by Calia Read
“I don’t know who this woman is,” I confess, my voice hollow. “We have the same body and name, but it all ends there. You don’t get along with her, and you may hate her. I can see in your eyes that you do, but I don’t know a single thing she’s done because I’m not her.”
His mouth opens, but I quickly speak up because I know he wants to believe me.
“You know I’m right, Étienne,” I whisper. “You know it.”
I stare at the photo for a few more seconds, feeling such a massive sense of resentment that I was placed in this fucked up situation. I throw the picture across the room. The frame hits the wall, and the glass breaks into millions of pieces.
Étienne stares at the picture and me.
I crumple to the floor. My back rests against the wall. “I don’t care what you do anymore. I don’t care what you say to me. All I want is for you to believe me.”
He walks toward me, glass crunching beneath his shoes, and kneels in front of me. “How can I believe you? How? Everything you’re saying it’s… it’s—”
“Crazy. Ridiculous. Impossible. I know it is. I get it. But I’m telling you, this happened. I time traveled.”
Étienne looks away, jaw clenched. He stares at the picture across the room. Pieces of the glass nicked the picture in numerous spots, marring his wife’s face. My face.
Time ticks by. I sit there, pleading with my eyes that he ignore logic and trust everything I’ve told him.
Étienne lifts his head and gives me a blunt nod.
I’ve only been here for a few days, yet I already know that Étienne is a prideful man. Never in a million years will he say he believes me. That nod is all I’m going to get.
The relief I feel is indescribable. Finally, everything has been validated and holds merit.
For the first time in weeks, I feel something blossom inside me. It’s too soon to try to say what it is. Maybe it’s hope. Or happiness. Perhaps it’s both. Either way, I welcome the feeling. He sits next to me, his arms resting on his knees.
“You believe me,” I whisper. More to myself.
Étienne shakes his head in disbelief. “I probably shouldn’t, but I do. What you said is impossible to ignore, and your behavior the past few days has been… different. You’re either the world’s greatest liar, or you indeed did time travel.”
“I promise you I’m not lying.”
“I know you aren’t.”
Listlessly, I stare at the dust motes dancing in the air, inches away from my face.
“What’s your real name?” he asks.
“Serene.”
“I know that. But what’s your real name?”
“Serene Parow.”
He arches a brow.
“Is that her maiden name?”
“It’s Quentin.”
Makes sense, considering that’s what Fake Mom and Dad’s last name is.
His head tips back against the wall. “When’s your birthday?”
“April 6th, 1988.”
We sit there in silence, with only the sound of the grandfather clock ticking. “Shit,” he mutters.
“Do we share the same birthday?”
“No. Yours—” He stumbles over his words. “I mean, her birthday is September 9th, 1883.”
“It makes no sense.” I feel Étienne’s gaze on me. “Lately, I’ve been trying to piece together the events that have happened, and nothing will connect.” I twist to face him. “Her parents aren’t mine. They don’t even share the same names. I have two brothers, but they’re not here. Are they?”
Étienne shakes his head.
“I’ve been plucked from life as I knew it and dropped into this world. Your world. I don’t want to be here. I need to go home.” I drag all ten fingers through my hair and fight the urge to scream. “I don’t understand why this is happening, but whatever the reason is, I know it involves you. I dreamed about you. You were bleeding and battered, lying on my lap. You needed my help. The next day at work, I found a picture of you standing outside Belgrave. With three other men. Livingston was one of them. And then I arrive here as your wife. There’s a reason I’m here, and I know it involves you.”
For the first time since I’ve arrived, I look at him sincerely. I let my fear and anxiety show, and it feels damn good.
Out of nowhere, Étienne stands. “I have to go.” He strides toward the door as though hell is nipping at his heels.
I run after him and block his path. “Stay. We need to talk about this. I need—”
His hands land on my forearms, locking me in place. He doesn’t glare at me with built-up resentment. He’s staring with stark desperation, as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders. “Give me a moment to process this, all right? Can you do that?”
I knew this would be a lot to take in. Hell, even I’m trying to come to grips with it. I nod. “When can we talk?”
“Tomorrow.”
After a few seconds, his hands drop away. I step aside and let him pass. Étienne visibly relaxes, as though he wants nothing more than to get as far away from me as possible.
Before he leaves the room, he glances over his shoulder at me. Those piercing green eyes rake me from head to toe, and for the barest second, his mask of indifference slips away and I see the smallest flair of interest and something else. But it’s gone before I can name it.
“Tomorrow we’ll start searchin’ for a way to get you home.”
I believe him; it’s only fair I return the favor.
“STOP STARING AT me,” I say out of the corner of my mouth.
It’s bad enough that every head turns as I walk down the street with Étienne. Perhaps I’m paranoid, but I swear every person who passes by knows I’m a fraudulent version of the Serene they know. We’re identical in every sense of the word. Hell, I’m even wearing her clothes. I stare down at the dress. This one has a palmetto design in dark red and black with a tiered hem in the same design. Breathing is easy, but that’s because I’m not wearing one of those stupid corsets. Maybe I should have though; there’s more blood flow going to my brain, making me feel paranoid.
Is there a broad, blinking arrow over my head? Or maybe it’s my body language? I don’t know.
The first time I came to Charleston, I was so determined to speak with Étienne that I didn’t get a good chance to take in everything. The charm of this era is undeniable, but there’s a stark contrast between the way of life here and present day. The biggest is the class divide between the rich and the poor. The people of privilege walk with leisure as though time is not an issue for them. Their heads are held high because they rule the world. The same can’t be said for the impoverished. Their eyes are perceptive, and the energy around them is frenetic.
I watch as a boy up ahead of me attempts to sell newspapers for the measly sum of fifteen cents apiece. There’s a stack behind him. By the way he loudly asks every person who passes if they want a paper, and doesn’t back down, I can tell he won’t leave until every single paper is sold. His strong-willed determination belies his age.
“Forgive me, I’m in still shock,” Étienne retorts, pulling my attention away from the little boy.
“You have questions,” I say flatly.
“If the roles were reversed, what would you do?”
I glance at him from the corner of my eye. “I’d be demanding answers to the thousands of questions running through my head.”
“Exactly.”
“So ask,” I say slowly. “But don’t stare. The people around us are doing enough of that.”
“Let me tell you a well-known fact about yourself, Mrs. Lacroix. You and I are hardly ever seen in public together, and the times we are, we barely look at each other.”
“Should I push away from you and tell you I hate you?” I ask innocently.
He snorts and, still staring straight ahead, the smallest of smirks graces his face. “It might make me feel better.”
A beat of silence passes by.
“I have a question.”<
br />
Étienne lifts a brow.
“When was the last time you were seen with… her?”
He goes silent for a few seconds. “Two months ago?”
“Good Lord. Why are you two even married?” I blurt before I can think twice. Almost immediately, I want to take the words back, but it isn’t as if Étienne cares.
He remains stoic as ever and shrugs a shoulder. “I ask myself that every day.”
His words spark a series of new questions. I have to remind myself I need to pace myself and not ask everything all at once.
“Also, it may benefit you to know that people might be starin’ because you’re walkin’ down the street in the middle of the day.”
My head whips in his direction. “Did your wife break one of her legs or something?”
Étienne gives a hearty laugh. It’s loud enough to earn the stares of people walking past us and powerful enough to make my heart speed up. God, when he smiles, it’s something else.
“No, not at all,” he eventually replies. “People of wealth don’t walk unless it’s necessary. They take cars or horse and buggy. In fact, you see the buggy across the street?”
I crane my neck and see a buggy with a pale face staring out the back window. After the woman inside sees me staring at her, she moves away from the window. “Yeah?”
“That’s Lailah, one of your dearest friends. She probably thinks you’re gravely ill and have no idea what you’re doing right now, walkin’ down the street. I’m sure she’ll make a call to the house to see if you’re all right.”
“I can’t wait,” I say, deadpan.
Étienne stares at me with his brows furrowed as if I’m a puzzle he’s painstakingly putting together and he can’t seem to find all the pieces. I clear my throat and look away. The way he’s watching at me is unnerving.
The two of us become silent again. Fine with me; my eyes are drawn to the window display to my right. I slow down and watch as two women walk into the general store. There are handwritten signs in the window, and I stop long enough to read them. Coffee is only fifteen cents a pound, and eggs? They’re fourteen cents for a dozen. Another sign promotes a new toothpaste. The most prominent sign is for Coca-Cola that says, “Relieves fatigue. Drink Coca-Cola.” In a smaller font beneath, it says it’s sold everywhere for only five cents.
Cupping my hands over my eyes, I press my forehead against the window pane and peer inside. I can’t help myself. A huge part of me wants to go inside, but if I did, I wouldn’t be content until I’d looked at each item. This is the second-best thing.
“Serene? Are you coming?”
I turn and see Étienne impatiently waiting a few steps ahead. Reluctantly, I look away from the display and walk toward him.
“What was so fascinating?”
“I was looking at the display.”
“You don’t have Coca-Cola in your time?” he asks.
“Oh, we do. Just not for five cents.”
“How much?”
My eyes slide to Étienne; he stares at me with open curiosity.
“I don’t know how much a single bottle is,” I confess. “I usually buy a twelve-pack, and that’s about four dollars?”
For once, it’s Étienne’s turn to look shocked. I smile because I recognize the hunger in his eyes. He has thousands of questions that demand answers.
He opens his mouth and idly looks to his left before he does a double-take and abruptly stops and gestures to the door next to him. “Here we are.”
We stop in front of a door with textured glass. Embossed on the spotless, large window are the words E.A.L. Corporation.
“Obviously you remember where I work from the last time you were here,” he remarks dryly.
I nod. “I thought your family owned a shipping company?”
“We do. Livingston works in the main office near the docks. I started my own company three years ago strictly for investments and real estate ventures.”
“Are you any good at what you do?” I challenge.
Would I typically be this blunt? No. But things between Étienne and me didn’t change overnight. I see the mistrust in his eyes. When he looks at me, he still sees his bitchy wife. And that’s okay, because I have a fiancé back home, waiting for me. Being polite is a pretense that neither one of us wants to use right now. Saying precisely what’s on my mind is a bit liberating.
“I like to think that I’m mildly successful at investing.”
I narrow my eyes at him. He’s being modest, and I don’t know why.
Étienne goes to open the door. I place my hand on his arm, stopping him in his tracks. He looks at my hand, then my face with curiously.
“Before we go in, I wanted to talk to you about something.” He says nothing, just stares at me with those whip-smart eyes. I take a deep breath and drop my hand to my side. “I can’t be like her all the time.”
“How so?”
“Oh, come on, you’re not blind. You saw how people were staring at us! It’s obvious that the two of you can’t stand the sight of each other.”
He reluctantly says, “Yes.”
“I know it’s probably in my best interest to keep up appearances, but I have no desire to go out of my way to be extra bitchy to you. I hope that means you won’t be a huge asshole to me.”
“Extra bitchy… has anyone told you that you have an amazing way with words?”
“I’m serious.”
His eyes rake me from head to toe in that ruthless, cut-throat way of his. “You understand that a decision like that will make people talk. Some might think we’re… happy.”
“Let them talk.” I shrug. “I want to go home. And I know you’re the key. Consider me your new shadow. Where you go, so do I.”
Étienne looks at me for a moment longer before he nods. “Very well. We shall be kind to each other from here on out.”
I hold out my hand. “Let’s shake on it.”
He stares at my hand warily before his hand curves around mine.
It would be cliché to say that the minute our hands connected, I became frozen in place or a shock of awareness rushed through me. But something did happen and it was none of those things. It started with a small twist in my gut that traveled up my body, grazed the delicate edges of my heart before it seized it all together. The feeling came out of nowhere. I look at our connected hands. His is large and calloused, swallowing mine whole. As tall as I am, dainty isn’t exactly the first word I’d use to describe myself, but that’s how I feel right now. I jerk my hand back.
Étienne’s hard and unyielding face makes it impossible to tell if he felt the same way. He clears his throat and wordlessly holds the door open for me.
I step through and take my time giving the place a once-over. With the exception of modern updates from my time, his office is typical. Rows of eighteen-drawer filing cabinets line one wall. There’s a desk directly in front of me, and another in the far-right corner. The wood floors are entirely bare, with small scuffs where furniture was once. The walls are off-white, almost the same color of the roller blinds attached to the windows.
A man, dressed as sharp as Étienne, stands up from the desk in front of me, with a bright, sincere smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Lacroix.”
“This is Edward. I think you met him,” Étienne says into my ear.
“Hello.” I extend my hand, and Edward looks at it with confusion.
Étienne subtly shakes his head, and I know, for some unknown reason, I’ve made a faux pas. I lower my hand and stare closely at Edward. He’s gangly, with blond hair and clean-shaven. His jacket isn’t tailored to fit him like Étienne’s and practically hangs off him.
My body locks up as recognition floods me. He’s one of the men from the photo. The man standing next to Livingston. I feel a surge of triumph because that means I’ve met three out of the four men from my photo.
With a confident smile, Étienne slings an arm around my shoulder and presses me against his side. “I’m here to pick up some p
aperwork, and then I’ll have lunch with my… wife.” He gives me a meaningful look, and I know I have to play along.
I wrap my hands around Étienne’s narrow waist. Beneath my arms, I feel his stomach muscles tense. Pretending not to notice, I smile at Edward. “He’s always so busy working. I had to beg him to spend some time with me.”
Judging from the way Edward stares between Étienne and me, I know this whole facade of pretending we’re a happy couple will be a lot harder than it appears.
“That is… nice,” Edward finally manages.
I keep my smile in place as we walk away. The minute Edward turns his back, my smile fades.
As we walk through an elaborate doorway, I glance to my right into another office. A man is hunched over a roll-top desk, writing in a ledger. On his desk with a check protector, glass paperweight. Directly beside his desk is a spittoon.
When Étienne closes his office door, I whirl on him. “Edward is one of the men in the photo!”
“What?”
“That man I shook hands with? He was in the photo!” I say happily.
My excitement doesn’t extend to Étienne. He raises both brows as if to say, “So?”
He says, “I have never taken a photo with Edward Hill.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think I would remember.”
I gesture to the framed photos that hang on the wall. Étienne sighs. “No, he’s not in those pictures.”
I walk over to the photos. They’re of large ships dockside with at least forty to fifty men proudly standing on the docks. I peer at them carefully, trying to see if I can find Étienne in the crowd. After a few seconds, I give up. “Is Livingston in any of these photos?”
“No.”
“What does he do for a living again?”
Étienne snorts. “My good-for-nothin’ twin brother works at our family’s shipping company, and I use the term work loosely. He mostly stops in from time to time to show his face and then entertains one of the many ladies he sees.”