TWENTY-TWO
HOME
I can’t sleep.
I kept the sweatshirt on, but the linen feels scratchy against my bare legs. I fidget and toss around in my bed, replaying the evening’s events in my head. I suspect I’ve absorbed too much intel at once; my long-neglected neurons are working overtime . . . thinking of March sleeping in the bed next to mine. So close and so far.
It should make me happy. No, actually it should rock my world that I have this, someone who knows me intimately, who loves me enough to stick with me and persist against the odds of man and nature. Instead I feel lost, inadequate. I’ve forgotten almost everything about him. He’s been looking for me for all this time, he fought off killer dolphins at the Poseidon Dome for me, and here I am before him, an empty shell with nothing to give back.
I’m not even sure how I feel about him; all I know is that pull when I’m around him, equal parts fear and need. It’s like my heart is continuously breaking in slow motion, piece by piece. I fold and unfold my legs for the umpteenth time. How can he sleep so easily? I roll around and watch him in the dark. He sleeps on his side, bare chested, his back turned to me.
The street lamps outside cast a faint yellowish light that filters through worn net curtains. It caresses his skin, gilds an intriguing geography of muscles, veins . . . scars. Once my gaze settles on it, the disk of tortured flesh on his back is all I can see. It’s about the size of a Frisbee, stretching from his left shoulder to the valley of his spine. I can’t make out the details clearly from my vantage point. But you’ve seen it. Touched it. You know . . . The memory is at arm’s reach, tantalizingly close to the surface. I need to get closer.
I slip out of the covers with excruciating care and venture a toe on the carpet. Then another. I hold my breath as I creep to his bed. I can’t shake a sense of déjà vu about all this, me standing next to a bed he’s sleeping in. After a moment of hesitation, I sit on the very edge of the mattress, like a sparrow ready to take off at the slightest threat. An odd combination of guilt and excitement sizzles through me as my fingertips graze the covers. He doesn’t react. He should: any self-respecting killer would have been awake, gun in hand by now.
“Biscuit . . .”
The quiet echo of his voice makes me jump out of my skin. I nearly fly away to the other end of the room before I steel my resolve. I need to do this. I ball my fists and sit back. His leg touches mine through the covers, heat seeping between us.
“Do you want me to make some room for you?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
Even as I say so, my hand has moved of its own volition to touch him. The heat of his skin draws me. He lies perfectly still, allowing the journey of my palm up his arm, around his shoulder, until under my fingers, the flesh becomes a rough canvas of raised scars forming a lion head. My own skin prickles, aches for him as I explore the sadistically detailed pattern: triangular ridges for the fangs, a sinewy trail sliced through the skin that looks like a river, a multitude of symmetrical dents to represent a field, perhaps.
One word booms in my mind, taking a whole new meaning. Broer. I see Anies’s hand on Stiles’s shoulder, calling him his brother. At the time, I thought nothing of it. It was nothing but a way to reward a goon’s loyalty, to tell him he was kind of part of the family too. But now that I see March’s back, I think of the blood, of the hours spent in agony as someone carved that same loyalty into his flesh . . . I take the full measure of what it means to be one of Anies’s “brothers.”
“Why did you let them do that to you?”
March sits up, his arms reaching for me, and I’m on my feet and away from the bed just as fast. I hear the husky plea in his voice as his hand extends to beckon me back. “Island, please . . .”
I know that this whole situation is just as messed up for him as it is for me, but I can’t help it: I’m still afraid . . . of him? I’m not even sure of that. My heart is beating fast, so maybe a little. I wish I were stronger, but my world had been so tiny, so slow, so foggy for all this time, and now the rush of the past few days terrifies me. It’s a continuous free fall toward a glint of light down below, at the end of this rabbit hole. And yet, I need to overcome that fear and find my way back to him, because deep down, something tells me he’s the safest rope to hold on to.
So, with cautious steps, I return to March’s bed and sit by his side. I can feel his gaze on me, ever attentive, but I don’t look at him yet. I need a little time to ease back into this strange intimacy. He makes no attempt to touch me, and I’m grateful for that.
Next to me, I feel him shift. “I didn’t mean to scare you . . .”
“I know . . . I guess I’m a little on edge.”
His reply comes with a sigh. “That makes two of us, I suppose.”
In a way, I find it reassuring that we’re on the same page. Are relationships like riding a bike, something you can’t really forget, that comes back naturally if you give it a try? I scoot closer, until my shoulder is touching his arm. I reach for his hand, and his fingers close around mine, his thumb stroking my palm softly.
I peek up at the curve of his lips I can make out in the dark. What’s the worst that could happen? Is my life going to get any weirder anyway? I free my hand to trace his jaw gingerly. I feel him startle and then relax as I trail down, drawing a path along his neck, his clavicles. His chest. My fingers splay across what can only be described as follicular nirvana. The hair is just like I dreamed it . . . soft, curly, fuzzy, dusting his pectorals and trailing all the way down a six-pack I want to believe can cure amnesia.
One of March’s hands settles on the small of my back, and his breathing quickens as my palm glides down his stomach. His skin feels hot; it ripples under my fingertips when his muscles contract. I’m not naïve; I know what my touch is doing to him, but I’m not ready to venture that far down yet. I’m thinking that maybe I should stop when I feel a deep dent a few inches away from his navel. There, a patch of the divine fleece appears to be missing, and the skin feels a little different.
His head dips until his chin is brushing my cheek, the caress made rough by a little stubble. “I was very lucky. The second one did more damage.”
The second one . . . My body tenses; a nameless fear spills in my stomach. “Where?”
March takes my hand and slowly guides it across his chest, right under his heart. The scar here feels shallower, but tracing it, I feel a jagged line running along his ribs.
He nuzzles my hair. “Dries dragged me out of the dome just in time, but he had been shot too, by Mr. Morgan. We were both in very bad shape when the Queen’s men found us . . . On the bright side, I am now the proud owner of a 3-D-printed rib.”
I wish I could smile, but around me the room is spinning. Mile-high glass walls are crackling, threatening to collapse on me. My dress is red, and March’s blood is everywhere. A paralyzing terror freezes my limbs like ice. I can’t move; I can’t escape. We’re being swallowed by water, and I hear Mozart again. I recognize the Queen of the Night’s aria. Stiles. Stiles’s suit. His sniper rifle. I try to hold on to March, terrified to lose him, but I can’t save him and he’s fading away in the darkness . . . Yet I feel his arms around me, strong, warm, alive, hauling me back to reality. In the safe cradle of his embrace, I break down and howl. “He shot you . . . He shot you!”
I barely register March’s strangled gasp against my cheek. “You remember.”
I’m swallowed by a tide of emotions I can’t handle, and I let go. I taste salt at the corner of my mouth, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut because tears are blinding me. I bury my face in the crook of his neck, breathe a little soap and the deeper, unique musk of him. I know that scent. I love it. My fingertips claw at silky curls on his chest. I know this too, it’s comforting and warm, and it’s mine. March holds me tighter, rocking my tears away.
I think I’ve found my way home.
•••
It took me a little while to calm down. The room has become quiet again, our breathing the only ripples marring the silence. Under the covers, March and I made a little cocoon for ourselves, safe from the outside world, where we lie together. I’m safe, drained, and, after all that crying, strangely happy. His lips linger on my forehead, graze my temple. His hand rests on my hip; our legs are intertwined. He’s all around me. I know it’s corny, but the way our bodies are molded together, I’m thinking of the yin and yang symbol. A contented sigh fans against my cheek as he falls asleep.
He didn’t ask whether I’m ready to return to Viktor’s casino. We both know I am. I want my memories back. All of them.