Crouched low, we maneuver over bodies. More fire. We duck behind a flipped-over table.
“You go!” I fire off a round. Feeling numb and sick I push back all thoughts and allow my training to take over. “Al-Bishi is mine!”
“I’m not leaving you!” He lifts his head up and takes a few shots, then falls hard to my side.
I shove him away with my elbow. “Go! That’s an order!”
He continues to press against me.
“Schmitt, dammit! I gave you an or—” He stares up at me with lifeless eyes. Blood forming rivers from his nose and mouth. Smoke curling up from the small bullet hole in his forehead.
Red coats my vision.
I stand to my full height.
The sound of gunfire stopped.
The room is silent.
Dead bodies litter the floor.
Shock overtakes me. My hands shake but I feel nothing.
Only one thought pumps furiously through my mind.
It should’ve been me.
ONE
Present day . . .
SAWYER
“I think we should break up.” I sip from a tangy margarita, wishing it would cool more than my mouth as the sweat that lies between my skin and my pantyhose is beginning to chafe.
Having just shoveled a heaping forkful of meat dripping in red sauce into his mouth, Mark freezes. He glares at me from behind his fork and strings of cheese dangle from his chin. The four-piece mariachi band starts up a few tables down and even the upbeat rhythm doesn’t cut the tension between us.
I probably should’ve eased into it a little rather than dropping it right on the table between us, but I figure it’s like a Band-Aid. The faster the better.
He wipes his chin, chews, and swallows hard before leaning forward to prop his forearms on the table. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Mark . . .” I point to the dollop of red sauce under his pristine white sleeve. “Your shirt.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off mine, as if he didn’t hear me or maybe he’s refusing to. “Things have been so good between us.”
I sigh internally because he only thinks things have been good between us. I’ve been entertaining ending what little we’ve started for weeks now. “I’m sure this seems out of left field but . . .”
He adjusts his position, further rubbing his crisp dress shirt through the offending sauce.
My fingers itch to dig out my Tide stain stick and go to town on what is sure to end up being an ugly and permanent reminder of tonight. “I just don’t think we’re compatible.”
He shoves his plate aside almost violently and I add his emotional outbursts to the list of reasons why I can’t stay with him. “You’ve been living with me for two months, Sawyer. How long have you been thinking about our compatibility?”
“About a month.”
“Fuck.” He leans back and runs two hands through his usually perfect chestnut hair, flashing that red stain that taunts me. “I knew it was too soon to ask you to move in.”
He’s probably right about that. At the time it made logical sense—I should know, I made the list. I checked off all the reasons to against all the reasons against and determined living together solved a lot of our problems. It was more affordable, his place was closer to the office, I was able to make bigger payments on my student loans. The only downside was I wasn’t in love with him. And despite the way he’s looking at me now—the turned-down lips and puppy dog eyes—he doesn’t love me either.
He continues to tug at his hair and the chaos of it has me run my hands over mine in response. “I’m sorry to do this now. I wanted to wait until we got home.”
“Wait until we got home.” He repeats my own words, then laughs, but I fail to see what’s funny so I jut my chin out and wait for him to explain. “Like that would’ve been easier? We’ve been together for six months. We have a great time together. Why are you doing this?” His eyes narrow and I catch a hint of the Mark Abbot, CPA to the filthy stinkin’ rich I see at the office every day. “Is this because I closed on McMillan?”
My fingers dig into the sleek material of my pencil skirt. “Please, Mark. I’m not that petty.” Although his swooping in on my client when I was reeling him in was a Grade-A dickhead move, it’s only one of many reasons I’m ending our relationship.
He throws his hands up in defeat. “Then what is it? Why—”
“Can I get you another margarita?” Our waiter clears the empty basket of chips as he eyes my uneaten food. “Would you like a box?”
“We’re fine, José!” Mark snaps at the man.
I flash the guy a warm and what I hope is an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, but no. Just the check, thank you.”
He gives Mark a warning look that my soon-to-be-ex doesn’t seem to notice or care about, then retreats.
“First of all, his name is Juan. Not José. Second, it’s not his fault we’re breaking up, so don’t take it out on him.”
“We aren’t breaking up, Sawyer. You’re breaking up with me. I get no say in this, do I?”
“My mind is made up.”
“Can you at least tell me what I did wrong? It scares the shit out of me that I’ve been somehow pushing you away and not even known it. Or that I’ve been so delusional to think things between us have been great when the whole time you’ve been miserable.”
If that isn’t the unanswerable question I don’t know what is.
Do I run down the list of things he does that annoy me? That I hate it when he throws his arm over my shoulder in front of people at work as if he owns me and wants everyone to know? How I hate the way he breathes through his mouth, like his perfect nose is only for decoration rather than functional use? I hate that he chews ice. Takes me to dinner at sports bars when a game is on and never takes his eyes off the screen. I hate that he answers his phone while we’re eating. I hate that I have to hold my breath around him every morning because of how much cologne he puts on, that he wears tennis shoes without socks, uses my tweezers to pluck hair out of his nose, doesn’t hang up his wet towels the right way, and eats cereal in the middle of the night but doesn’t rinse out his bowl so it stinks like sour milk in the morning. He’ll think my reasons are ridiculous, but I can’t change the things that drive me crazy, they’re engrained in me.
“Wait a minute.” His voice is softer now. “I know what this is. This is about your sister.”
My mind blanks and fury blooms in my chest and heats my cheeks. “Don’t bring her into this.”
“You’ve been under so much stress.” He rubs his forehead. “I feel like a dick for not seeing this coming.”
Every word he says seems to grate along my skin and zap at my nerves. “If you’re implying my breaking up with you is some kind of relapse—”
“That’s exactly what I’m implying.” The expression on his face softens, but it’s not communicating understanding as much as pity. “It makes sense that with your sister being so sick you’d start to question everything. Anything emotional could send you back . . . inside. I’m just saying I totally get it.”
I clench my jaw trying to hold back an outburst. “Don’t compartmentalize how I feel.”
The waiter returns, dropping the check on the table, and then scurries away probably because of the fire shooting through my eyes aimed directly at the man across from me.
Mark leans to the side to fish his wallet from the back pocket of his slacks. “My mom told me this might happen. She said once Celia took a turn for the worse your compulsions would come back.”
“You told your mom?”
His mom. I’d mentally add his codependent relationship with his mother to my list of reasons why I’m breaking up with him, but I’m too mad to think straight.
“Of course. Good thing too or I might have actually thought you were breaking up with me because of something I did.”
“Mark—”
“Have you considered going back to counseling, ya know, once Celia passes—”
“Seriously, Mark, I’ll say it one more time. Leave my sister out of this.”
He tosses a card into the black folder and peers at me with cold eyes. “Your anger only confirms it. Face it, Sawyer. Celia’s dying. The quicker you accept that, the sooner you can move on with your life and that includes us.”
And just like that all the anger and frustration drains from my body because in this moment I know without a single doubt that I could never stay with a man who doesn’t give a shit about my boundaries.
I warned him.
He ignored me.
I’m done.
I snag my purse from its hanging position on my chair and dig out my phone. With a calmness I didn’t think I was capable of, I hit the Uber app and pinch a twenty from my wallet.
I toss it on the table and stand with all the confidence of a woman who is about to walk away without a single regret. “I’ll arrange to have my stuff out this weekend.”
His cheeks redden and he braces to stand but I stop him with a firm look.
“Don’t. This has been over for awhile, but what you pulled tonight confirms my decision.” I hook my purse over my shoulder. “Bye, Mark.”
“Wait, Sawyer!”
“Señor, you can’t leave until I run your card.”
“Give me one second, I—”
The heavy, carved wooden door of the restaurant closes behind me and I weave through the parking lot to the main road. I check my phone and thankfully the Uber pulls up seconds later.
The driver, an older man with white hair and who has Bing Crosby playing on the radio turns back to me. “Everything okay, miss.” His eyes move over my shoulder to the back window and I don’t have to look to know it’s probably Mark charging the car.
“Yes. Orangewood and Twenty-Second Street, please.”
He steps on the gas harder than I’d expect for a man his age. He’s probably figured out I’m trying to get away from a bad date, and I appreciate him for that.
“Bottled water?” He hands me a four-ounce bottle of cold water that I gratefully accept.
“Thank you.”
I pull out my phone and hit my sister’s phone number. After two rings it goes to voicemail.
“Hey, it’s Celia! I’m hanging off a rock face in Utah and can’t reach my phone. Leave me a message!”
“Cece, it’s me. I’m on my way to Mom and Dad’s and was hoping you’d be awake. If not, I’ll just talk to you tomorrow.”
I slide my phone into my purse and Nat King Cole and Billie Holiday later we’re pulling into my old neighborhood. With a few directions, we end up at my parents’ house, idling in the driveway.
“I’ll wait.” He throws the car into park. “Make sure you get in all right.”
Smiling to myself, I head to the front door, not at all surprised to see the lights in the front of the house on. It’s early on a Friday night. That means movie night. Warmth washes over me at the thought of putting on my PJs and flopping on the couch with my parents and my sister just like we’d do when we were kids. Back when life was easier. Stable.
I knock on the door and soon my dad answers. “Sawyer, what are you doing here?” He wraps me in a hug, but when I pull back I see his excitement bleed from his face and leave worry in its place. “Everything okay?” He looks over my head. “Where’s Mark?”
“I broke up with Mark—”
“Sawyer, we didn’t know you were coming over.” The joy in my mom’s voice makes me think she misses those old days when we were all under one roof too. “Where’s Mark?”
I open my mouth to answer, but my dad beats me too it.
“They broke up, Darlene.”
My mom’s overexaggerated shock almost makes me laugh. “You did? Why? Wait, come in and sit down. Where will you stay? You know your bedroom here is always available.” She guides me to the kitchen while firing off questions. “When did this happen? Are you okay? We’d love to have you stay here, your sister would be so happy to have you home.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” I drop to a stool at the breakfast bar. “I don’t have anywhere to go and I can’t stand to even look at Mark let alone sleep under the same roof with him.”
My mom and dad stand on the opposite side of the bar, both staring at me with concern. “What did he do?”
I kick off my heels and flex my cramped toes. “He just doesn’t get me and frankly . . . I don’t get him either. It just wasn’t meant to be. I’ve been wanting—”
A song blares from my mom’s pocket, making all of us jump. One, because it’s loud and two because it’s Dr. Dre rapping “Bitches Ain’t Shit.” My mom frantically scrambles to get it before the song clip repeats, but in her fluster drops the thing on the floor. My dad shakes his head and I hide my laughter behind my first.
She finally gets a handle on it. “Celia, what did you do to my phone? I can’t have that, it’s inappropriate.” Her eyes come to me. “He’s not with her.” She sighs. “I guess they broke up. Okay, hold on.” She pulls the phone from her ear and presses speaker. “Go on, she can hear you.”
“Sawyer.” Her voice is soft, but still carries that take-no-shit commanding tone.
“Hey, Cece. Did I wake you up?”
“Wake me up? Bitch, I have a brain tumor, I’m not ninety.”
My parents roll their eyes, but I don’t miss the way my dad flinches slightly.
“Come to my room and tell me why you’re here without that uptight suit of yours.”
“Okay, I’ll be up.”
“Bring some vodka.”
“Celia, no,” my mom chimes in. “You know you can’t mix alcohol with your meds.”
“It’s for Sawyer, Mom. Jeez.”
I mouth to my mom, “I got it.”
“Hurry up.” The phone goes dead.
“Is she okay?” I slide my gaze between my parents, noticing the odd nonverbal exchange they’re having with each other. “Mom?”
“She’s fine, honey.”
My dad scrubs his face with one hand. “She’s been a little cranky lately.”
“Well, then, I better hurry and get up there.” I grab a cold bottle of vodka from the freezer and kiss my parents good night.
“Help yourself to whatever you need.” My mom hugs me a second time.
“I will. Night.”
Dropping my shoes off at the bottom of the stairs, I take the steps two at a time until I’m at the door to the bedroom my sister grew up in. It still has a Foo Fighters sticker on it as well as a biohazard sign that I think she stole from a processing plant the summer of our junior year.
The flickering blue light of the television spills through the crack in the doorway. I push it open and find my sister in the same spot she was in the last time I saw her just a few days ago. Pillows propped behind her back, remote in hand, oxygen tube resting on her upper lip and a bored expression on her face. Her eyes come to mine and she smiles. “Get in here and tell me what happened.”
“I called you from the Uber but you were on a rock face in Utah.” She sniffs like it’s no biggie.
“Last week you were exploring caves in Phong Nha-Ke Bang National Park.”
“Yeah, I just like saying Phong Nha-Ke Bang.” She scoots over and pats the mattress. “Sit.”
I close the door, just like I did when we were kids and we wanted to talk about boys without our parents hearing. As I settle in next to her, she mutes the TV and tosses the remote to the foot of the bed.
“You and Mark broke up, huh? Not surprised. The guy has the personality of a sheet of paper.”
Picking at the label on the cold vodka bottle in my lap, I shrug. “He wasn’t right for me, that’s all. I’m not in love with him.”
She sits up and turns her body to face me. “Let me guess . . . he wore socks with his Birkenstocks.”
I stare dumbly back into her face and even though hers is rounder because of the medication and her hair longer it’s still like staring in the mirror.
Celia’s my identica
l twin sister.
“Real funny.”
Her lips curve into a grin and she shoves my shoulder. “I’m right, aren’t I? You broke up with him because he wore Birkenstocks.”
“No.”
“Crocs?”
“No!”
“Liar.”
“I swear!” Laughter bubbles up in my chest.
“I don’t believe you.” She crosses her arms over her chest. Waiting.
“It wasn’t any of that, it’s just . . .” I stare at my sister’s lifted brow and sigh. “He wore tennis shoes without socks. You could make penicillin off the bacteria living in those shoes.” I shudder.
“I knew it!” She throws her head back, laughing. “You’re sick, Sawyer Forrester.”
“That’s not the only reason.”
“Oh, I’ve gotta hear this.” She grabs the vodka bottle out of my hand, unscrews the top, and moves to take a sip.
I smack the bottle away from her lips. “Celia, no! You can’t drink.”
“Pfft! Of course I can.” She takes a full mouthful of clear liquid and I rip it from her hand.
“Stop it!”
She cringes as she swallows the straight booze, one eye pinched closed and her lips pursed like she just sucked on a lemon. “Your turn,” she grunts out.
I pull a tissue from the box on the nightstand and wipe the mouth of the bottle, earning an eye roll from my sister, then take a healthy swig and cringe as I force the fire down my throat. “Ugh . . . I hate this.”
“I know, it’s awesome, right? Go on.” She settles back in next to me and pats my thigh. “Nice hose, Sawyer. Those are your Friday night hose, yeah? What shade is that? San Tropez tan?”
As if the liquor went straight to my head instantly, I giggle and hold up one stocking-covered foot. “No, it’s called medium buff.”
“Huh . . . it’s about five times darker than your natural marshmallow skin tone.”
“Shut up.”
“Don’t get me wrong, it looks good, but if you want to pull it off you’ll need an extra pair for your arms.” She motions to my neck. “And your face.”
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