Page 136 of Crossed
Slow, soft, and tender on the rug in the living room, warm from the fire.
And I love her.
In every lifetime.
Amaya
If someone had told me twelve years ago that I would be a world traveler, I would have laughed in their face. Probably would have thought they were mocking me.
Because twelve years ago, on this day, July 5, I had just turned nineteen years old and my mother had abandoned me with my one- year- old brother.
And now, here I am. Living in the mountains of France, seven years after meeting the other half of my soul, marrying him, and loving without bounds.
It’s early morning, and I’m sitting on the balcony of our cottage in the Auvergne Mountains. It’s secluded, private. Beautiful.
Ivy traces up the white brick and wraps around the banisters, and there’s a cobblestone patio in the backyard overlooking a gorgeous garden of flowers. It’s a large space, one that we use to entertain when the mood strikes us. We are, after all, known as affluential people here.
That’s what happens when you’re a widow to a billionaire mogul who didn’t leave a will.
There were, of course, several people who contested it. After all, Parker wasn’tofficiallydead, and we were only married on paper for mere days.
But my husband saw to it that we were taken care of.
I don’t ask him what he had to do in order to get the others to withdraw their complaints, but I have an idea.
And when the state demanded a body, Parker’s suddenly appeared.
And everything he owned was officially transferred into my name.
I used a large portion to inject it back into the community of Festivalé in a way that Parker never did. We got people off the streets, cleaned up the broken sidewalks, and fostered trade schools and small businesses that would allow the community to thrive beyond a money grab of tourism and pretending to be a mini France.
And then I opened up a pole studio and named it Dalia’s Dancers. There’s now ten of them across the United States and another one opening here in France just next week.
It’s the least I can do to honor my best friend’s memory.
But the guilt still hits hard whenever I think of her.
And sometimes, Idreamof her. She comes to me and holds me tight while I cry out my apologies and she soothes me and says there’s nothing to forgive. I’ll never believe it, but I know she wouldn’t want me to wallow in the loss.
So I live for her instead.
Tinkling laughter hits my ears and I smile, draining the last of my coffee before walking into my bedroom and then down the stairs until I hit the French doors that open to the back patio.
I breathe in deep, the air clinging to my skin, a crisp, light breeze blowing through the strands of my hair as I look out over the mountains, and then focus on where Cade and Quinten are huddled together on the ground, right before the stone turns to grass. I smile as I walk closer, my heart expanding when I see that they’re painting.
Again.
They’ve taken to doing it most mornings, and Quinten is an amazing artist.
My heart explodes when Cade turns toward me, smiling wide enough to crease his cheeks with dimples, his eyes sparkling in a way they never did back in Festivalé.
This is what peace looks like.
Although we both still have our moments.
Sometimes, the darkness flashes through his gaze, and I know he’s hearing Sister Agnes. Whenever that happens, I crawl up into his lap and hug him tightly, my limbs wrapping around him like a vice as I whisper how worthy he is to justbe.
That if he hurts himself, he hurts me.
