Hidden Worlds

by Kristie Cook

I reached my hand out to his arm, stopping just before touching the purplish marks. He cleared his throat. “That would be, uh, your boyfriend . . . or fiancÉ . . . or whatever he is.”

  “Ex,” I mumbled under my breath. But then it hit me what he was saying. “Oh, my! Tristan did that to you? What on earth for?”

  He chuckled. “We sparred at the gym. He’s just been, um, a little aggressive lately. No one else will even spar with him anymore and I’m pretty sure he’s holding back.”

  Well, yeah, or he would’ve killed you. I felt horrible for Owen—normal Owen who had no idea how bad it could’ve been and he couldn’t even heal himself.

  I sighed. “I’m really sorry, Owen. I think you’re getting the brunt of . . . our break up.”

  “I can take it. Rather me than someone else,” he mumbled.

  I waved for him to come in and he followed me into the kitchen. “Mom left like an hour ago. Do you need something?”

  “No, actually, I just stopped by to see how you’re doing.”

  I spun around, surprised. “Well, I’ve had better weeks, but I’ll be fine.”

  He smiled. I’d never really paid attention to how nice his smile was. In fact, looking at him now was like looking at him for the first time. I realized he was actually kind of attractive. I also knew he was a good, sweet guy. I thought maybe someday, when I put myself somewhat back together, we could at least be friends. Real friends who hung out and did things.

  Then I remembered Tristan was the only person who hadn’t fled when he learned the truth about me. I swallowed hard, fighting tears down, not wanting Owen to see me cry.

  “No visitors?” he asked.

  “Uh, no.” Why would he want to know that?

  “Okay.” Awkward silence. “Would you, uh, want to go to the beach or something . . . maybe . . . sometime?”

  He must have been asking if Tristan, specifically, had visited. I wondered if he was afraid of him, knowing what just a small bit of Tristan’s wrath felt like.

  “Um, I don’t know right now, actually. I’ve been ignoring my book and . . .”

  “Yeah, that’s cool. I understand.” He smiled weakly. We stood there awkwardly, then his head cocked and his eyes seemed distant for a brief moment. He headed for the door. “Well, uh, you’re okay here?”

  I smiled and thought my cheeks would crack from the falsity of it. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t seem convinced, but didn’t press it.

  “Very weird,” I muttered to myself after he left. Over time, we’d become a lot friendlier at the store, but nothing more. He came around sometimes to fix something around the house, but we never talked; I was always shut in my room, writing. I wondered what prompted him to stop by and just check up on me. He hadn’t done that since Mom had left town that one weekend. I figured he was just trying to be a friend, worried after seeing the whole thing go down at the pub.

  I headed to the kitchen to dump my soggy cereal. There was another knock and the door opened.

  “What now, Owen?”

  I took two steps into the hallway and ran into—electric pulses through my body—Tristan. My stomach rolled and fell to my thighs.

  “Oh,” I breathed. We both stopped dead. Mmm . . . he smells so good. I couldn’t look at his face, though, so I stared at the floor. He put his thumb under my chin—more electric shocks—and lifted my face, forcing me to look at him.

  “You look like hell,” he said. I pulled my face away and headed back into the kitchen.

  “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been told.” I turned and glared at him, then said harshly, “You can thank yourself for that.”

  He scowled. “I do blame myself,” he muttered.

  He didn’t look too good either. Still beautiful, just . . . wrong.

  “You look like hell, too,” I said.

  He looked down at the box he held. “I brought this over for you.”

  He held the brown box out to me. I didn’t take it.

  “I don’t want anything from you,” I said coldly. His face broke, sadness overcoming it. Why am I acting like this? I couldn’t look at him so I grabbed my bowl of soggy cereal from the table and took it over to the sink.

  “It’s your stuff,” he mumbled. He set it on the table. “I was going through things before I started packing.”

  I whirled on him, dirty milk sloshing everywhere.

  “You’re packing?” Panic squeezed my chest.

  “Yes, I’m moving.”

  “You’re moving?” The bowl fell out of my hands and clamored into the sink. I couldn’t breathe. Don’t leave me! I swallowed hard to push down the lump in my throat. I thought it was my heart. I fought back tears, refusing to let him see me cry again.

  “I shouldn’t be around here.” He studied my face, tried to look into my eyes, but I looked away, afraid of what he might see. He added quietly, “And, I guess there’s nothing to stay for.”

  Me! Stay here for me! You can’t leave me! I took a deep breath. I hoped he didn’t hear how ragged it was . . . or that he did. And then I hoped he’d see the tears fighting to break so he’d know how I felt without my having to say it. Then I was scared of his reaction . . . or non-reaction. That he wouldn’t care.

  “Oh,” I finally said, not able to say anything else, because if I did, it would only result in more rejection and pain.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “No,” I said honestly. He scowled again. “But I’ll be fine. No permanent damage done, I’m sure.”

  Liar! Pain flashed across his eyes and then he composed himself.

  “Yeah, of course. Well, I guess I’ll leave you alone.” He lifted my chin with his thumb again and gazed into my eyes. I couldn’t even see the specks of gold in his, they were so dim. No sparkle at all. I could feel the tears again. His eyes softened and he looked so sincere when he said it . . . “I do love you, ma lykita. Forever.”

  Before I could even blink, he was out the door. I stood there in shock for several beats. Oh, God! I bolted for the door, threw it open and ran outside.

  “Tristan!” I yelled.

  He was already gone.

  Some kids across the street stared at me while I just stood there, still in my PJs, looking frantically up and down the street. It was as if he’d disappeared.

  I trudged back inside and cried for several hours. I didn’t know what to believe anymore. Part of me wanted to run to him, to believe he loved me. Another part screamed in protest, reminding me I couldn’t trust him, he’d only hurt me again. And a very small third part said to stop crying and get over him already. The other parts yelled at that one to shut the hell up because I didn’t want to get over him. Even if it meant being miserable.

  I remembered the box, brought it into my room before I opened it and found only a couple of things inside. There was my blouse I’d been wearing one night when we made dinner at his house and the sauce splattered all over it, so he gave me one of his t-shirts to wear. His scent permeated my blouse. I buried my face in it and inhaled deeply. Mmm . . . mangos and papayas, lime and sage, and a hint of man . . . . I remembered I still had his shirt somewhere. I searched in the bottom of my closet for it and put it to my face before pulling it over my tank top. The only other items were the framed poem I’d given him for Christmas, my engagement ring and a note.

  My Dearest, Beloved Alexis,

  I love you. Te amo. Je t’aime. ’ . Ti amo.

  I love you. I love you. I love you.

  I don’t know how many times or how many ways I need to say it before you will believe me. I am sure you have lost all trust in me now and I understand. I hope you will understand one day it was not my place to tell you about the Amadis arrangement. All I could do was make it happen and that is what led me to fall completely, irreversibly, undeniably in love with you. You bring the very best out of me, especially the ability to love and allow myself to be loved. After all we have shared, I just don’t know how else I can convince you that my love is irre
futably authentic. You are my soul mate.

  I am returning the poem you wrote for me because I cannot keep it, knowing you do not feel that love for me anymore. I also want you to keep your ring. I designed it especially for you with the intent of you keeping it forever. Do with it what you want. It is yours and always will be—just like my heart.

  I want to believe in you and me together forever, but if you do not come back to me, my forever is over. Without you, my world is bleak again. I beg that you will bring your light back into my life, but if not, I understand and will accept existing in darkness.

  I love you more than any soul has ever loved another, my Lexi, ma lykita.

  From the deepest, darkest corners of my heart,

  ALL of my love,

  Tristan

  Tears streamed down my cheeks at the first line and I was bawling by the time I finished it. I read it over and over, tears staining it, causing the ink to run in places. I finally dropped it back into the box and held my blouse to my face as I curled up and sobbed.

  Mom came in later, after darkness had consumed my room. She flipped the light on, blinding me.

  “I thought this morning . . .” She stopped when I flicked my hand toward the box.

  She sat on my bed and peered into it. She picked up the framed poem, read it and set it on my nightstand. I stared at it. I already had the poem memorized. I cried. She picked up my ring and the note and, after reading the note, she placed it in front of the poem and put my ring on top. I cried.

  When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and quiet. “Alexis, I think you both want the same thing. Why don’t you just . . .”

  I interrupted her. “I just can’t yet, Mom.”

  She stood up and picked up the now empty box. “Well, you’re running out of time, honey.”

  “I know,” I whispered.

  I had another night of crying and restless sleep, my blouse and his shirt bunched around my face so I could smell him. By morning, though, I’d decided I’d cried enough. I told myself some fresh air and distraction was what I needed to clear my head and think things through. I went for a short walk on the beach. It wasn’t a great idea; I felt so alone. So I went back home and escaped to my book, losing myself in an imaginary love story where everyone lives happily ever after.

  “Do you know when he’s moving?” I asked Mom that night.

  “I don’t think he’s set a date yet. I think he’s still waiting . . . .”

  I just nodded and went back to my book. I spent the next day immersed in the fictional world I’d created.

  “Has he set a date yet?” I asked Mom that night. She shook her head.

  Chapter 18

  I spent the next two days the same way. I worked on the book all day; I asked Mom the same question at night. She said no both times. I breathed a sigh of relief. By the end of the third day, I felt the novel was as good as I could make it without input from others. It was time to hand it over—let someone else delve into my fantasies and see what I think about, how weird and twisted and lovely my imagination could be. I practically danced around the printer as each page slowly slid out, feeling both nervous and excited for Mom to finally read it.

  Needing something to do to pass the time before she came home, I took a long, hot shower and then painted my toenails purple. Finishing the book and then pampering myself cheered me up. Maybe tomorrow I’ll feel good enough to call him. Maybe.

  When I came out of the bathroom, I heard voices. I peeked into the kitchen to see who was with Mom. She leaned over the counter, her head in her hands, the phone in front of her. She had it set on speaker and when I heard Tristan’s name, I stepped back to listen.

  “I’ve tried to talk sense into him, but he’s not listening,” Mom said. “He insists there’s nothing to keep him here, there’s no reason to stick around.”

  “Stefan has been over there, too, with the same results,” said a female voice through the phone’s speaker. She had a foreign accent I couldn’t place. “We cannot let him go, Sophia.”

  “I know.”

  “There is only one person who will get through to him. You know that.”

  “She’s still unwilling. I think she wants to, but she’s struggling to trust that he really loves her.”

  “Oh, of course he does! From what you and Stefan have told me, there is no doubt!”

  “I know, but she doesn’t. Or if she does, she won’t admit it.”

  “You need to persuade her, Sophia. She needs to understand. Otherwise, we will lose him forever.”

  Mom sighed heavily. “Yes, I’m sure of that. I’m pretty sure he’s going back to them.”

  “So am I.”

  My chest constricted, strangling my heart. Oh, no! Oh, God, no!

  “Do you think they’ll kill him?” Mom nearly whispered. My stomach lurched, filling my mouth with the taste of vomit.

  “I am not sure. They have a terrible desire to control him again, but if they think they cannot, they will undoubtedly kill him. Either way, we lose him.”

  I rushed into the kitchen and skidded to a halt in front of Mom. Her eyes held mine. She had to see the terror on my face, but put her finger to her lips. I wanted to scream at her and the woman on the phone, but could barely pull air through my constricting throat. I felt like I was suffocating.

  “You have to convince her, Sophia! She is the only one—”

  “I think we have an answer. I’ll call you back.” Mom quickly pressed the end button. “Alexis . . .”

  The world fuzzed around the edges, then started to go black. I thought I was about to pass out, but I’d never done that before, so I wasn’t sure. Mom caught me and set me in a chair, pushing my head between my knees.

  “Mom . . .” I gasped. “Tristan . . . ?”

  “Alexis, did you hear?”

  My head shot up and pinpricks of light flashed before my eyes. I looked past them at her face. Her expression was a mix of several different emotions, none of them good. Fear, worry, grief, anxiety . . . I’d never seen Mom so distressed.

  “Yes! What do I do?” I cried.

  “I think you know,” she whispered.

  “How much time do I have?”

  “I don’t know. Tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “NO!”

  I bolted for my room. Yes, I know what to do. I dressed quickly in what I knew he liked, just in case it made a difference—the green blouse Mom gave me for Christmas and a denim mini skirt. I threw my hair in a quick twist to get it out of my face and emptied my school bag on my bed, scattering papers and pens everywhere. I threw the framed poem and his note into the bag. I tucked my ring into my hip pocket. I stood in the door and glanced around, trying to think if there was anything else that might help. My eyes landed on the manuscript I’d just printed. I’d promised Mom first read. She’ll understand. I grabbed it, slipped it into a folder and shoved it in the bag. I flew out of my room.

  Mom waited at the door for me. “I drive faster,” she said.

  “I can’t be there without a car, Mom, just in case . . .”

  “I’ll leave it.”

  She waved off the look I gave her.

  “I’ll get home fine. Don’t worry,” she said.

  She raced along the surface streets. It didn’t feel fast enough. I tried to think of what I’d say or do but nothing came to mind. We turned into his driveway in two minutes. I’d have to wing it.

  “You can do this, honey,” Mom said. She pecked me on the forehead and then she was gone.

  “Tristan!” I cried from the driveway. I rushed up the stairs to the dining room door and banged on it. “Tristan!”

  I pressed my face against the glass to look inside. It looked empty except for some boxes and furniture piled at the far end of the living room. He hasn’t left. Yet. But he never came to the door and I wondered if he was even home. I could see a light from the hallway, either the office or the gym. I pressed my ear to the glass and heard blaring music. He’ll never hear me over that! Damn,
damn, damn!

  I ran back down the stairs to the keypad by the garage door. I had no idea what the code was and knew it was hopeless. Unable to keep still, pacing the driveway, I tried to think how he would think. It wouldn’t be his birth date. He ignored that date. But maybe . . . Without anything to lose, I tried my birth date. Holy crap! It worked! The door right next to me started lifting. As soon as I was able, I ducked underneath it and hit the button to close it. I ran up the stairs to the house.

  “TRI—”

  His name lodged in my throat. A steel vise grabbed me by the neck and pinned me to the wall two feet off the floor. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even struggle. The bag fell from my hand. I heard the glass frame break. My heart raced even harder.

  “Alexis?” The lovely voice twisted in horror.

  Just as my vision started to blur around the edges again, I saw Tristan step back, his hand dropping from my neck. Then I was free and fell to the floor. My lungs seized to pull in air.

  “Tri . . . stan . . .” I gasped, kneeling on all fours.

  “What are you doing here?” he growled. “I almost killed you.”

  “I’m . . . sorry . . . I . . . banged . . . on the . . . door.” I inhaled as deeply as I could, the air tearing at my throat like razor-blades. “You couldn’t hear me.”

  “What are you doing here?” he growled again. Fire blazed in his eyes.

  I scrambled to my feet.

  “I . . . I came to stop you.” My voice sounded small and weak with fear.

  “Stop me from what?” His tone was unfamiliar. I didn’t like it at all. He folded his arms across his chest.

  “From wherever you’re going.” My voice grew stronger. He won’t hurt me . . . not on purpose anyway.

  “It’s too late,” he growled angrily.

  “But you’re still here!”

  “You’ve made your feelings clear, Alexis. I have nothing to stay for.”

  “But I’m here. I’m here for you.”

  He glared at me.

  “Where are you going?” I could hear the edge in my voice, the anger rising. I’d need that anger if I had to protect myself.

  “Exactly where you told me to. Where I came from!”