He blinks those beautiful green eyes and obeys. Behind him, Callum’s brows arch in surprise.
“What about me?” he asks lightly.
I shrug. “You can come, too.”
When Preston is close enough, I grab his hand and thread our fingers together. His breathing accelerates, coming in nervous pants.
“What are we doing?” he asks. Scared. Excited.
“Whatever I want,” I whisper back. “Ready?”
His throat bobs and he nods. I grin, plant a quick kiss on his smooth cheek, then drag him out the back door of the Fish Tank. By the time the dark waters of the pool loom before us, we’re running.
Preston gurgles in alarm.
I laugh and leap into emptiness, taking him with me.
8
sacrifices
day 8 - 9
While Preston scrambles to get out of the pool in his heavy clothes, I float in the deep end, arms and legs waving, and gaze at the endless night sky. I imagine the water around me full of stars. I’m high above. Free.
My ears are underwater, but before long, I hear the muted reverberations of my name being called. Urgent voices. Then angry ones. I’m sure they’re arguing about who will dive in to get me.
Then his voice, lower and softer than the rest, but somehow clearer.
“Amelia.”
I blow out three short, forceful breaths, then suck air deep into my lungs. Then I fold my body and sink. Another type of freedom, a watery cocoon. No voices here. I come to rest on the floor of the pool, my legs crossed and my miniskirt around my waist.
Dark. Silent.
My first underwater meditation was at thirteen. It hadn’t ended well, but practice makes perfect. I know my limits. Know how to listen to my heartbeat for signs of distress. When my lungs begin to burn, I release a slow stream of bubbles. Ridding myself of carbon monoxide. Savoring my depleting oxygen. White spots dance in my vision. Tiny stars.
A strong, masculine hand grabs my arm, and I open my eyes.
The disappointment is crushing.
Callum drags me to the surface, then to the side of the pool. “What the fuck, Mia?” he gasps, clutching me tightly to him. His warm hand smooths over my head, his stubbled cheek tickling mine. He whispers, “You scare me.”
“I scare me, too,” I say and finally look across the water, to where a group of people stands.
Dr. Chastain is gone.
Callum leads me to my cabin, away from Charlene’s angry blathering. Disciplinary meeting. There will be consequences. He guides me into my bathroom and lets me drip while he turns on the shower and adjusts the dials.
Before diving into the pool after me he’d stripped to his boxers, which now cling wetly to his muscled ass and legs. The silky fabric also does little to hide what the tabloids have nicknamed Callum’s Cannon.
When he turns from the shower, he catches me staring at his ass. I expect him to smirk, or make a joke, but he doesn’t.
“Do you need help getting undressed?” he asks slowly and precisely.
I know the tone well. “You think I’m crazy.”
He shakes his head. “I think you have a lot of pain trapped inside you.” His eyes make a slow map of my features. “Something happened to you. Something bad.”
The surface of my secrets shifts, buckling against ice.
“Something bad happens to everyone.” I pull off my top. It plops wetly on the ground, where it’s joined shortly by the miniskirt and my underwear.
“Jesus, Mia,” hisses Callum, eyes hungry as they travel my body. “You really know how to push a guy to his breaking point.”
My specialty.
I walk past him, making sure to graze his bare back with my breasts, then step into the shower. Hot water cascades over me, pulling a sigh of relief from my throat.
Blinking at Callum through the spray, I say, “Go ahead and break. No one’s stopping you.”
His jaw hardens as he takes a rigid step toward me. A finger traces my nipple, pebbled beneath the water, before trailing down my belly. Just when I think I have him, he stalls, breathing heavily, and takes a large step backward.
Wincing, he squeezes his heavy erection with one hand, then gives me a sad smile. “I’ve had my heart broken too many times. And you”—he shakes his head slowly—“I think you might ruin me.”
I ignore the second disappointment—or is it the third?—of the evening. “I’m not offering love, just sex.”
“That’s my problem,” he says with a small shrug. “I don’t know the difference.”
I feel no pleasure at this secret, no desire to take what he’s offered me and turn it against him. I don’t want to break Callum.
Huh.
“Thank you for diving in after me.”
The sadness leaves his smile. “You’re welcome.” He turns away but pauses with his hand on the doorframe. “Let him in. He really wants to help you. You scared the shit out of him tonight.”
My heart thumps hard, ever reminding me of my limitations. My sickness.
“Good night, Callum.”
“Sweet dreams, Mia.”
I pull the shower curtain closed.
At 10:00 a.m., I walk into Dr. Chastain’s office and sit listlessly in my chair. My mind is hazy, my body lethargic. I slept through my usual run with Callum and the change of routine has me off-kilter. I don’t want to be here.
There’s nowhere else I want to be.
“Amelia.”
“Leo.”
He sighs but doesn’t correct me. “You look tired this morning.”
I shrug. “Bad dreams.”
His pen scratches on paper. “Will you tell me about them?”
I consider lying but don’t have the energy. “I was getting married.” I snort. “Total nightmare.”
“Why was it a nightmare?” he asks softly.
“I don’t know. There was this… feeling.”
“Did it feel like you were making a mistake?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Realizing it’s too late to backpedal, I blurt, “I was happy. Completely, utterly ecstatic.”
There’s a weighted pause. “Why was it a nightmare?”
I close my eyes. “You know why.”
“You had a dream you were getting married, and in the dream you were happy.” Patient, measured tone. “Why is that a nightmare?”
“Don’t make me say it,” I whisper.
“I think you should.”
I press my fingers into my eyes. “I woke up! There, asshole. Happy now? It was a nightmare because I woke up!”
“How did that make you feel?”
Annoyed. Angry. Heartbroken.
But I keep my mouth shut.
“Is there a reason you won’t look at me?”
I lower my hands to my lap but don’t lift my eyes. “Because your face pisses me off,” I snap.
“And why is that?”
Let him in. He wants to help you.
“I don’t trust you,” I answer—both him and Callum’s voice in my head.
“How can I earn your trust?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. You can’t.”
“Do you trust anyone?”
“Jameson.”
“Even though he was the one who contacted us?”
“Yes. He was only trying to help me. Protect me.”
“And what do you think I’m trying to do?”
Through my teeth, I say, “Break me.”
He doesn’t reply. Minutes tick by on the antique wall clock. Tick. Tick. The sky is overcast, the normally bright room shadowed. I consider whether or not I’m still dreaming. Tossing and turning in my bed, trading one nightmare for another.
Absorbed in my chaotic thoughts, I don’t notice Chastain has moved until I feel his hands on my jean-clad knees, spreading them apart. I stiffen, my eyes snapping of their own volition to his face. He takes advantage of my pause, settling between my legs. Closer than he’s ever been.
Not nearly close enough.
“Give me your hands,” he says, offering both of his, palms up.
“What are you doing?” I breathe.
He says nothing, watching me and waiting. The glasses are gone, and his eyes are soft and a little wary. His pulse jumps against the skin of his throat. Like candy I want to suck.
I put my cold fingers in his warm ones.
Slowly, he lifts my hands to his head. Even with him kneeling, my arms aren’t quite long enough to reach. I hold my breath as he moves forward until we’re nearly chest to chest.
His breath teases my cheek. “Go ahead, Amelia.”
I don’t recognize the whimper that comes from me as I sink my fingers into his perfect hair. It’s softer than I imagined, barely any product in it. I drag my fingernails across his scalp, tugging and twisting the strands. He sucks in a breath, his eyes closing and chin dropping.
I take hair in my fists and yank his face up. Startled eyes meet mine. More than anything, ever, I want to kiss him.
“Don’t,” he says.
For some godforsaken reason, I listen. With a final tug on his hair, I release him and sink back into my chair. He lowers onto his heels, eyes still wide and startled, like he doesn’t understand what just happened. Dark hair in wild disarray. Hands clenched on his knees.
By his dilated pupils, I assume he’s hard beneath the concealing flaps of his jacket. The thought doesn’t thrill me like it should. Instead, I feel unsettled.
“I still don’t trust you,” I say, because the moment is too real. Too heavy.
Hadn’t I wanted this?
I had, but don’t anymore.
“You’re making me crazy,” I add.
Chastain moves to his feet, turning quickly. Long strides carry him around his desk, where he sits heavily in the rolling chair. I watch him stare blankly at the desk until I can’t stand the silence anymore.
“I can hold my breath for two minutes and twenty-three seconds.”
He looks up. “Yes, I know.”
My eyes narrow. “Fucking Jameson. Did he tell you my favorite food, too?”
“Ceviche,” he says with a twitch of lips.
My own mouth curves. “Favorite movie?”
He grimaces. “Reservoir Dogs.”
“Hey! It’s a great movie!”
He laughs. Really laughs, his head tilted back and shoulders shaking. My smile grows until my cheeks ache.
“Whatever, Doc. I kind of like this game, seeing how well my twin knows me. How about this. Have I ever gone skydiving?”
“Twenty-six times,” he answers, still smiling.
“Most embarrassing moment?”
He frowns, thinking, then his eyes clear. “You got your period in the eighth grade in the middle of class”—he pauses for dramatic effect—“in white pants.”
“Son of a bitch!” I shriek. “I’m committing twin-icide the second I see that dickhead.”
His smile softens. “Why do you think Jameson wanted me to know so much about you?”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. He trusts you, so I should trust you.”
“Do you think you can?”
I meet his calm, assessing gaze. “Maybe. If you tell me a secret.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “What kind of secret?”
“Your biggest one.”
His lips curve, though not in humor. “I don’t think so, but I’ll tell you something personal. How’s that?”
“I’ll tell you after I hear it.”
He concedes with a nod. “When I was thirteen, my older brother committed suicide. I didn’t put the pieces together until college, but now I know he suffered from untreated bipolar disorder.”
No pleasure this time, either.
At my silence, he continues, “I knew there was something wrong with him, but my mother didn’t believe in mental illness. She believed in prayer. I’ll always regret not listening to my instincts, not pushing harder for him to see a doctor.”
There’s no bitterness in his voice, which strikes me as a small miracle. How does he not hate her? If it were Jameson we were talking about, no matter how much time had passed, I’d still be postal.
“That’s why you went into this field?”
He nods. “His name was Vincent. Vince.”
There is, of course, a part of me that wants to pry further. To see how far he’ll let me open him up, how deep he’ll let me peer inside.
I’m not a changed woman after eight days in treatment. The itch for danger will come back—it always does—but right now, I’m content.
I take a deep breath. “Do you want me to tell you about the night my mother died?”
“Please.”
So I do.
9
memory lane
day 9
Ensconced in the playroom with a mountain of Legos, Jameson and I listen to our parents in the next room.
“Please, Harrison, you know I’m phobic about water. Will you take him?”
“We’ve talked about this,” replies my father sternly. “He needs to learn to swim. Jameson and Mia started lessons when they were one. I don’t know why it’s so different with Phillip.”
“Phillip isn’t fearless like them. Water makes him nervous, too.”
“He’s too young to be afraid. Clearly he’s picking up on your fear.”
“I don’t think so. I’m very careful not to project—”
“Deal with it, Julia. I’m not putting a damned fence around the pool. You’re the adult. Take Phillip to the swim lesson. I have work to do.”
Jameson and I trade glances as our mother’s footsteps pass the playroom door and go down the stairs.
“He’s afraid of water?” whispers Jameson.
I shrug. “That’s stupid.”
Jameson frowns. “Don’t call Phillip stupid.”
“Fine, I’ll call you stupid.”
“I’m not stupid. You’re stupid. I hate you.”
I stick my tongue out. “Hate you too.”
Minutes later, our mother comes back upstairs and pokes her head into the playroom. She’s wearing a raincoat since it’s been storming all day.
“Hi, lovebugs. I’m going to take Phillip swimming.”
“Can I come?” I ask.
My mother smiles. “Not tonight, Amelia.”
“But I can help!” I insist. “I’m not afraid of water!”
Jameson pinches me and I squeal, then punch him hard in the shoulder. He wails and throws a handful of Legos at my head.
“I’m going to watch TV,” he announces, running from the room before I can retaliate.
“He pinched me first,” I tell my mother.
“I saw. I’ll have a talk with him later.”
Oddly, she doesn’t look angry. She normally hates it when we fight. She’s constantly telling us how blessed we are to have siblings. Which, of course, falls on deaf ears.
“I really can help Phillip swim,” I say, brushing Legos off my lap as I stand. I walk into her open arms, taking a deep breath of her flowery scent. She drops a kiss on my head.
“I appreciate that, lovebug, but you know what would be an even bigger help?”
I crane my neck to see her face—golden hair, warm hazel eyes, and a big smile for me.
“What, Mommy?”
She taps my nose with her index finger. “Clean up this playroom before we get home.”
“Mom,” I whine, “why am I being punished? Jameson started it.”
With a tender swipe of fingers over my cheek, she replies, “Taking care of the gifts others have given us isn’t a punishment. It’s a privilege.”
Knowing she’s about to remind me of the bajillion kids who don’t have toys to play with, I stomp away from her.
“Fine,” I grumble, kicking a flattened soccer ball across the room.
“Thank you, Amelia.”
I look up from a pile of twisted, naked Barbies. “If I clean up, can I have ice cream
after dinner?”
She laughs, eyes sparkling. “My little deal-maker. Of course. Ice cream it is.”
“None for Jameson?”
She winks. “We’ll see. Be back soon. Love you, Amelia.”
“Love you, too, Mommy.”
“The lesson was at six and they were always home by seven fifteen,” I say vacantly. “By eight, Jameson and I were starving. We asked my dad for dinner, but he yelled at us, so we sat together on the couch downstairs and waited.”
“Your father didn’t realize how late it was?” asks Chastain.
I shake my head. “When he was working on a case, he tended to lose track of time.”
“Please, continue.”
I clear my throat. “Jameson answered the door. Two cops. We weren’t stupid. We knew something had happened to Mom and Phillip. I remember thinking they must have drowned, because they were both afraid of water. But it had rained while they were at swim class and the roads were slick. Some kid in his daddy’s Mercedes took a turn too fast and spun out, hitting them. They went off the road.”
“Was Phillip in a car seat?”
My breath hitches; darkness crowds my mind. “Yes, but the car hit the back passenger side directly. Mom died when the airbag malfunctioned and her head hit the steering wheel, breaking her neck. She shouldn’t have died, really. Neither of them should have. Bad luck.”
“I’m sorry, Amelia.”
He sounds like he means it, but I also know he’s waiting for the rest.
“A neighbor came over to watch us so Dad could go with the officers. Mrs. Clemens, I think her name was. Nice lady. Held Jameson while he cried.”
“You didn’t cry?”
“Not then. I told them I was going upstairs to my room, then put on my bathing suit.”
“Ah,” he says, like some puzzle piece has fallen into place. “It was too easy to just jump in the swimming pool, wasn’t it?”
I blink burning, dry eyes. “Yes,” I say in a voice I don’t know—raw and raspy. “I wanted to be close to them. I wanted to feel afraid.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t. But I tried. I went into the attic and out the window onto the roof. It wasn’t the first time I’d gone up there, but I’d never jumped off before. The pool wasn’t that far. I thought I could make it.”
The Fall Before Flight Page 5