CHAPTER 26
CARLOS
Three Years Ago
July 21
Puerto Escondido, Mexico
I swirled a brush through the cadmium yellow and tried to focus on the final touches of a painting a local restaurant had commissioned. Another sunset to match the other three in a private dining room: El otoño, El invierno, and La primavera. Autumn, winter, and spring. I’d deliver El verano in a few weeks, once the canvas dried.
Sweat dotted my brow and pooled in my lower back, just above the waist of my jeans. The air conditioner was working overtime but it was still hot as a mother inside the studio. I fanned my shirt. The headache didn’t help either, although it no longer felt like the sledgehammer it had been. I finally went to the clinic for a prescription after last week’s blackout. The doctor reasoned dizziness and dehydration caused the blackout and my headaches were from stress. But I hadn’t told him my full story, and, ten days later, I was still shaken by the ordeal.
So was Julian. Every day since, he’d asked if I knew that he was my son, which only reinforced what I’d always feared. James wouldn’t want Julian and Marcus because he wouldn’t think of them as his.
Because I was a stubborn ass—Natalya’s words, not mine—and refused to do the research, she got in touch with Dr. Edith Feinstein, a neuropsychologist in the States. Natalya described to the doctor what she knew of my condition and mentioned the blackout as well as my nightmares, which had been on my mind throughout the entire ride with Julian. Without examining me, Dr. Feinstein could only postulate that my nightmares were dissociative memories and I’d experienced a flashback. The traumatic emotions the nightmare evoked may have triggered the flashback, and for those terrifying ten minutes I’d experienced a different identity state. I might have been James or someone else entirely. I just wasn’t me.
Their conversation went on for more than an hour. Dr. Feinstein explained some things we already knew. My condition was the result of a psychological trauma, not a physical injury. That was why I could speak, write, and read in Spanish. I could run marathons without remembering how I trained. It was also why I could paint like a professional artist. Because James could do those things. The only thing missing was my past, which was locked up tight in my head. It was why people with my condition could easily pick up and start new lives. Or in my case, step into a life that had been fabricated for me.
Dr. Feinstein asked Natalya if I was interested in treatment. Hypnotherapy might unlock the memories and I could go back to my life as James. When Natalya declined on my behalf, the doctor noted that whether or not I elected to proceed, I might not have a choice. My mind would decide when it was ready to heal. It would know when I was ready to confront the stresses and trauma that had pushed me into this state. The switch could be today, tomorrow, or years from now. And the transition to my previous identity would be quick.
Before they ended the call, Dr. Feinstein had one last word of advice. I’d taken it as a warning, one that had driven me in the early hours of the morning to document every single detail about my life. On some level, I would sense when I’d be ready to confront my demons. The increased frequency and improved clarity of the nightmares, and now the blackout, were possible indications my mind was preparing. She advised Natalya, being my significant other, as Natalya had introduced herself, that she needed to mentally and emotionally prepare herself. When my transition happened, our lives would be seriously disrupted. I’d likely experience severe depression, grief, and shame. There might be mood disorders, suicidal tendencies, and an inclination toward aggression.
Great. I’m going to be an asshole. Just one more thing for me to worry about, I thought, tossing aside the paintbrush.
Behind me, sandals scuffed across the hardwood floor. The essence of coconut sunscreen reached me before Nat’s arms folded around me. She rested her chin on my shoulder. I lifted her forearm to my lips, tasting salt and the bitterness of lotion.
“I don’t want to leave you.” There was a concerned edge in her whisper.
“Then stay.” I unfolded her arms and tugged her around in front of me, settling her between my legs. The stool I was sitting on put me at eye level with her.
She clasped her hands behind my neck. Her thumbs stroked my scalp. “You know I can’t.”
Meetings, travel, big deals to negotiate. A tournament in South Africa. A visit with her younger brother. She’d be back in Puerto Escondido for a brief visit in September, and again in November for the torneo de surf. Between those visits, we’d text and FaceTime, talk on the phone. Despite that, September seemed a long time away, especially when all I wanted to do was hold and kiss her. Move deeply inside her warmth. Marry her, and convince her to adopt my sons.
I kissed her, achingly soft and agonizingly slow. I felt the tingle from the metallic taste of her medicated lip balm, but I didn’t care. I poured everything I felt for her into that kiss. My love, compassion, and fears. Her fingers dug into my neck and her pelvis ground into mine, urging me to deepen the kiss, to take her one last time before she boarded the plane.
“Marry me,” I whispered against her lips. She whimpered and I asked again. “Please marry me.”
Her lips released mine. She pressed her forehead to mine and murmured my name. This hadn’t been the first time I’d asked.
“Do you love me?” I hated the emptiness in my tone.
She stepped from my embrace and my hands fell to my lap. Cool air swirled into the space she left. My gaze washed over her as she took interest in the paint drops on the floor. She twisted her hair. Emotions played on her face, confusion and uncertainty. I lifted her chin and we watched each other for a moment. “Nat, do you love me?”
“Yes. With all my heart.”
“Then why won’t you marry me?” I asked. Then, unexpectedly, I thought of her scars, battle wounds I never asked about, figuring she’d one day be brave enough to tell me. I’d waited long enough. She’d told me she was on birth control. Maybe there was something more going on. “Can you have children?”
She stiffened. “I hope so.”
“But your scars?”
She frowned. “My scars?”
I skimmed my thumbs along the inside of her hip bones. “Did you have surgery?” Her mother passed from ovarian cancer. “Were you sick?” I didn’t like that she would have kept such a thing from me were that true. I still needed to know.
“Sick?” She looked down at my hands where they clasped her hips. “I got those while surfing.” It was my turn to frown. “A wave pushed me into some sharp rocks when I was seventeen. They punctured my skin and it hurt like a bitch, but that has nothing to do with why I won’t marry you.”
“Then what is it?” I practically growled the question, frustrated for an answer.
Her whole body wilted. “I want to marry you, I really do. It’s just . . . I’m afraid you’re only marrying me for the kids’ sake.”
“Dios, Nat.” She didn’t think I wanted her. “I love you. It’s you I want every goddamn second of the day. There’s no one else I want to be with.”
“You say that now.”
My hands fell from her. I slid off the stool and backed a step away. God, I’m an idiot. “You’re afraid I’ll want to be with Aimee.”
“It’s a logical fear, Carlos. You’re convinced the fugue will end. You’re also convinced James won’t want your sons or that he’ll be unable to keep them safe from your family. Us getting married puts me in the exact same predicament as Julian and Marcus. I’m scared you’ll just leave me behind, too.”
“Nat . . .” My world crashed. She turned away, looking as lost and forlorn as I felt. I wanted to punch something. Life was so goddamn unfair because Nat was right. I shoved a hand into my hair and gripped hard.
Her phone buzzed with an appointment alarm. She looked at the time. “I have to go.” She put the phone away then gave me a long look. Reaching out, she skimmed her fingers along my unshaven jaw. I captured her hand and pressed my lips to her palm, holding her there.
“Let James decide what he wants,” she said, locking her gaze with mine when I released her hand.
I shook my head hard. “I can’t do that. I don’t care what Aimee told me. I can’t see that guy she described.” Yet I wanted to tie her to me. I ground my teeth and looked away.
“Hey.” She coaxed me back with the gentle touch of her fingers on my face. “If he doesn’t want the boys, or if he doesn’t think he can keep them safe from his family, then, yes, I’ll adopt them. I’ll give them a good home. You can put that in your journal so James knows.”
I put both hands on her face and kissed her hard, somewhat desperately. “Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you.” I would take whatever she was willing to give me.
“I love you, Carlos.”
I hugged her tightly. “I’ll always love you.”
She murmured in my ear then said good-bye, stepping from my embrace. I grasped her hand, her fingers falling from mine as she backed away. The door closed behind her, leaving me alone with my paints and the words she whispered after my declaration that I would always love her.
I hope you do.