Of Stone and Sky

by Charissa Stastny

  Gramps stopped in front of me, sending me a conspiratorial wink as he lifted Gemma’s hand from his arm and placed it on mine.

  “You two have made this old man truly happy.” He kissed Gemma’s cheek and left to take his seat beside Wilder.

  Gemma looked up at me with so much love in her eyes that I wanted to bag the ceremony, steal my bride, and skip straight to the honeymoon.

  “I like this look on you,” she said, playing with the top button of my shirt.

  “Are the Tevas too much?”

  She’d insisted last night that I should loosen up for our wedding. Think comfort, not stiff tradition. I’d wondered all night how to fulfill her wish. I’d decided to wear the tux but lose the bowtie and unbutton the top two buttons of my shirt. I’d also worn Tevas instead of my Italian dress shoes.

  “Absolutely not. Now we can enjoy ourselves.”

  I’d felt ridiculous at first, especially catching questioning glances from arriving guests. But with Gemma pleased, I didn’t care about anyone else’s opinions.

  The ceremony began, and the clergyman said the oft-repeated words: “Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

  I grinned and said, “I do.”

  He asked if she would take me to be her lawfully wedded husband, and Gemma’s expression nearly made me melt into the grass as she said, “I do.”

  We kissed, and I couldn’t quench my thirst for her. We were married. For real. Gemma loved me. I loved her. We would spend the rest of our lives together, have little whirlwinds to match Joe’s and Janey’s, and grow in our love, instead of growing apart as Angeline and I had done.

  I’d gotten it right this time.

  Gemma pulled away to laugh, then yanked me back to kiss me longer, deeper. I vowed right then and there that I should always give my wife what she wanted.

  44

  Angel

  Age 20 - Tulsa, Oklahoma

  Saemira and Altin had fallen asleep in the rear seat. Engjell pulled over somewhere outside of Oklahoma, Tulsa to nap. Fourteen hours separated them from Michigan, though it’d taken three weeks to get there, zigzagging across county lines to find places to hide each night.

  The first week, he’d had enough money for food and gas, having had weeks to stash it away as he’d searched for Saemira and her brother. But his cash was almost gone. He’d resorted to shopping, as Duke had taught him. Uncle hadn’t made life easy, but he appreciated his hard lessons now.

  Saemira hadn’t been built for a life on the streets though. He knew hunger. She and Altin didn’t. On top of physical privations, she still grieved for her baba. The first day after he’d rescued them, she’d been energetic and eager, like the young friend of his childhood. But she’d soon become sullen and withdrawn, reminding him of the traumatized girl she’d been when she’d left Albania.

  He stared into the darkness. What was he to do? Saemira had her honor. Her ethics. She hated when he stole food, unable to wrap her mind around the fact that it was necessary. America was the land of opportunity, but not to a runaway deformed immigrant on a student visa.

  He slipped out of the car to be alone, walking up the dirt road a ways. Crickets chirped from the cornfields as his mind churned options. What should he do? Where should he go? He’d exhausted almost all his resources. He had ninety-seven dollars left for gas. It was impossible to steal that. But once that cash ran out, they’d have to ditch the car or figure a way to get more money.

  Uncle had always bragged about his connections in Canada. That was above America. Uncle had lived there as a child and still had relatives there. That’s where he’d said he was going when he left Albania.

  Could Duke help him now? If nothing else, maybe he could give him ideas where to go.

  Engjell glared at his phone, remembering Uncle’s pounding fists and ugly words. But he was a man now, not a naughty boy. Uncle was family. What was the worst he could do? Say no and hang up?

  He shivered as he punched in Uncle’s number by memory. Hopefully, the number still worked. Uncle picked up on the third ring.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Eng—Bengalo.” Uncle had beaten him the first time he’d asked to be called Engjell. He’d never asked again.

  “Why are you calling, boy?”

  “I’m in America, outside Oklahoma, Tulsa.” Population 403,733. He’d looked that up on Google while Saemira slept. But Uncle would mock him if he tried to sound smart.

  “Ah, I’m in America, too.”

  He was?

  “I’m running operations in Utah for my cousin. You looking for a job? You were always skilled at picking pockets.”

  Engjell blinked. This was a blessing from the gods. “Yes. Thank you. I’m not alone. You remember Taavi Nikolla and his daughter, Saemira?”

  “The temptress?”

  He scowled. “Her baba got murdered. Saemira and her baby brother were put in foster care. I helped them escape. We’re on the run from the policia.”

  Uncle chuckled. “You’ve always been trouble, Bengalo.”

  Causing trouble had never been his intention. “Saemira can’t know, though. She doesn’t approve of stealing.”

  “Didn’t you steal her from foster care?” Uncle asked.

  “That’s different.”

  “Is it? Seems your temptress has a double standard. Stealing is okay, as long as it benefits her, no?”

  “It’s not that.” Uncle would never understand. Neither would Saemira. They both viewed the world in black and white. Duke saw black, Saemira white.

  “Whatever, boy. Get yourself here, and I’ll put you to work. I have a place you can stay with your temptress and her bastard.”

  He gritted his teeth but didn’t correct him.

  “You’ll need documents. Send me pictures of you and your temptress.”

  Uncle must be doing well if he could secure papers. “Can I pick our new names?”

  “Get your pretty little sidekick to Salt Lake City, and you can do whatever you want. I’m proud of you, boy.”

  Engjell stood taller. Uncle had never praised him before.

  After Uncle hung up, Engjell Googled Salt Lake City. A large metropolitan valley ringed by two mountain ranges with a city population of 200,000. County population about a million. The mountains reminded him of Albania, but the city’s elevation almost doubled Albania’s at 1319 meters, or 4,330 feet above sea level. Americans had a weird measurement system. The area also had the largest saltwater lake in the Western Hemisphere. Best of all, Salt Lake City was approximately eighteen hours away.

  He yawned and headed back to the car to sleep before the sun rose. Tomorrow would be a long driving day.

  Uncle shoved me to the ground. After beating me, his men had manhandled me into a trunk and driven me into the mountains. Nero and Slam had led me into the trees, a hoodie over my head to hide my bruised, deformed face. There, they’d set up a post to watch Saemira’s wedding below on the grounds of a ritzy hotel.

  Duke handed me a pair of binoculars. “Watch, Bengalo.”

  I watched through the lenses as Saemira smiled up at the gadjo I’d warned her about. My heart shattered as I watched the girl I’d loved for years pledge herself to a monster. The gadjo took her in his arms and kissed her long and deep.

  Uncle chuckled. “Think the temptress wishes the gadjo was you, boy? Scarred? Monstrously ugly? Evil-eyed?”

  I ignored him to watch Saemira pull away. She appeared happier than I’d ever seen her. And beyond beautiful. She pulled the man back for a second kiss, longer than the first.

  I hated him. He hadn’t been her friend for years, protecting her from bullies and playing games with her after school. He hadn’t sacrificed an education to save her and her brother from foster care. He hadn’t struggled to keep her alive on the streets. He hadn’t held and comforted her each night as she’d grieved for her parents.

  No. This man had been handed life on a silver platter. He was soft, spoiled, useless. And he hid a vicious t
emper.

  He was dressed casually. Shirt unbuttoned at the top. Suit pants rolled up to his calves. Sandals. Didn’t people dress up for weddings? His lack of respect for Saemira infuriated me. So did his possessive arm around her as they greeted guests. A sign of ownership he didn’t deserve. Yet Saemira kept stopping to kiss him after they talked to each person.

  How had he blinded her?

  Or had she been drawn to his money? She’d never be hungry with him.

  Uncle chuckled. “The gadjo’s getting horny. Wants the party over so he can ravish his new bride, no?” He yanked the binoculars away.

  I stared straight ahead, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a response.

  He shoved me. “Your temptress betrayed you, but we’ll have the last laugh, boy.”

  45

  Saemira

  Age 17 - Denver, Colorado

  BOND: a uniting element in chemistry. Also what holds families, friendships, and marriages together.

  The house was sketchy, a new English word Saemira had picked up, which meant questionable.

  “This guy’s cool,” Engjell said. “Said we can stay the night while he fixes our tire. You can use the shower.”

  That did sound nice. She hadn’t been clean since escaping Kent and Kay’s almost a month ago. “What does he want?” Being homeless had taught her that no one gave them anything without wanting something in return.

  “I’ll buy some of their cheeba, and we’ll be cool.”

  What was cheeba? “We don’t have much money left. We need to save it for gas.”

  Engjell winked. “We have more cash now, thanks to my new friend.”

  She frowned. Had he swiped a wallet and replaced it a little lighter? She hugged her brother. “I hate when you steal.”

  “Tomorrow, I’ll never steal again. My university friends have a place and a job for me. We’ll live normal.”

  Normal sounded nice. “Can the guy fix our tire now so we can get back on the road?” She didn’t want to stay here longer than necessary, even for a shower. “I’ll switch off with you so we can drive through the night.”

  “You’ve never driven at night,” he said. “Besides, I want to be clean and presentable when we reach Utah, Salt Lake. And beggars can’t be picky.”

  She cuddled her brother. “Stop saying the state before the city. People will know you’re not American. Just say the city.”

  “Salt Lake.” He pulled her toward the door.

  Hours later, way after midnight, Saemira lay awake on a thin blanket in the sketchy house, cradling her brother. They were clean, but a shower didn’t wash off the stain of drugs, and lots of people were doing those.

  Thankfully, a tattooed woman had taken her and Altin into a room upstairs and had spent hours doing her hair into dozens of braids. Cheater dreadlocks, she’d called them. They might last a few months if she was careful, not years like dreads.

  When she’d returned to the main part of the house, Engjell had been in a corner with his new friends, smoking something and acting weird. The tattooed woman had given Saemira a blanket. She’d curled up with Altin in a corner to sleep. But every person, every sound, every smell made her cringe.

  Her stomach growled as she stroked her brother’s soft head. Had she made a terrible mistake taking Altin away from his foster family? The blond girl had seemed nice. Saemira might’ve liked her in a different setting. And Altin would never have been hungry with them.

  Engjell weaved his way over, humming too loud.

  “Shush, idiot. You’ll wake Altin.”

  “Sorry.” He snuggled up behind her. “You smell pretty.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  He put an arm over her. She let him because he was warm and the house was cold. He stroked her skin.

  “I love you,” he mumbled.

  “Shut up.” She’d yell at him in the morning, when they were far from this place. He probably wouldn’t remember anything she said tonight anyway. His mind was gone. And maybe that was a mercy. Engjell had been stressed with the burden of taking care of them.

  He deserved one night to forget and be free.

  Gemma

  Red rose petals lay scattered across the white carpet leading up the stairs to Lincoln’s master suite. My husband—ah! I loved the sound of that!—carried me in his arms up to his bedroom.

  The day had been perfect. The cool mountain breeze. The touching ceremony that’d bound us together. The scrumptious food. The stolen kisses. And Lincoln’s smiles. Getting him to let loose a little—taking off his bowtie, wearing sandals, and losing the suit jacket—had given him permission to be himself, not the uptight businessman he pretended to be. The Lincoln I’d married had been fun and addicting, a man I could love forever.

  Maybe he wouldn’t hate me when I revealed the truth. He seemed sincere in his feelings.

  The scent of roses made me sigh as he laid me on the comforter. He grabbed a rose from a vase beside the bed and traced the velvety petals down my nose and lips.

  My body hummed. “Today was perfect,” I whispered.

  His gaze made my insides smolder. “Thanks for marrying me.” He pulled me close, taking my breath away as he began peeling off my gown. Inch by inch, his lips caressed my bare skin, making me shiver.

  “I don’t know how to do this,” I admitted. I wasn’t a virgin, yet I had no experience with consensual sex. Mama had promised that the man I married someday wouldn’t be cruel, and the act would not be painful or ugly. I prayed she was right.

  Lincoln moved his tantalizing lips down my shoulder, eliciting all sorts of yearning. “I’ll teach you.”

  And he did.

  Mama had been right. Intimacy with someone you loved was beautiful. Wondrous. Lincoln made me feel adored, worshiped, and I soon gained enough confidence to reciprocate. We paid devout attention to each other, and I experienced a rainbow of emotions: joy, as he tickled me, panting pleasure as he touched me, tears of happiness as he whispered his love. I’d understood from watching Baba and Mama together that they’d had a deep and powerful bond. Now, I was connected with Lincoln in the same way, body and soul.

  I didn’t want to leave him. Surely, he wouldn’t hate me for who I really was.

  He pulled me against his strong body, and I closed my eyes and listened to his heartbeat. I was now more than Saemira Elira Nikolla. Lincoln had transformed me. I was his, no longer my own. And he was mine.

  We were each other’s.

  “I love you, Gemma.”

  I winced, wishing he knew my true name.

  But not tonight. Not when everything was so perfect.

  “I love you more.” He’d never know just how much. I hardly understood myself.

  46

  Angel

  Age 20 - Midvale, Utah

  The cross-country trip had taken a toll on Gem. She’d lost weight, probably because she kept giving her portion of food to Altin. She’d been upset with him for getting high in Colorado but playing along with those punks had yielded great rewards. A fixed tire. And three hundred bucks, after paying for the cheeba. The losers had been none the wiser as they’d left.

  He slipped his phone in his pocket and returned to the car. Saemira played with Altin, trying to teach him Pat-a-Cake.

  “Was that your friends on the phone?” she asked.

  “Yes. Everything’s set. Soon we won’t be homeless.”

  “Thank the gods,” she said.

  Thank Uncle. His generosity had saved them. He hadn’t expected it and wouldn’t tell her just yet. Maybe never. Saemira didn’t like Uncle. He had reservations about working for him as well. But this was America. The future was bright. Saemira and Altin were his family now. He was Altin’s baba and Saemira’s husband. He provided for her, lived with her. Someday, when she didn’t miss her baba so much, he’d make babies with her. They’d have her pretty green eyes.

  His loins filled with heat as he recalled last night. The euphoria of getting high had been incredible. For a while, as h
e’d cuddled beside Gem, he’d felt powerful. Desirable. He’d pressed himself against her in the dark, and she hadn’t pushed him away.

  In time, she would be his.

  They arrived at the apartment complex Uncle had directed him to, and his mouth fell open. There were trees, bushes, even grass. It seemed like heaven compared to his village in Albania. Uncle must be doing well.

  Saemira gathered Altin in her arms, and Engjell led them up the stairs, grabbing the key from beneath a potted plant by the door of 124. Everything was as Uncle had said it would be.

  They entered, and he stood taller as Saemira walked around the kitchen. The place had come furnished. A table and chairs. Couches. None of it broken. It seemed like a palace. Their documents were on the bed in a manila envelope.

  He handed Saemira a new driver’s license and birth certificate. “You are now Gemma Stone. My Gem.”

  She shoved him and laughed. “Don’t be a weirdo.”

  “I’m Johnny Dicaprio.”

  She snorted. “That’s the dumbest name ever.”

  “Is not.” The name combined his favorite actors.

  “You might as well be named pizza, it’s so cheesy.” She turned on the TV for Altin. “I’ll call you the English form of your name. Angel. You look like an Angel.”

  He scoffed, knowing he had the face of a monster.

  “I’m not joking.” She patted the couch, and he joined her, pulling Altin onto his lap. “You’ll always be my Angel because you rescued us.”