something like that,” he said, his words clipped.

“Well, you have a good night,” I said, deciding to the let the matter drop as the waiter clearly wanted me to.

“You too,” he said.

My mother and I left the restaurant, and when we reached her house, I gave her a huge hug. I hadn’t lived in the small, two-bedroom house for years, but it would always be home to me.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said.

“You know I couldn’t do any of this without you, right?” I said.

“Not right. You can do anything. I’m just blessed that I got to be here for the ride,” she said, smiling.

“Don’t get all sappy before bed,” I said, giving her another hug.

“Call me when you get home,” she said.

“Okay,” I responded, smiling.

I made the quick ten-minute trip to my own house.

I’d had a roommate, but she had flaked on me and moved in with her boyfriend three months ago. I’d tried to swing the rent, but it was too much, so I was in the process of moving out.

My mother hadn’t offered to allow me to come home.

I knew her door was always open, but I wanted to make my own way, and though I loved her and would enjoy seeing her every day, I felt like I needed to be on my own.

I knew she had probably fallen asleep, so I fired off a quick text telling her I was home.

Her response was almost instantaneous.

Night, sweet girl :)

I smiled and then went to the kitchen for water, trying to decide whether I should keep packing.

Decided against it.

I had a new book waiting for me, and I would continue my celebration by reading it.

I was settling into bed when a sense of unease came over me.

I didn’t understand it, didn’t know where it came from, but the panic that rose up in my chest was instant, almost overwhelming.

“Don’t get up on my account.”

I shrieked when I heard the voice—deep, slightly accented, scary—then looked at my bedroom door, wanting to blank, thinking that maybe if I did, the figure that loomed in my doorway would be gone.

But I was too terrified to do so, not wanting to risk taking my eyes off it.

So I lay there, frozen, watching as the figure, a man, got closer.

Inhaled sharply when he stepped into the room.

My bedside lamp was off, but I didn’t need much light.

Instantly, I saw it was the man from before, the one I had bumped into.

“What are—what are you doing here?” I asked, surprised that I could speak.

“You made quite an impression today,” he said.

“I-I’m sorry,” I said.

I didn’t know why I was apologizing, but it seemed like the right thing to do.

“You seem sincere about that,” he responded.

“I am,” I said, not sure what else to say.

“I appreciate that. And I appreciate you.”

His eyes took on a shine, one that made the terror that seemed to be choking the air out of my lungs that much worse.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

The man didn’t speak.

Instead he smiled, the expression cold, sinister.

In that moment, I knew my life would never be the same.

Lake

“So that’s my story. Kidnapped. Twice,” I said, putting emphasis on the last word, though Aras didn’t acknowledge that. After a moment, I sighed. “Random chance. Funny how that works.”

I laughed, but the sound was almost completely unhinged.

“That’s life, I guess,” Aras said.

“And before you ask,” I continued, “I would have left. Even thought about doing it more than once. But then one day he showed up, said he had something he wanted me to see.”

I had wrapped my arms around my body, a defensive attempt to protect myself, something I knew I could never do.

“He handed me an envelope. I didn’t want to look inside, couldn’t imagine what was in it. But I did. It was my house, the house I’d grown up in. Every room, even the inside of the refrigerator. And a single picture of my mother in bed, sleeping,” I said.

It had been three, maybe four years since I had seen that picture, but the memory of that feeling hadn’t ever left me, only got more intense as the years went by.

“He never said anything, but he didn’t need words. I knew what he would do her.”

I squeezed my arms tighter, this time letting the tears come and not trying to hide them.

“She died last year.”

I hadn’t ever said those words out loud to anyone. Didn’t really let myself think about them or the way Vlad had told me, how offhanded it had been, like she was nothing.

“Cancer. She went through it all alone. Left this world wondering why I didn’t love her. Wondering what she had done to push me away,” I said. “I didn’t think about leaving again. After she was gone, I didn’t see the point.”

I felt like I was outside of myself, like the anguish in my voice wasn’t mine. But no matter how much I wished, how desperately I wanted it to be otherwise, the pain, the reality that went with it, was mine.

“Are you going to try to comfort me, tell me that she knew I loved her, wouldn’t leave her if it was my choice?” I spat.

“No.”

“Thanks,” I responded.

He didn’t say anything after that.