Page 104 of Fated

When I first stepped out of Aaron’s childhood home I didn’t know where I’d be. It turned out the house was on the far side of Charlestown, far enough from shore, elevated enough, that no waves or storm surge would reach it. Everyone on island had decamped from the shore, vacated low-lying flood-prone areas, and moved inland to stay with relatives or friends.

I was stunned at the aftermath. There was plenty of damage for something Aaron called “just a little storm.” The first day I blinked into the bright light. The sun, since it had been covered by heavy, violent storm clouds for two days, seemed to shine with renewed vigor. It hit every flooded street, every puddle, every water-slicked roof, and reflected with bright white light.

There was plenty of flooding. All the sandy gravel road was washed out and a little river of brown water rushed down the “runway” to the sea. All the low-lying grassy gardens were filled with wind-blown green pools. The storm had uprooted mango trees, flattened banana groves, and ripped metal gutters and roof shingles from homes and then sprinkled them on the muddy ground. The soil squelched under my feet, cool water seeped into my shoes, and the scent of mangrove and wet, loamy tropical soil hung heavy in the air.

The wind was still brisk although not violent. It tugged at my hair and whipped my dress against my legs. The waves of the sea crashed taller than a person, roaring over the beach and then receding to be swallowed by deeper waters. Aaron claimed the sea would calm in a day or two, and it did.

In the days after, the island put itself back to rights. The island birds, right away, started singing again, chasing bugs and hopping between trees. Even the chickens emerged from wherever they’d weathered the storm. They pranced around, pecking at the muddy soil, unruffled by the wind and rain.

So for days we worked together. For one single moment Aaron was surprised when I offered to help climb up on Essie’s roof to nail down new shingles. But after that he didn’t blink when I helped him fix Maranda’s gutter and then dry out Sue’s, which had six inches of standing water in the kitchen.

We worked as a team, Aaron and I, while Junie stayed with Amy and Sean at the cottage. As the crisp breeze chased away the last of the storm clouds and the sun dried out the flooded streets and gardens, Aaron and I worked under the shining sun.

He told me stories when I asked, about what swim he liked best—South Eleuthera to Nassau, Bahamas—about how he could swim for forty hours—he enters a place in himself where there’s only focus, him and the water; he envisions it ahead of time, he’s already swam it, he’s already seen it happen in his mind, and then he swims—about how he’d swim again—with me there—about his favorite book— “Robinson Crusoe,” (where did I think Amy got the tattered, dog-eared copy?)—about his favorite food—Essie’s banana bread—about his favorite place—the cove on the northside of the island. Would he take me there? Yes, he would.

While we put the island back together we drew closer and closer, until on Thursday, when I was mud-covered and messy from hauling downed banana trees from the back garden, Aaron put his hand to my wrist, tugged me to him, and held my face as he kissed me.

The electricity had been crackling between us for days. So much so that even if I closed my eyes I’d still be able to point to the exact spot Aaron stood. I was aware of his every movement, his every breath, even the quiet scrape of his cotton shirt over his skin.

So after days of talking and working and not ever touching or kissing, I wasn’t surprised when Aaron tugged me against him and said, “Fi.”

My pants were mud-slicked and wet. My white T-shirt was muddy and molded over my breasts. My cheeks were red and my face was sweat-slicked. Aaron took one look at me, and the heat that had been growing between us like the heat building in the noonday sun exploded. I dropped the banana leaves. The branches rushed to the grass and the sweet fragrance of leaves and fruit fanned around us.

He didn’t wait for me to say yes. Instead he took my mouth as if he’d been starved for days and I was the answer to his prayers. His calloused fingers stroked the sweat and mud on my face. I gripped his T-shirt, working my hands over the planes of his chest and the hard width of his shoulders. He dragged his mouth over mine, a prayer on his lips.

“Yes,” I whispered.

And then his hands were on my shirt, tugging the mud-soaked fabric free. His hands went to my abdomen, spanned my hips, dragged over my thighs. I pressed against him, taking his mouth and his heat.

Until ... he stopped. His hands stilled. He rested his forehead against mine and opened his eyes. I stared into his brown eyes and he stared back. His breath came out in a shuddering exhale. And then he gave one last hard kiss and walked away.

I was left in the back garden, dizzy and aching. And then I was gone. Back to Geneva.

And now it’s Friday. Tonight I have my date with Max. And then I’ll dream.

36

Max knows me well.And so, when he pulls into the chateau drive on Friday in his red AC Cobra, wearing his “casual Max” gear of jeans and a leather jacket, he takes one look at me and says, “Fi, you missed me.”

He says it with a sideways smile—one full of dry humor and self-deprecation.

Because when he steps out of his car, I’m standing on the weathered stone steps of the chateau, bathed in the gentle evening sun, wearing a short burgundy-red dress. And when he pulls up I realize I haven’t worn a red dress—of any shade—since I was shot. And, even more, after dreaming of Aaron I completely forgot I was ever shot. The ache in my abdomen is gone. The nightmares are gone. The pinched worry that was lodged in my chest is gone. Even the drumming in my mind—Christmas Eve, Christmas Eve—it’s gone.

And that fact stuns me so much that my hands shake, my skin goes clammy, and I draw in a shuddering breath. A tightness grips my throat, and suddenly I’m plunged back into the moment where I was lying beneath Max, warm blood gushing from me, my limbs numb and cold, with the woman’s voice echoing, “Christmas Eve, tell them it’s Christmas Eve!”

So, Max being Max, he smiles at me and says the first thing that comes to mind. “Fi, you missed me.”

“I did,” I say, realizing it’s true. “Of course I missed you.”

He’s my best friend. He’s who I always go to when I need someone to talk to. While Daniel is the extrovert to my introvert, Max is the person I can always count on to give another perspective. While we see the same world, it’s as if we’re viewing it from two different facets of the same diamond. Our angles are different. I appreciate that about him. I’ve always relied on it. Like he relies on me.

Now he looks down at me, taking in the color leaching from my cheeks and my trembling lips, and pulls me into a tight, comforting hug. I go readily, breathing in the warm leather of his coat and the French milled soap he prefers.

“I’d forgotten being shot,” I say into the soft leather of his jacket, “until I looked down at my dress. I forgot. I can’t believe I forgot.”

He rubs a hand over my back in a slow circle, quiet and soothing. He holds me tight until I stop shaking, and then I bury my face against the warmth of his chest.

“If it makes you feel better,” he says, his hand moving gently over my back, “I forgot to pay the parking meter this morning. I got a citation.”

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