Page 52 of Vows in Sin
I fight back tears when I think about him. The strength of our connection is another thing that doesn’t quite add up. I mean, by polite society’s standards, I barely know the man. Yet, I feel like he’s filling in a missing piece somehow.
My phone rings. It’s Cleopatra. I clear my throat and put on a bright voice. “Hey, babe. I was just thinking about you. There are some killer bars here we could?—”
She cuts me off, the severity of her tone instantly sobering me.
She says, “You have to come back. Now. Something terrible has happened. There’s been an attack on their Village in New York. It’s gone. All of it. Nothing but ashes.
“Is everyone okay?” I ask.
“They all made it out safely.” She breathes a sigh of relief. “Thanks to a man named Reign.”
A man named Reign.
We never did get to that conversation about my older man sexcapades. She has no idea I know him. And now, he’s a hero.
My throat is tight. So tight. My mouth is dry. Sawdust and sandpaper. “I’ll be on the next flight.”
“We already have a car on the way. It’ll be there soon. Wait in the lobby. They’ll come get you as soon as we’re there.”
“Thanks, Cleopatra. I’ll be there as soon as possible. I’ll help in any way I can.”
I hang up, knowing better than to selfishly ask if that man named Reign, the one who saved everyone, is coming here.
It’s enough to know he’s okay.
Cleopatra is waiting for me on the tarmac when I return. I hold her and she cries. I can’t fully understand the enormity of what they’ve lost but I can feel it as she trembles in my arms.
We stay up too late and get up too early, ready to lend a hand wherever we can.
I focus on others yet I can’t stop my stomach from flip-flopping in wonder.
Will he come here?
I’m in one of my silk robes, cream with red and peach roses—vintage—fashioned over a red tank with a plunging neckline, something dramatic and impractical. Did I wear this to catch his eye? Like a damn bird, fanning its wings for a mate.
I’m an idiot for dressing up for a man whom I may not even see, one whom I crossed an ocean to avoid, when there’s so much heartache.
I’ll be honest, I was so confused when I woke up this morning that I didn’t know what to do other than try to look nice and put on some lipstick.
But there’s no smile on my hot pink lips. I feel terrible for what Cleopatra’s New York Bachmans have been through. And nerves churn selfishly in my stomach, wondering if he’s coming here. And if he is here, how will I be received?
I don’t know if we will be okay. Or, if there even is a ‘we’ at all.
“I still can’t believe it’s gone,” Cleopatra’s quiet voice brings me back to what’s important.
I put a loving arm around her. “I’m so sorry. This must be a shock. For all of you.”
Emilia, walking just ahead, slows her pace so we fall in step. Her golden curls are pinned up messily, her expression softer than usual. “I know,” she murmurs. “Feels like losing a whole lifetime. And all our history,” she chokes back a cry.
Cleopatra nods, lips pressed tight. “I keep thinking it’s a bad dream. I’ll wake up, Blaze will tell us it was all a bad dream, that the Village is still there. That the shops on Bachman Avenue still exist.”
“It’s more than buildings,” Emilia adds. “It was safety. Memory. Home. History.”
“And now?” Cleo looks around. “Now it’s merely ash.” She stops abruptly. “Oh my God. The rooftop bar! That’s where half of our family got married. Gone.”
I pull her along. “Come on. The others will be waiting. They’re going to need your strength.”
“Speaking of weddings, Cleo,” Emilia slows her pace to walk beside Cleopatra. “Liam and I were talking late into the night when we got the news. The Estate needs to offer those from the Village hope. Something that reminds people we’re still standing.”
