Page 2 of Avidian
“All the districts seem to get worse every year. Nothing grows well anymore, here or there. This garden seems to be the only green place left in this entire district.”
It’s disappointing to hear, but he’s not wrong about this place. It’s why I love this garden, and any chance I get to sneakout, I come here. I love the flowers, the feel of the grass, the smell, and the sound of the pond. This is the only place I can ever find peace.
“I like to come here and imagine this is what the world used to look like—large bodies of water, hills covered in trees, and fields of wildflowers,” I say, plucking a daisy from the grass and twirling it between my fingers.
“Maybe a few hundred years ago,” he says, sitting up straighter and turning to face me. “So, Katja, what are you doing out here alone tonight?”
Do I tell him I’m a woman who’s been trafficked for the last eight years and the family that owns me is the most prolific, murderous one in the entire country? And the reason I’m so valuable to them is because I can talk to the dead? No, I probably shouldn’t tell him that, but it would be funny to see his face if I did.
“I was out with some friends and wanted some peace and quiet before I go home. There’s usually no one here this late at night,” I say, only lying about the first half.
“Aren’t you a little young to be out here this late and alone?” he says, and I scoff at him.
“I’m twenty-three years old and can take care of myself.”
“I mean no offense, but I’m surprised you don’t have a husband already, given how beautiful you are,” he says. I bite my bottom lip, a nervous habit I really need to stop.
“And what makes you think I don’t have a husband waiting for me at home?” I ask, bending my knees and turning slightly toward him, leaning my shoulder against the base of the tree.
“If I were your husband, you’d never have to be alone. Not because you need protecting—but because I’d make damn sure you never wanted to be anywhere else.”
I bust out laughing, throwing a hand over my mouth to stifle the embarrassing snorting sound. “Is this your go-to routine?Brooding in parks, skipping rocks, and sweeping women off their feet with possessive husband fantasies?”
With a furtive smile, he shakes his head and glances up at the night’s sky.
“I’d say this is a first—trying to pick up a woman late at night in a park. And clearly it’s not going well. Apparently these lines don’t work. I can’t say I’ve ever been called out quite like this before,” he says, scratching his head.
“If you really want to have any chance at picking up women, be honest—be yourself. Skip the creepy pickup lines about husbands,” I tell him, brushing a few strands of hair from my face. His gaze catches mine, holding it for a moment before I look away.
“And what about you?” he probes.
“What about me?”
“How do I get to see you again?” he asks, and inexplicably my heart skips a beat. I can’t fathom why this stranger has such an effect on me. Perhaps it’s his good looks and awkward sort of charm, or it’s been too long since a man has seen me as more than an object to use for his gain.
“Oh, I’m not available,” I clarify, crossing my arms.
“No husband, so you have a boyfriend?” he presses.
“It’s complicated,” I exhale.
“So he isn’t your husband or your boyfriend, and it’s complicated.” He pauses, amused. “I don’t even know the guy, and he sounds like a dick.”
I can’t help but laugh. If only he knew how right he was.
“Alright, Katja, if honesty is the way to win you over—I’m not only missing home tonight. I’m in town because my father wants me to start learning how to run the family business, and truthfully I can’t stand him and want nothing to do with it,” he admits, and I find myself both surprised and even more intrigued.
“What’s so bad about the family business? And why don’t you like your father?” I ask.
“Trade has never interested me, and my father... He’s never been the same since my mother died. She passed when I was young, and my two older brothers and I were easy targets for him to vent his frustrations on.” His gaze drops to the grass as he plucks at the blades, lost in thought.
I say, “When I was fifteen, I was learning to drive. I had been practicing all the time and loved it and couldn’t wait to have a car of my own. One day, I was driving my parents, my best friend, and my dog to the beach. We got into an accident.” I pause, not knowing why I’m sharing this with him. I’ve blocked it out for so long, but his vulnerability with me felt like it deserved honesty in return. “I woke up in the hospital two weeks later to learn I was the only survivor.”
It was also when I learned I could communicate with the dead. My dog was there when I woke up, only she was no longer alive. I keep that detail to myself.
“Damn, I’m so sorry. Loss has a crazy way of shaping our lives, doesn’t it? I often wonder how different things would be if my mother had lived. I’m sure you’ve had similar thoughts,” he says, his eyes lifting to meet mine. I nod, feeling the weight of the conversation and eagerness to change the subject.
“So why not leave? If your father is as difficult as you say, and you have no interest in the trade business, why come here at all?”
