Page 85 of A Life Chosen

Rayan stood shirtless, his bare feet cooling on the brick tile. For the briefest of seconds, he contemplated pleading. But that would mean excusing his role in all of this. He’d made the choice to leave. Mathias was simply returning to where he belonged.

“You asked me once what I’d be if I never joined,” Mathias said into the silence. “I’m not you. I’m not a good person with a bad past. I was built to cleave my way through life. The job is me—we’re one and the same. So you understand why I can’t stay.”

“I know,” Rayan said quietly, a stone sinking in his stomach.

Mathias raised the cup to his lips and swallowed the last mouthful of coffee then set it on the counter behind him. He bent over his bag, pulled open the zipper, and reached inside. As he removed the small paperback, Rayan felt a hot swell of relief. He’d never expected to see it again. Mathias placed Saint-Exupéry’s memoir face down on the kitchen table. Rayan stared at the book as though it were a talisman from another world.

“Thought you’d want it back,” Mathias said.

So he had taken it—the one thing Rayan had kept with him as he’d been tossed from place to place, hidden inside his shirt all those nights on the street. It contained the only photo Rayan had of his family, the last remaining trace of his mother. Mathias couldn’t have known that. But somehow, he’d registered its significance and had taken it, a piece of Rayan he’d held onto after letting him go. The thought made his throat tighten.

They locked eyes across the kitchen, and Rayan saw frustration glittering in the man’s gaze. It wasn’t often Mathias didn’t get what he wanted. Rayan could see that leaving things like this—unresolved, unfinished—troubled him.

He stepped forward and laid his hand on Mathias’s chest. He could feel the thud of the man’s heartbeat and the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric of his shirt. He was here, standing in his apartment, in the flesh. In a moment, he would be gone, and Rayan would have to unearth the memories once again and recreate him anew.

He wished he knew how to give voice to the feelings that surfaced when he was this close to him. But words didn’t apply where Mathias was concerned. Words meant nothing. He reached up, threaded his fingers through Mathias’s hair, and pulled him close, tasting him. Coffee and saliva—bittersweet.

Rayan broke away, taking in the slate-gray eyes, the curve of his brow, the tug of his lips—features he’d long ago committed to memory after seeing them every morning at the Collections office. “This is how we should’ve left it.”

Mathias shook his head, the corners of his mouth curving into a frown. “No,” he said, gripping Rayan’s neck and leaning in so their heads touched. “If this was how we’d left it, I wouldn’t have let you go.”

Then he pulled away, picked up his bag, and strode out of the room without looking back. Rayan stood, unmoving, as he listened to the front door shut with a thud. The man was gone.

Rayan exhaled slowly, his gaze falling to the book on the table. He reached for it, marveling at how familiar it felt in his hand, as though he’d been reunited with an old friend. He flipped through the pages until he found the photo—his mother’s face staring up at him. Lifting it from the book, he found a slip of creamy-white paper beneath. On it, written in Mathias’s meticulous hand, was a series of numbers followed by a twelve-digit code. And there, watermarked into the thick paper stock, was the logo of the Capital Bank of Cyprus.

Rayan let the paper slide soundlessly through his fingers. He’d worked in Collections long enough to recognize a foreign bank account when he saw one.

It took him a week to pluck up the courage to walk into the nearest Capital Bank. Rayan pushed the piece of paper over the counter to the teller without a word.

Breezily, she tapped her long pink nails against the keyboard, transferring the numbers onto the computer in front of her. “All right, Mr. Ayari, I’ll just need one form of ID before we continue.”

Rayan blanched. “I’m sorry?”

“Rayan Ayari. You are the account holder, correct?”

He gripped the edge of the counter.What doesn’t Mathias know?Rayan’s efforts to disappear seemed laughable in the face of how completely the man had uncovered him.

“Sir?”

Rayan blinked, reaching for his wallet and pulling out his Cypriot driver’s license. “That’s right.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, smiling with bright-red lips as she took the license from him. The teller made another series of taps on her computer before turning back to him. “How can I help you today?”

“The balance,” he asked hesitantly. “What’s the balance on the account?” The woman turned to the screen and was just about to speak when Rayan cut in. “Actually, could you write it down?”

The teller gave him a quizzical look but took a small yellow pad from beside the computer and jotted down a figure. She passed it back across the counter toward Rayan. He glanced down, his mind reeling.

It was suddenly all too much. Rayan took a step back, regretting having come, not because of the money but because of how the man had given it to him—unconditionally, with no interest in what he used it for. Mathias had handed him a blank slate, challenging him to rebuild his life anew. He remembered his question, back in Montreal—“When you’re done surviving, what then?”

Rayan had never before been confronted with that possibility.

“Was there anything else today, sir?” the teller asked.

“No,” Rayan said, shaking his head as if to clear it. “That’s all.”

Chapter

Thirty-One

---