Roma
I lie beside Felicity on the bed, the sun beginning to set. She slept straight through the day and it looks like she’s going to sleep straight through the night, too. I can’t blame her. After everything she’s been through, she must be exhausted. I stare up at the ceiling as the shadows lengthen and the room creeps toward full darkness. Felicity rolls over and places her hand on my chest. I take her by the wrist and move it a few inches down, just below my pec. My heart is beating something fierce and I’m worried she might feel it, even in her sleep.
Bear’s words go over and over in my mind. I hear them again and again, and each time is like a punch in the face.
I try to blot them out. I imagine I am somewhere else, somebody else. I imagine that Felicity and I are really in one of those suburban houses, a regular couple thinking about regular things. I imagine that she wakes up and turns to me and asks me what time I want to have the barbeque on Saturday. I must remember to invite the Browns. I must remember to pick up the burgers and the buns. She’ll laugh and remind me of the time I forgot the hot sauce. And then we’ll kiss and I’ll jump from bed and brew us some coffee. I’ll go to work. As a mechanic, a builder, a cashier, I don’t care. And she’ll go to work as a fitness instructor, but not just a fitness instructor. She’s the most respected fitness instructor in America; she helps members of Congress and even the President trim the fat. People ask me if I feel overshadowed by her and I always tell them it’s comfortable in her shadow. I feel secure. Just being with her is enough. They laugh. They think I’m joking. But I’m never joking.
I sit up, looking down at her. I was lost in the reverie for longer than I guessed. Blue moonlight spears through the window and rests on the ceiling now. I stare down at Felicity and I think: What the hell am I doing? Do I really think I can be close to her? Do I really think I can lead any sort of normal life? What am I? What, when you get down to the gristle and the meat of a person, am I, truly? A killer, a man for hire, a hitman. That’s what I am and nothing will change that. Not even the affection of a woman like Felicity. A woman I care about more than I’ll ever understand. A woman I want to protect . . . and a woman whose father I’m going to kill.
I want to lean down and kiss her on the forehead as a final goodbye, but if I do that, she might wake up. Instead, I take her hand and move it as softly as I can away from me. Then I stand up and creep to the door, wincing as the floorboards make an aching sound. I unlock the door and slide out into the hallway, closing it quietly behind me.
Bear will keep her safe, I tell myself. Bear will make sure nothing happens to her. But I can’t be here. I can’t do this to her.
Bear was right. I can’t have it both ways. I have to choose. Do my job and kill the ambassador or stick by Felicity. I can’t have both. And no matter how I feel, I’m a killer.
I stop in the hallway and look to the door behind which Felicity sleeps. I’m constantly shocked by how much I care for her. There’s the physical attraction, sure, but underpinning that is something I have never felt for a woman. Some foreign emotion—affection, longing, love—gives me goosebumps as I turn from the door and make my way down the stairs.
I can’t have both. The life or Felicity. I pull on the oversized boots and step into the darkness. The village is over the hill, Bear said, so I’ll head over the hill. From there I’ll make my way back to the States and wait for Bear to give Felicity back to her father. Then I’ll kill her father.
I look to the cottage, a dark mass in the night, and then I turn up the hill and begin walking. Bear told me about a Greek legend once, a man who had to leave his lover and could not look back or she’d be taken into hell. I don’t remember the names or how the legend finishes, but it comes to me now.
Just don’t look back.
I feel my legs beneath me, aching as they have never done before. It’s not the swim or the madness of the past few days; it’s the thought of never seeing Felicity again. Or, if I see her again, it will be on the TV, speaking to a pack of reporters about how much she loved her father and wearing black mourning clothes. The image is sharp, cutting, and I feel like roaring out against it all.
I’ve never reflected on the life. I’ve killed more men than I can count, anybody the organization ordered me to, and I slept like a goddamned baby afterwards. This is different. This is something outside of my experience. Somehow, I think my nights of deep undisturbed sleep are over. Even now, walking through the night, I see Felicity’s face. I smell her skin and I hear her voice and I feel our kiss. The kiss most of all because it lingers on my lips like a phantom, like it’s happening this moment.
Because of Felicity, the entire life seems different than it did only a few days ago. I would never have let Bear’s words affect me when it came to any other job. But now, with her . . .
“Don’t,” I breathe, clenching my teeth. “Just, don’t.”
I’m almost at the top of the hill. Once I’m over it, this part of my life will be over.
I’ll kill these feelings and go back to my cold, emotionless days.
If only it were that easy.