Page 6 of Bastard
The stranger in the restroom on New Year’s Eve washim, wasn’t it? That man knew things about my body. The trigger-zones on my neck, where to touch me, how to turn me into butter. And his reaction when his fingers slid over the scars on my abdomen—how he stiffened then cursed—it’s like he understood exactly how those scars got there.
I skim my palm across the fabric of my shirt, feeling the truth of the matter beneath the material. The raised skin a harsh consequence of wanting someone with such hopeless desperation.
Hayden’s men did this, on his order. What difference does it make that the target was really my best friend, Madelyn Smith, or that his warning for her sister, Kylie, was taken too far? How can I ignore his brutality? Theprofundo silenciothat fills the space where an apology for his actions was expected?
Not a damn word from him, and then he appears on New Year’s Eve?
I responded to that stranger in the restroom. Lost myself in his touch. Wanted, for the first time, someone else.
I stare down at my hand and realize it’s shaking. He was in my head, in my heart, and then inside me in that restroom. Literally, physically inside me, fucking me. That stranger, his replacement, washim.
He tricked me.
Rome scared me straight. It’s a fright worse than the kind experienced after arriving on your aunt’s doorstep in Copenhagen, alone in a foreign country and abandoned by the two men you love the most. It’s a fear nearly as terrifying as being tied down to a bed by three men then having knives drawn across your skin.
That man knew me, fucked me, thenleft. No apologies. No explanations. No indication he once loved me. Did he ever love me?
Dios mío.I can’t live like this anymore. With a sigh, I allow my hand to drop. I need to move on, and I’m taking steps to do so.
On New Year’s Day, I signed the divorce papers he surprised me with before shipping me off to Copenhagen. Copy number three—the first two versions I’d torn up and tossed back in his face. This third unsigned document arrived in Denmark a few days after I did, but instead of destroying it, I hung onto it. Desperately wanting to sign and send it and even more desperately hoping he’d come to his senses.
Rome was the breaking point. I included a brief, businesslike letter providing the PO Box near Diego’s home in Arizona where the final documents could be sent. My brother’s fiancée has been forwarding my mail to the small village I’m working in. Nmimpi, located in a remote area in Malawi, has mail service that’s sketchy at best. The papers haven’t arrived yet and once more, I find myself thinking about him.
Closure. That’s all I need. But with the papers delayed and the ending of our union in limbo, I’ve decided on another symbolic way of burying what was once us. Tomorrow, I have plans to plant his wedding ring deep within the Malawian tundra. I’ll mark an X in the dirt then walk away without so much as an adios.
El fin.
Our unionterminada.
Closure on this chapter of my life.
I rise and step away from the tree, refocusing my energy on sorting through the boxes I dragged outside and busying myself by gathering what I need for tonight’s presentation.
“Hey, you okay? You were so deep in thought.” Donovan crosses the circle and takes the box I’ve picked up from my hands. He’s tall, blond with fair, Icelandic skin. A great guy, caring and sweet. Besides me, he’s the only Westerner in this part of Malawi.
“Thinking about food,” I lie. “What I wouldn’t do for a plate of mole poblano.”
“That’s chicken in chocolate sauce, right?”
I raise my eyebrows in mock alarm. “Is there a better way to serve chicken?”
Donovan chuckles and I brace myself for more personal questions. But mercifully, something in my expression has him turning his attention the other way.
I begin moving boxes, throwing myself into the volunteer work I’m doing for the nonprofit United World Corps. It feels good to help people. To assist in providing humanitarian aid to communities in need. My parents were both actively involved in charitable work. For the longest time after my aspirations of becoming a professional dancer fell to pieces, I wanted to continue their work in my hometown of Loreto. Run mylavandria. Live happily ever after withhim.
Africa might not have been my first choice. But there’s something about feeling the earth between your toes, the restless call of wildlife surrounding you, the genuine kindness of the villagers who pulled me into their embrace like a warm hug, that makes me feel alive. Their live-every-day-like-it-matters outlook on life is helping me to heal. I came here for them yet received much more in return. I owe them one-hundred percent of me instead of the broken shell of a woman who arrived here a few months ago.
“Ah, so it’s not a former boyfriend you’ve been pining over?”
Madre mía, he’s persistent. I shake my head. “Not exactly.”
He waits for me to elaborate.
“How about we discuss what’s happening right now?”
Hope filters across his expression and I immediately regret my words. I’ve unfortunately seen this look before. Been betrayed by a friend with a similar disposition to Donovan’s. It’s why I keep him at arm’s length.Mantenerse a distancia, as we say in Mexico. No need to get too close.
My attention pauses on the large, brooding man standing stoically beneath the baobab tree. Arms folded and body stiff and at attention, the fierce man is almost daring anyone to approach him. I might be keeping things simple with Donovan but this man is an unsmiling billboard for antisocial behavior. “Have you spoken to Mr. Tall, Dark, and Tight-Lipped?” I ask, nodding in his direction.
