“Janja.” The familiar voice in my ear called me by my childhood name, as only members of my immediate family or friends from my younger years ever did.
My head fell back against the pillow. “Maja. You know what time it is here, right?”
She answered me in Bosnian, our first language, and we carried on like that—as we always did—with her speaking in one language and me answering her in the other. The two of us were fluent in both, but this strange practice reflected our adopted nationalities. We may have both been born in Yugoslavia and we both came to the US as young girls, but now she was Bosnian and I was American.
“I’m sorry about the time, but I wanted to call before Mama gets home from work.”
I frowned. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Everything’s great. In fact, it’s amazing. Sanjin and I are getting married!”
I sat up, unable to suppress the sleepy smile curving my lips. “I’m so happy.”
“It’s all thanks to you. I don’t know what I would have done without the money you sent. His family has finally agreed to let us marry.”
Sanjin’s family was ridiculously old-fashioned, insisting on the bride’s family footing the bill for the wedding. Even in the old country, that was straight out of the nineteenth century. But as usual, I bit my tongue about that. No need to upset my sister from thousands of miles away.
“Oh Maja, that’s wonderful. Čestitke,” I said, conceding to congratulate her in our mother tongue.
“We’re getting married in June, here in the city, but then we’ll honeymoon on the coast. You remember that old town in Croatia where Mama’s family is from?”
“No…I’m sorry. I don’t remember. I was only five.”
“I’m sorry, I forgot you don’t remember as much as I do.”
Maja, five years older than me, had much more substantial memories of our childhood there. And since she’d returned nine years ago, her knowledge of the country was immediate, whereas mine was full of faded memories from early childhood and occasional summer trips back to see Mama and the rest of the relatives.
“You can come, right?” she asked and my gut tightened.
I mentally ran through the possibilities and what it would involve to raise the money to purchase a plane ticket. I’d already sent the last of my designated-for-tuition money, sold the car and hocked the tiara. What else could I spare?
My mind scrambled for something to say that wasn’t either a lie, an excuse or a promise I knew I couldn’t keep. “Um. I’ll try. It’s…I’ve got a lot going on here. And the job. I’ll try to see if I can get away.”
A June wedding. Right in the middle of high Renaissance Faire season. The Faire traveled all over the western United States throughout the year, beginning and ending its cycle in Southern California for two months in May and June.
My plan was to join up for the next year, travel and see new places while making a tidy sum from reading Tarot cards for Faire goers. It was all part of the plan to replenish my savings and eventually finish college—if that’s where the wind took me.
The only way I could afford a plane ticket to Bosnia was if I stopped paying my rent, and that would be screwing over my roomie, Alex. On top of everything, I owed her money, too.
Maja was like a schoolgirl as she regaled me with her wedding plans, going on about the cake, the flowers, the gowns and how her dream was to have me as her maid of honor. I listened, nodding and asking questions where appropriate.
My body really wanted to go back to sleep, but my mind was racing. What the hell could I do? My family had no idea that I’d spent the last few years slowly impoverishing myself in order to send them money. Mama worked at an insurance agency as a secretary and Maja was a nurse, but their income just covered their basic needs. The money I sent helped them with extras—emergency repairs, birthdays, holidays…and now, a wedding.
I’d managed, for the most part, to keep my head above water. Until this wedding. Months ago, Maja had tearfully told me that she and Sanjin were probably never going to be able to get married because they couldn’t get the money together to pay for the wedding. I’d done everything I could to help, even giving up the tiara—temporarily.
“Janjica?” she said, and for a moment I was assailed by memories of hugs from Papa, of biting into Christmas cake and finding a silver coin, of sitting for long hours in church on Sundays when I wanted to run outside and play. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but…can you bring Baba’s tiara with you? I’ve dreamt of wearing it with my veil for my wedding day. My ‘something old,’ you know.”
Guilt almost squeezed the breath right out of me and tears immediately stung the backs of my eyes. That day I’d taken the tiara in to have its value assessed, little pieces of my heart had died with each beat. The jewelry broker had dispassionately inspected every antique crystal, every tiny amber bead, even the quality of the gold while I’d burned with shame. Kci, you must be brave…
Right now, I wanted to curl into a ball and die.
“Janja? You still there?”
I cleared my throat a few times before speaking. “Yeah…yeah. I am. Definitely. Of course I’ll bring her tiara. You must have it.”
“Just to wear on that day. Papa gave it to you. And I know it’s one of the few memories you have of him.” Maja paused for a moment, and while I attempted to collect myself, she must have misunderstood my hesitation. “I’d never want to keep it. I just want to wear it. To have Baba’s and Papa’s blessings on our wedding.”
Papa gave it to you…
Oh, the irony. I’d sacrificed the tiara to pay for her wedding and now she wanted to wear it at that same wedding. The last thing I had that connected me to that blurry, faded past, to those memories of Papa. And it was now out of my reach.
I had to continue leading them to believe that everything was all right. Because they never, ever would have taken the money if they’d known all that it cost me.
I hung up minutes later, then rolled over and sobbed into my pillow for a good fifteen minutes before I finally got hold of myself.
But there was definitely no going back to sleep.
Chapter 4
William
Monday is my favorite day of the week. Most feel that Friday should have that honor because they look forward to the weekend. They live for the weekend. But I prefer the comfort and structure that a weekday brings to my life. My days seem more difficult to fill on the weekends, even while participating in the Renaissance and Medieval Reenactment Alliance. Only so much time can be set aside for grocery shopping and meal preparation, for home organization and my various hobbies, and it’s hard to occupy that eight-hour block most often consumed by work.
And since I do not care to watch television, that’s a lot of time to fill.
Order is restored to my life on Mondays. I arrive at my station approximately five to ten minutes before the start of my shift. I don’t punch a clock, but I’ve always been punctual—and not just because I work for my cousin’s company. Things are easier when you are punctual. There’s no stress, no rush. You feel the accomplishment of arriving on time, ready to begin your workday.
However, this Monday, no matter how good it started, takes an annoying turn not long before lunch. I’m at my drafting desk in the art department when I suddenly become aware of someone standing near me. And since I’m in the middle of focusing on what I need to be doing—a computer-assisted rendering of some 3D background models—I ignore whoever it is until they loudly clear their throat.
Taking another few minutes to save and back up the complex and detailed work, I remove my special glasses designed to help with this task and look up.
Jordan, the company’s CFO, is standing across the desk from me, his hands in his pockets. “Hey, William. Sorry to interrupt.”
No, he isn’t, or he wouldn’t be doing it. Irritation bubbles up immediately. Jordan is not one of my favorite people and hasn’t been for some time. It’s been a few months since his crap advic
e lost me the chance to ask Jenna out on a date.
I’d made the mistake of asking Jordan for guidance on how to approach Jenna, since approaching women is easy for him. I’d followed his suggestions by inviting Jenna to participate in the RMRA, which she’d loved, and it had given me the opportunity to see her more often. Before that, she had just been one of Mia’s friends, but then she started to become one of mine. Just as I’d been designing my plan of attack, she’d met Doug, and they had begun their infuriating relationship instead.
As a practice, I still mentally curse out Jordan with words I don’t usually like to say out loud. I’ve been told that I have a hard, unforgiving nature, and that may very well be the case with Jordan—which I’ll admit could be awkward given our work situation. But he’s done nothing to make my life easier, and I don’t trust him.
Jenna might be single again, but she’s still not mine. And nothing Jordan has advised me to do has helped that.
“Yes? What?” I say.
Jordan hesitates and then smiles. “Just checking in. I heard about the LARP duel. Adam filled me in.”
I almost growl at him. “It’s not LARPing.”
He blinks. “Don’t you guys, uh, roleplay and stuff? Isn’t that was LARPing is?”
“LARP is live-action roleplay. That’s not what we do. We reenact. We have personas, but we recreate history in an authentic way—we don’t do fantasy roleplay. I save that for sitting around the table and playing D&D.”
“Oh, uh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. Actually, I wanted to be at your duel, but April had a family thing down in San Diego.”
I try to stifle more bitterness. Sure, he is happily in love with a very pleasant and pretty girl, all while dispensing crap advice to those of us not born with his suave moves. He doesn’t deserve her.
I don’t reply and Jordan continues. “I’m sorry about the duel, man. I was really pulling for you.”
“I didn’t need any pulling,” I reply, forcing away the mental image of him grabbing my arm and pulling it.
“No, I mean I was hoping you’d win.”
I fold my arms across my chest and swivel on my workbench stool. “Why, so you won’t feel guilty anymore?”
Jordan’s lips thin and his eyes get squinty. “I see how it is. You’re still pissed at me.”
“I have a very good memory.”
“Yes, I’m well aware. I’ve already offered to make it up to you. I could fix you up with someone—”
My jaw tightens and heat rushes to my face. I stand up stiffly from my stool. “Maybe women are interchangeable to you, but they are not to me!”
Jordan blinks. “William—dude, calm down. I’m serious. I want to make this up to you. Maybe I could show you how—”
I point at him with my index finger. “I’m not taking your advice! Do you think I’m stupid? Clearly, you think I’m stupid.”
Jordan holds out a hand, palm out. “William, quiet down, okay? Let’s go talk in the warehouse or my office. Or let me buy you a coffee.”
“No. I don’t even like coffee.” I fold my arms across my chest again.
Jordan rubs his jaw and looks at me for a long, silent moment. “What can I do to make this up to you? Tell me…”
“Did Adam make you come here and talk to me? Why do you care?”
He glances up at the ceiling and blows out a breath. “Because I feel bad that you didn’t get your girl.”
My arms tense against my chest. “And you think something you can do will make up for that?”
He hunches his shoulders. “I don’t know. Look…call me when you feel like talking about it.”
“I deleted your number from my contacts,” I say.
His gaze shifts to the ceiling again. I wonder if there’s something up there—a bug or a spider. “Dude, throw me a bone here,” he says.
Images zip through my mind—a pirate flag with skull and crossbones, a dog carrying a bone in his mouth, a pile of dinosaur bones. “What?”
He waves his hands, sighing. “Never mind. Look. Here’s my number.”
He bends, grabbing a pad of sticky notes from my desk and my favorite pencil. I’m about to shout at him to drop the pencil when I stop. The vivid image of facing Doug in the battle arena floods my mind. I’m staring through the grill of my helmet and I’m swinging fiercely at him. The swords clank, the flash of metal in the sunlight blinding me. I can taste the dust in my mouth. Doug’s blocking me with his sword—held firmly in his left hand.
Jordan’s using his left hand, cocked at weird angle, to scribble down his number in his typical messy writing. I study him as he does it. I’ve known that Jordan is left-handed, but before now, that information hasn’t been important to me.
Jordan is saying something again, and I faintly hear it through the whirlwind of images flashing through my mind. Doug and I are on par, skill-wise. But his advantage is that he fights right-handed men far more often than I practice against left-handers. Practicing and sparring against a left-hander—even if not as skilled as Doug—might give me a competitive edge against him. Left-handed people only represent roughly twelve percent of the population. I know of no one who is physically fit enough to match my training regimen and who is also left-handed. Until now, that is.
Jordan straightens and turns to leave when I speak out. “Stop. I’ve just thought of how you can make it up to me.”
Jordan’s looking at me strangely, out of the side of his eyes. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“You can come help me train during my sessions with the European martial arts trainer.”
His brow scrunches together. “Martial arts? You mean like karate or tae kwon do?”
I sigh. Jordan is smart—most of the time—but sometimes he can be dense. “Those are Asian martial arts. I’m talking about European martial arts. Sword fighting, archery, fencing, et cetera. I’m specifically talking about fighting with sword and board.”
“Sword and what?”
“It’s the term for a shield, or buckler. I need a left-handed person to train against for those bouts.”
“You’re fighting another duel?”
“Yes. And it’s very important I win. She’s depending on me. If you want to make it up to me, this is what I want you to do. Maybe I’ll forgive you after that.”
His mouth purses for a minute like he just ate a lemon. “I’m not responsible if I beat the crap out of you, am I?”
“If you can manage it, no. But your overconfidence is your weakness,” I say, repeating Luke Skywalker’s line from Return of the Jedi.
“Your faith in your friends is yours,” he quotes back. “Fine. I’ll do it. Hell, I might even enjoy it.”
“And if I win, I get to date April?” When he opens his mouth to protest, I start laughing. “Joke.” By far a joke. April is very pretty, but she is nothing compared to Jenna. And as far as my mind is concerned, Jenna is the only one. Since I first laid eyes on her, I haven’t thought about any other woman. Just her.
I am not about to let her down. I’ll do whatever it takes to win this. For her.
***
Later that night, I continue my Monday routine. After dinner, I change into my workout clothes, ready for a short run. I complete five kilometers in about twenty minutes, and then after another forty minutes of planks, lunges and free weights, I begin to work on my fighting moves.
I look at my wall calendar. It’s the latter half of March. The Beltane Festival, and thus the second duel, is exactly forty-one days away.
Along with my instructor-led martial arts training, I’ve been watching videos to study the strategy of swordplay. I’ve also color-coded my workout schedule and labeled the amount of time I should spend training at each activity. In the last few months, I’ve managed to fine-tune my fitness regimen. My body fat is at an optimal level, all calculated to the most precise evaluation of my BMI. Even my cousin, who is in very good shape, has noticed and complimented me on my efforts.
I’m about to start my sword ro
utine when my phone trills. It’s the least annoying of the signals available—I checked the settings.
With a deep breath, I get up to look at the caller ID. I have never yet managed to ignore a phone call, which is why I normally turn it off while in my workshop or art studio. I also prefer to answer after the second ring. This time, it almost rings for a third time before I’m able to pick it up, and I realize in my haste to stop the ringing that I did not glance at the caller ID. Both of these things unsettle me. I’m already two steps off my routine, and it’s making my skin feel itchy.
“William Drake here,” I snap.
“Uh…hey, William. How are you? It’s Jenna.”
Jenna. A feeling, like an entire ship sinking in my stomach, comes over me. My throat tightens.
For a moment, I blank on an appropriate response as I envision the first time I ever saw her. It was at a surprise party that Adam threw for Mia at his house over two years ago. They’d been celebrating her acceptance to medical school. I despise parties and had stayed close to the wall, as I usually do on such occasions. But that was when I saw her.
Beautiful.
So beautiful that everything froze when I looked at her. I see that vision now as if she is standing right in front of me again. She’s wearing a turquoise and violet patterned shirt and a black skirt. Her legs are long and slender. She has pale skin, and her hair is so blond it’s almost white. And her eyes…so blue. Pale, but with a purple undertone. Somewhere between the shades of cornflower and cerulean.
“Hello? William? You still there?”
“Yes. I haven’t gone anywhere. Hello, Jenna.” I force the almost overpowering image from my mind.
“Oh, okay. Good. I was…I was wondering if I could come over for a few so we can talk.”
“We can talk now. We actually are talking now.”
She laughs. Something I said must have been funny. Then I realize her asking if we could talk means that she wants to see me face to face.
“Well, I thought we could get started on some of those calming techniques to help with your unease with crowds. Would tonight be okay? After dinner?”
For The One (Gaming The System Book 5) Page 5