Page 70 of So Close

The sanctuary of your zealous love has transformed my existence. It’s my greatest failure not to have given you the same security.

My past has caught up with me. More, it’s found me in my safe place and endangers you. I turn my gaze to the back of the house, to the patio doors that lead out to the beach. I could go now. Disappear.

The painful prick of a thorn draws my attention to my hands. I don’t remember pulling a bowl out of the cupboard, but one sits beside the vase in front of me, half-filled with petals. Blood wells from a hole in the pad of my thumb and falls onto the lush pile, looking like a drop of morning dew. I have been beheading the roses and placing their wickedly sharp stems aside in a neat pile. The fragrance is hauntingly beautiful, a joyously sensual promise that taunts me with a fantasy not aligned with my reality.

What am I doing? How much time has passed?

I need to shower. Dress. Prepare.

Prepare for what?

The roar of the Range Rover’s powerful engine brings me back to the moment. I watch as you back out of the driveway, then take off down the street. Leaving the roses, I race up the stairs. I’m restless and, for the first time, feeling trapped. I start to untie the sash at my waist. There’s a weekender in the closet. It won’t take me long to pack what I need.

A flash of movement in the periphery of my vision draws my eye to the full-length mirror hanging on the wall … I pause.

My face is bloodless, my eyes bruised black holes. I stare at that reflected haunted woman, then spy the bed behind her. I change the sheets every morning, and you’ve folded the duvet into a neat accordion at the foot and removed the pillowcases. The job of stripping the bed was likely interrupted by your security team’s notification of the delivery. Still, it’s how we work together, meeting halfway. What we are is matchless and precious. We see the best in one another and subsequently strive to better ourselves, to become more than we thought possible even while embracing the parts best hidden from others.

My knees weaken again, and I move to the bed, sinking onto it. My hands fist in the sheets. Your scent is in the air. And our scent.

Everything I want is right here. While my proximity threatens you, it also affords me the best chance of protecting you. And there are promises between us that may not survive being broken. The most crucial question: willyousurvive if I stay?

Six years have gone, and you are alive and flourishing. Isn’t that a compelling enough argument for my departure?

A heavy sigh deflates my shoulders. You weren’t flourishing, you were successful, and those aren’t the same. The fire inside you had been slowly suffocating, that raging flame unable to breathe as you turned into stone. Another year or two, and it would’ve burned out entirely. That’s why it took so long for us to bridge the gap between us. You were locked away inside yourself, alive without living. I couldn’t reach you.

I can’t do that to you – tous– for any reason, but primarily because I don’t think it would make a difference. I’m with you. Your importance to me is inarguable now.

I shower and pull on a sleek floor-length column of black satin. It hangs from my shoulders by thin straps and dips so low in the back I can’t wear anything beneath it. I can put my makeup on with my eyes closed. Since I wear it every day, it takes mere moments to complete. It’s another layer of armor and another habit instilled in me by my mother.

Once I feel ready to face whatever comes our way, I remake the bed and toss the sheets in the wash. I’m anxious. I feel the need to act, but what can I do?

As I step outside, the slate pavers on the patio feel too hot against my bare feet, but gently warmed sand soon engulfs my toes. The glistening water straight ahead beckons, and I can’t resist the call. The salt breeze caresses my bare back like a phantom lover, and ghostly fingers comb through my hair. I reach the shoreline, the sand turning damp and firm. Waves lap over my feet, coaxing me closer and deeper. Behind me, I feel the pull of the beach house urging my return.

Troubled, I turn and walk to clear my head. You’re safe with your security team, and I’ve never been the one in danger. The air is crisp, the breeze holding aloft seagulls whose raucous cries seem to originate inside me. In the distance, a large ship powers out to a sea spread with glistening points, like millions of dagger tips bobbing in the sapphire waters.

I stop in front of the prettiest house on the shore, which is painted the softest of pinks with a pale gray trim. The upper and lower floors have a balcony and deck the same width and length, creating a covered porch upon which sit two rocking chairs and a wrought iron table with seating for four. A man is sitting at the table, a familiar and beloved figure.

I wave. Ben stands slowly and with difficulty. It pains me to witness his decline, more noticeable because of the yawning gap of time since I last saw him. I run to him.

“Hey, Ben.” I ascend the steps and embrace him. “I’ve missed you.”

He trembles as he hugs me back. “Have you come to take me to heaven, angel?”

I pull back. His face is craggier than before, his eyes deeper set. He’s got his flat cap on, and the gray tweed has darkened with age. He’s shorter now, his back curved into a hunch.

“Now, Ben … I’m a married woman, and you’re too suave to use a line like that.”

“Well, you’re off to take me to the other place, then.” He nods sagely. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Maybe not about you ending up there either, come to think of it. We’ve both enjoyed a sin or two, haven’t we?”

“One or two. Do you mind if I bum a smoke off you and sit awhile?”

He frowns at me. “Angels don’t smoke.”

“How do you know?”

His rheumy eyes peer dubiously at me, but he motions for me to join him at the table. I sit, and he follows suit, watching as I help myself to a cigarette and light it with his lighter. The first inhalation is deep, my eyes closing against the familiar and longed-for head rush.

“Ah, that’s so good. You’re a saint, Ben.”

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