Jasmine and I bounce several story ideas around, and then I pull into my driveway. The dining room light is abeacon, signaling Roarke is home and waiting for me. “Hey, if Roarke calls, which I’m sure he won’t, our meeting tonight was in person. At our usual café.”
She swallows audibly. “Sure, babe. Call me later. Stay safe.” She clicks off the line, and I make my way into the house. Passing my office, I reach in to hang my bag on the coat rack hook and make my way into the kitchen. Seeing Roarke makes me visibly ill. I smooth down my sweater, directly over my stomach.
”How was your meeting? Took long enough,” he spits. A lowball with ice rattles in his left hand as he hunches over the dining table. “Thank you for lunch.” An insult followed by a courtesy. It’s always his way.
The mention of lunch brings me back to earlier rummaging in his condom-filled drawers. I could never bring it up. Not right now, at least. “My meeting went great. We polished some of the finer details for my next project. Did you eat yet?” I spy a bag of potato chips on the granite countertop.
“I’m not hungry,” he says, standing from his chair. Roarke stalks forward. “You look hot right now, Care. Get undressed. I want to fuck you tonight.”
I take in a deep breath. I’m getting off easy. He’ll forget everything about my absence tonight. In between the alcohol and sex, my misdemeanor in his eyes will fade to black. “I love you too,” I say back, teasingly. “I think you always look hot. Shall we mix hotness in the bedroom then?”
He laughs, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes—not like Smith’s does. This is as close to the old Roarke as I’ll get. I savor it. Roarke hasn’t always hit me, although he’s always shown violent tendencies. After we became engaged, his monsters arrived and made their appearance as a broken nose onmyface. It’s still a little crooked.
I take him by the hand and lead him to our bedroom. When the door is closed, I start my slow assault on his clothing. He loves when I take charge in the bedroom. It’s the only time he accepts a power exchange. I don’t care that he’s using me. I only care about getting him off so he will pass out for the night.
Then I’ll get to spend the rest of the evening in my office with my laptop and the tape recorder. Right now, I’ll do whatever it takes to get back to my happiness more quickly. The cold hard facts are staring me in the face. I connected to a damaged, confused stranger in one hour, more intensely than I’ve ever connected to Roarke—the man I’m engaged to be married to.
As he kisses my neck, I realize this is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for. My awakening. The reason I am where I am. Where purpose meets something remarkable. I smile to myself, my thoughts bringing a newfound clarity.
CHAPTER SIX
Smith
I’m not doinganything wrong, but I can’t shake the feeling Megan might feel differently. I’ve yet to tell her about my meeting with Carina. I haven’t even told her the full story of what happened the day of my accident. It’s for selfless reasons. I don’t want to burden her with anything more than she’s already endured. Megan feels so much. My pain is her pain. It reflects in her eyes so delicately that it twists a knife in my heart. I got back from my skydiving training trip, and she cried the second she saw me walk through the door. She’d been waiting by the window. I think they were tears of relief, but I’m never sure anymore. She’s distraught more than she’s happy. I’m confused more than I’m moving forward.
I keep things from her in an effort to protect our paper-thin bond. Carina is on her way over to my house right now. We’re going to continue the interview in a less public venue. It was her idea to meet at my place, and I wasn’t in any position to tell her no. Megan is inGeorgia visiting her parents this weekend, and essentially, I’m chomping at the bit to see Carina—to talk to her more.
When the doorbell rings, I jump out of my skin. As Carina walks in, shoulders slumped and head down, I try not to look at her in any other way but friendly.
“We have an hour,” she says matter-of-factly, smiling weakly as she turns back to face me. “If you have any monumental stories like last time, we should get to them first.”
I can’t help but return the grin. She’s straight to business. A fact that should please me given our circumstances.
Carina starts unloading her leather bag.
“I started with the bombshell—literally, in our first meeting. Hopefully everything that follows will be breezy,” I say.
She nods in return. She’s hoping for more.
My nightmares returned the night after I recounted my story. I’ve been told most people have false bad dreams—scenarios of an awful caliber that would never happen in real life. My nightmares, bless them, are the actual night the mortar launched into our world, destroying it completely. Henry’s smiling face as he joked about something he had for lunch. The green, watercolor screensaver on my open laptop; my hands, my scar-free hands clutching the rail of the top bunk as the whistle of the mortar pierced our senses. Realityforms my nightmares, and it’s always too much to bear. I wake up in a cold sweat, praying for my amnesia to take something else. It never does.
As I close the front door, I catch sight of my neighbor across the street. Damn Mrs. Waters. She waves at me stiffly, her unruly gray curls peeking out of the bottom of her huge gardening hat. I put my palm up quickly and shut the door. She thinks the worst, and I can’t blame her. Mrs. Waters, like most women her age, lives for the daily gossip. I’ll have to tell Megan about the meetings. It’s not a conversation that will be easy, nor one she’ll understand, but my neighbor just made it mandatory.
Carina is perched on my sofa, eyeing one of the dozens of photo albums Megan leaves out tohelp me remember.It’s Megan trying to forget. “Go ahead. Take a look. It’s part of my ‘therapy.’” I air quote the last word. Gently, Carina slides the album closer and opens it up. “My fiancée is a photo aficionado,” I explain. “I think she documented every single moment since we first started dating.” I laugh. Mostly because it doesn’t make one damn bit of difference. The photos could be of strangers for all that they mean to me.
She looks up at me confused. “The photos are all in black and white.”
“Ah. Yes.” I swallow down the lump in my throat. It lodges there for several reasons.
“Why?” Carina asks.
I sit down next to her. “Can I offer you something todrink?”
“Sure, water. Please. I’ll still want to know why, though. Are all of these albums in black and white?”
I glance at the photo she’s examining. It’s me carrying Megan in my arms. Running away from the camera into the ocean. Her blond hair cascades down over one of my arms. The caption explains it’s a vacation cruise stop.
Heading for the kitchen, I nod, knowing she can see me. “Black and white lasts forever, Carina.” I chuckle under my breath. “It’s more permanent in some finite way, I suppose. That’s how Megan explained it anyway. My memories are gone, but they’re still there. On those pages. Color fades, sort of like memories. Black and white, though?”
