Singer

Ethan’s back is to me. Whispers are exchanged and then he and the nurse look my way.

The phone rings seven times.

Three nods from the nurse.

He taps the counter twice.

Eleven steps to the chair next to me.

Four Mississippi seconds before he speaks. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

“No.”

His hand covers mine, the blood that covered them earlier all gone. He did the best he could to clean up, but his clothes are still stained. “I think we should.” His eyes are scanning the waiting room.

Twelve people. I counted. Twelve people who may have their lives changed forever after tonight. Maybe they have already.

I have. Mine has.

Focus on the numbers. Count. Don’t stray from facts. Forty-six black tiles. Thirty-two chairs. Nine magazines. Five books. Are people waiting here long enough to read books?

“Come with me, Singer.”

I do as I’m told because that’s easier than thinking for myself right now. Four overhead messages calling for Dr. Schneider.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four . . .

The air is not as I expected. It’s not fresh. It’s stifling. I need to be inside, closer to Melanie. “When can I see her?”

We stop near a bench a few feet from the hospital’s entrance. He’s staring at me with eyes I don’t recognize, piercing my heart before he says the words. “Melanie is gone.”

I stare at him, at his right eyebrow, never noticing that dark spot before. Reaching to touch it, I smooth it down, then pull my hand back. My breathing halts, my throat closing. He grabs my wrist when I discover the color came off, my eyes fixated on the dark red on my skin. “Singer?”

My stomach revolts. I turn and vomit into the bushes.

Melanie is gone.

Melanie is gone.

No.

I refuse to accept that.

Ethan needs to stop saying that.

He’s wrong.

“You’re lying,” I say, my entangled emotions coming out harsher toward him.

“No.” He doesn’t temper his words or the intensity of his eyes. “I’m not.”

Salty tears mix with dry heaves as the reality of his words sink in, my body giving out.

I’m grabbed, held tight, as I cry. “Melanie is not dead.” I search his eyes, trying to find the sagey green that doesn’t lie. “Right, Ethan? She’s not.”

He’s lifting me to my feet when all I want to do is sleep. I need this nightmare to stop. “Singer? Look at me. Look at me, baby.” My head is shaking, denying his tone. My eyelids are weighted as I fight against the burning that started in my stomach. When I finally look up, tears fill his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He’s sorry?

I try to process his words. Sorry for—No. I can’t. No. Not that. “No.”

“Singer.”

There’s that tone again. “Don’t say my name like that. Please.”

The tears fall like rain down my face, the pads of his thumbs trying to soothe my pain away. But the gentlest of touches can’t heal this wound. He says, “I need you to hear me. Aaron is alive, Singer. He wants to see you—”

“I need to see him.” Aaron is alive. I swipe the back of my hands across my cheeks, and push out of his hold. “Come on.”

“Singer, wait.”

No, go. I must go to him. I don’t make it halfway down the hall before I’m grabbed. “Let go of me, Ethan.”

“He’s in surgery. We have to wait.”

“But—”

“He told me before he was taken in. We can be here when he wakes up, but that will be hours from now. I think we should go home and you should rest.”

I yank my hands from his. “Go home? Home to where my friend was hurt?” Hurt, not murdered. Please let her be okay. Please, God.

“I meant the penthouse.”

“No.” My head is shaking, the motion matching my hands. “That’s your home.” Taking a step back, I say, “Home. Home. Melanie. Oh God, what has happened?” I start to slip, my body too weak to carry the reality of what’s real—she’s gone. “She liked Mike. She thought it could be more. Tonight . . . she was excited to wear the dress. My dress. Something so pretty. She looked so pretty. I’m sorry I didn’t ask you if you minded. I couldn’t say no to her. We’re sisters. Not blood, but through love. She’s my family.” My mind starts looping. “I couldn’t say no—”

“It’s okay. Of course I don’t mind. Singer, breathe.”

Squeezing my eyes closed, I focus on one word.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

It’s rough, my throat dry, but I breathe. Then I exhale slowly and open my eyes. “Strangers ask us if we’re sisters. All the time. We don’t look much alike, but our hair is a similar color, and we wear the same size. She’s much prettier though. Her personality eclipses everyone’s.”

“She thought the same about you.”

“Thought?”

Past tense. Thought.

Breathe.

We were sisters.

Breathe.

She was so much prettier.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Pressing my forehead to his chest, his arms come around me. I whisper, “She’s gone, isn’t she?”

“I’m sorry.”

I try to push away, but he holds on tighter. “I need to talk to Melanie’s family, Ethan. I need to talk to mine.” Tears take over again, slipping between my lips. “Mike.” Sobs wrack my body. “He needs to be called.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Moving us off to the side, he lowers his voice. “Take a breath. Take a deep breath. You’re in shock. Understandably, but I need you. Tell me how I can help you.”

“I’m alive. I don’t need help. I just need to know what happened.”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“But you know.”

“We shouldn’t be talking here.”

Looking right and then down the hall toward the exit to the left, I don’t see anything but desperation in the faces of families waiting and nurses busy making rounds. “Why?”

He stares at me a good few seconds before whispering, “Someone tried to kill you. Have you forgotten?”

We’re getting stares. He has blood all over him. “No, how could I?’” My arms are wide. “How could I forget?” Covering my face with my hands, I bury myself in the comfort of his arms. “I’m the one who should be dead. Not her.”

Taking me by the elbow, he’s not asking this time. “We have to go.”

I free my arm, but follow. The tension between us is almost audible. Lars sits in the passenger seat and when I look at the driver, he’s unfamiliar, upsetting my stomach again. Ethan doesn’t say anything, but he hands me tissues.

I hate this—this dread, this tension, this fear, this anger, this nightmare we’re living. I gasp, covering my mouth.

The dress.

The shoes.

The apartment.

We look like sisters.

Oh God.

“Her hair only varied by a few shades,” I say, my thoughts barely voiced as my stomach sickens from the realization. I think I’m going to be sick.

“They thought she was me.”

Lars and the driver don’t react, both great at their jobs and minding their own business—eyes forward at all times. On the contrary, Ethan is staring at me like I’m already a ghost. The lights from the street reflect against the water in his eyes. Guilt forces his gaze to his lap, and then morphs into shame. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” I ask, my anger simmering. This is not the man I know. Images of that party last year come flashing back with every street lamp that lights up the car.

White smile. Full lips.

Dynamic green eyes.

Six three and impossible to ignore.

I turn away, not because he’s not still so damn stunningly handsome, but because he can’t look me in the eyes when he replies, “For Melanie.”

Hearing her name causes my stomach to lurch and the pain is too much to contain. It leaks through tears and cries I can’t hold back, not even to reassure him. The door opens and I hesitate. Looking at the steel elevator that leads to the penthouse feels more like a sentence than a safe haven.

But I get out.

I know I don’t have a choice.

I also don’t have anywhere else to go.

Lars rides up. His back is to us like the first time Ethan brought me here. This time there’s no flirting or sneaky peeks. No sexual tension and no undressing each other. Our souls are already bared to the point of ragged. Nothing exists, but three people who went to war and two who came back injured.

Stepping out first, I catch a glimpse of the photo of me, but I don’t stop. I keep walking through the penthouse and straight to the bedroom. The dim light comes on when I walk into the bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the tub, I stare ahead at the large mirror. Similar to how I didn’t recognize Ethan back in the vehicle, I don’t recognize myself now.

Sallow.

Dark circles.

Exhausted eyes that refuse to open wider.

I turn and start to fill the bath with water. I don’t bother turning the lights any brighter. I like the nighttime setting. It’s comforting in the darkness. Stripping off my clothes, I leave them in a pile at my feet before painstakingly pulling the bandages from my knees. I feel as dirty as I look, so I step in before the tub is full and sink down under the water. Holding my breath for as long as I can.

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.