by Rosa Sophia
“I-I d-don’t know, Ian.” She’d just walked in, and he was waiting for her. “I’m not sure what you’re asking me.”
“I found this taped to the door when I got home from work.” He voice was even, edged with disappointment. “You’re cheating on me.”
A sudden ache flared up in her chest, her body stiffened, tears welled behind her eyes, and she gasped. “What, I—”
“There’s no sense denying it. I should’ve known. You’re hardly home anymore, you’re so distant. You’re barely here in the evenings.”
She wanted to say she was afraid, she shied away from him especially at night when he was drinking. He’d shown a different side of himself. A million thoughts raced through her mind, one at the forefront: I should’ve confronted him. Why didn’t I?
Silence fell between them. The only sound was the crinkling of paper as he handed her the note, and she read it as her heart hammered against her ribcage; she bit her lip so hard she thought she might hurt herself.
You took her from me. We are meant to be together. You took her away. It is all your fault. I will get her back, and you can’t stop me. I will. Get her back.
The note was written in a jagged scrawl, and it shook with her quivering hand. She knew who’d written it.
There was something dark, strange, about the man she’d met by the beach. On the outside he’d seemed normal enough. But she thought back over the previous weeks, and how his breath—even his sweat—sometimes smelled like liquor. His thinking seemed disjointed, and she judged this by the words that came out of his mouth, as she soon discovered his money wasn’t his own; it belonged to his family. An inheritance. A wealthy child in a man’s body, sailing the open sea.
She watched the paper drift to the ground as wracking sobs overcame her. How had she managed to get involved with another alcoholic, without even realizing it? It was as if something within her snapped, years of turmoil rolled up within her like a tsunami. She thought of her father, stumbling wasted in the living room, sucking from the bottle as if it were his mother’s breast and he were still a baby—feeding, unable to get enough.
Somehow she found her way to Ian who, at first, held her with a great deal of reluctance. After all, she’d cheated on him, and she couldn’t blame him if he hated her. She wept against him, staining his shirt with her tears, and wondered if this was the last time he would ever hold her.
Would he kick her out? What then? Would she have to go back to Maine?
“Amalie.”
More sobs, uncontrollable. She breathed in deep, ragged breaths, realizing she was having a panic attack; anger did this to her, fury brought on the attacks. But was it Ian’s fury, or her own? Both were directed at her, both just as potent.
“Amalie!” He was holding her shoulders, shaking her until she lifted her head and looked at him through a blurry shield of tears.
She tried to lift her hands to her face, but his were already there, and he was gently wiping the tears away, pushing her hair away from her soaked cheeks.
“Amalie, calm down. Breathe. Breathe, baby. You don’t want to throw yourself into a pain attack.”
He was right, stress could do that. The last thing she needed right now was a flare-up. After a few long moments of holding her firmly and rubbing her back, she calmed down. Then he held her at arm’s length, his hands tight on her shoulders, almost rough.
When he seemed to think she could handle it, he said, “Tell me what happened. Just tell me. If you’re honest with me, we can fix this, Am. You know I love you, goddamn it. Just tell me the truth and we can fix this.”
She blubbered for a moment, wiping her wet nose with the back of her hand, feeling silly and somewhat disgusting in front of him. Looking up, she saw the man she fell in love with. His hair was slightly mussed up, no gel to restrain the tumbling curls. He peered at her from behind his black-rimmed glasses, and when she looked closer she saw those incredible light blue eyes that spoke volumes—and she saw a slight tinge of green inside them, green she could get lost in. His lips, so soft, she knew the feel of them well. And she loved the way he didn’t bother to shave sometimes on the weekends, leaving just a bit of pale blond stubble on his chin. She loved him, everything about him. But the bad things, those terrified her. And that’s why she’d strayed.
“Ian, I, i-it’s not t-t-that I can’t, I just—”
Without waiting for her to continue, he dropped his arms and huffed, running his hand through his hair. “What the hell, Amalie. You won’t even tell me? Goddamn it. I don’t have to put up with this.” He shook his head, then stomped to his bedroom, and within seconds the door had slammed behind him.
Suddenly she was standing there in the dark. More tears came.
She heard dogs barking outside, she thought she heard the ocean.
And she wished she could get lost in the waves, and never return.
***
A shock of pain lanced across the left side of her face and she gasped, burying her head in the pillow then wincing when the touch of the fabric on her skin caused yet more agony.
“That’s it,” she whispered to herself, clutching the blanket, talking to it as though it were an old friend. “I’ve never truly been in love before.” She gripped her chest, feeling as if it might explode, the panic still very much a part of her—pulsing, throbbing from her center and out along her limbs until even her fingers ached with the torture of what she’d done.
How can I ever fix this?
Slipping away, she saw herself standing in the woods. It was her this time, not some other woman masquerading as herself. Instead, the blonde wearing the blue dress was before her.
Standing over her body, crumpled and lying broken on the stone steps. The neck was bent at an unnatural angle, the eyes glassy and staring forward. And the woman’s spirit stood beside it, looking forlorn. It was obvious she’d accepted her fate. She was dead and there was nothing she could do about it.
A shadow was at the top of the steps, then gone again, vanished in the woods.
Amalie wrapped her arms around her body, suddenly so cold. Shocks of pain passed through her neck and into her face as she wondered about her neuralgia, this body, this woman before her. “Who are you? Are you me?”
“Yes.” The woman’s voice was so soft it was nearly inaudible, and her lips barely moved.
“I, I don’t understand. Why am I here, why am I seeing this? Why the visions? Why any of it?” Amalie looked around, but her surroundings were blurry, as if they were slowly becoming lost in time, like pictures that fade in the light.
“One chance,” the woman said. “One chance. Tell him.”
“Tell him what?” Amalie squinted. The world around her was fading. She wasn’t done yet. “Please, please…tell him what?” She reached out, but the figure was gone, and moment by moment the forest was drifting away, the estate, the house, and the gardens—all gone.
All blackness.
Amalie saw the backs of her eyelids, then rolled to her side. The clock on her bedside table told her it was midnight. Listening closely, she realized she could hear the familiar tap, tap, tap of the keyboard as Ian wrote his stories.
Her face ached as the tiny branches of nerves crawled outward, sending signals of pain over her cheek, down along her jawline. Worse yet was the aching that pulsed outward from her heart; her breathing was ragged, and she was congested from sobbing. She raised herself up and wrapped her arms around her body.
“Tell him.”
The woman’s words echoed in her mind. Never before had anything been so clear, and it was as if the fog parted, showing her the way.
She knew what she had to tell him; the most simple thing in the world.
The one thing she hadn’t gotten a chance to tell him in their past life.
The words she’d never been able to speak before the Woodsman shoved her down that rocky path.
Dragging herself from the mattress, she stepped carefully out of the dark shadows of her bedroom and into the pale yellow light of
the hallway. The floors were chilly beneath her feet. She peeked around the corner, watching him for a moment. His eyes were narrowed in concentration as he tapped away at the keyboard. But it didn’t take long for him to notice he was being watched.
When he turned to look at her, she observed the stubble on his face, and the way the corners of his full lips turned down in a frown. The sorrow in his eyes was unmistakable. It wrenched her heart knowing she’d been a party to that sadness.
“What do you want, Amalie?”
His words were cold, matter-of-fact. She couldn’t expect anything more, but they still sent waves of agony tearing through her. She had to fix this. After what she’d done, she was lucky he didn’t throw her out in the street.
“Ian, I—” She froze. What if he turned her away? There was only one way to find out. “Ian, I just have to tell you something, something I didn’t get to tell you before.”
“What do you mean?” He leaned back, turning his swivel chair to face her.
“In our past life.” She stepped cautiously onto the soft carpeting. “I died without getting a chance to tell you I love you.” Amalie scooped his hands into hers, gently rubbing his knuckles. “I love you, Ian. I want to fix this. I’ll tell you the truth, everything. And I’ll never lie to you again, I swear.”
He said nothing, but his expression softened, and she saw the man she’d fallen in love with—a kind, playful gaze, his lips parting slightly as if he wanted to speak but wasn’t sure what to say.
She stepped close enough he could pull her into his lap if he wanted to. “I had a dream, and I saw myself talking to the other me, the woman I was in the past. She said, tell him, that I only had one chance. I know what she meant. Life is short, Ian. I have one chance in this lifetime to tell you how I feel. And I love you. I don’t know what else to—”
Before she could say another word, he stood and pulled her against him, pressing his lips to hers. She could tell he’d had a beer, maybe two, but it wasn’t enough to transform him into the Ian who frightened her, the one whose embrace scared her more than anything else.
Their kisses grew feverish; she’d never known such passion before. To say she was scared of that ardor was an understatement. Her heart slammed in her chest, her fear just as relentless as her arousal. The touch of his mouth against hers sent tiny shocks of pain across her lips, but she didn’t care.
He withdrew slightly, pressing his forehead against hers, and whispered, “Relax.”
“How’d you know?” Her whisper was hoarse, trembling.
“I can feel it. You’re petrified.” He took his glasses off, placing them gently on his desk. “Why are you so afraid of this, of us?”
“I-I don’t know, I just always have been.” She pressed her head against his chest. “The drinking.”
“I know.” He quieted, running his hands along her arms. She could feel his erection pulsing against her; he wanted her just as badly as she wanted him. Then he gently lifted her chin and kissed her again. He made no promises, not right now—but she knew he would. He was always making promises. As he feathered kisses along her jaw, then gently sucked on her neck, she thought of the many promises he’d made and how they’d all turned to dust.
For now, all she wanted was him.
They pulled at each other’s clothes. Ian tugged his shirt off, baring his chest. She ran her hands over him, feeling the wispy hairs, the imperfections. She loved those imperfections. When her own chest was bare, they pressed their bodies together, still standing, feeling the warmth of skin on skin, her nipples hard as they pressed against his soft belly.
“I want you.” He pushed her against the mattress and tugged her pants off, then dragged the waistband of her panties down until she was naked before him.
She watched him unbuckle his pants, listened to the gentle clink, clink, as he removed his belt. When he stood bared before her, she felt somewhat embarrassed, even though she’d touched him before, and they’d seen each other naked. Somehow, it was different now—better.
He lowered himself over her, pressing his body between her legs. In his crystal blue eyes, she saw images of the past, of all they’d shared culminating in this moment.
An hour or so later, when they lay in bed beneath the sheet, Amalie tucked her head against his chest.
She hadn’t expected him to tear her from the bliss she felt, but he did.
“How’d you meet him?” The question was sudden, direct.
“Huh…w-what?”
“The man who left the note.”
She gulped, her body tensing as she pulled herself as close to him as she could, her leg over his. It was dark and it’d begun to rain outside. She listened to the hard drops falling, and spoke over the din. “Running.” When that didn’t seem enough, she continued, “We met while I was running along the beach.”
“What’s his name?”
“Ian, I don’t think it matters. He’s not going to do what he said in the note.”
“His name, Amalie.”
When his grip tightened around her, she relented. “Artie McLaren. He’s not from around here. He’s got money. Well, his family has money. They’re from California. He just sails around, goes wherever he wants.”
“Sounds like a spoiled asshole.”
Amalie bit the inside of her mouth, wishing she could tear herself apart from the inside out. She was conflicted, wondering what kind of a man Artie really was. But she couldn’t believe he would go to any lengths to get her back. After all, they hardly knew each other. They’d spent a couple intense months testing the waters, but nothing came of it. He’d touched her, she’d told him to stop.
She felt dirty having betrayed Ian. And even worse knowing how easily she’d been fooled by a stranger’s compliments. Artie had put out the bait, and she’d fallen for it, deep down knowing it was a way out—a way to escape a life that reminded her too much of what she’d gone through in Maine. How was she supposed to put any of that into words, explain it to Ian? How could he possibly understand?
“Amalie.” Ian turned, moving onto his side so he was face to face with her. “I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you. Please don’t run along the beach anymore.”
“But—”
“Look at me. I’m not angry. Damn it, I’m in love with you. You broke my heart when you walked away from me. I knew all along something was going on. But I know I hurt you.” He paused for a moment as if carefully considering what he’d say next. “I drink too much.”
Relief flooded her. It was the one thing she’d been wanting him to say, but she was too frightened of those words to prod him. All she could think of was her father.
“Am, I won’t drink anymore. I promise. I see what it’s done to you. I can’t lose you. But here you are, in my bed, and I want to keep you in my life too. We can fix this, we can build off a burnt foundation but it’s going to take time. Can you do that with me?”
“Yes, Ian.” Her voice broke. Tears threatened to fall.
“Baby, don’t cry. Just listen. I’d wait for you forever if I had to, if I knew you’d be mine.”
“You don’t have to wait, Ian, I’m here, and I’m so sorry, I—”
He kissed her tear-moistened lips before she could finish speaking. They embraced for a long time, just holding each other, and eventually she fell asleep in his arms. She wouldn’t wake up to the sound of his fingers tapping on the keys while he wrote, she would wake up to something much better—Ian beside her.
As the sun peeked between the shutters, and she opened her eyes to a new day, she thought of the dreams she’d had and how all of them related to the past. To promises.
He’s broken so many of them. Will he break this promise too?
She wondered if he would drink again despite what he’d said. She didn’t know if she’d be able to handle that. But she’d stick around to find out. She wasn’t going anywhere. She had Ian, finally, and she wouldn’t let him go.
Chapter 34
White p
etals sprouted outward, the centers of each flower golden and reaching for the sun. Amalie saw those flowers in her dreams, and she knew where they grew but she didn’t know the name.
She went to the library and pored through books on plants and botany, looking for the image that would spark her memory of another life.
When she figured it out, she made a copy of the image and rushed back to the apartment building, hoping she wouldn’t get pulled over for speeding.
The toads were sitting outside Roseanne’s door, looking up expectantly like sentinels guarding a palace.
Amalie glanced at her phone when it rang again; it was her father, threatening to visit. He’d called her the night before letting her know he was coming. She didn’t think he really would, so she shrugged it off. Since she’d moved to Florida, he hadn’t seemed very interested in her life, so she couldn’t understand why he’d want to visit her now, of all times.
She shook her head, shoving the phone back in her pocket, and knocked on Roseanne’s door.
The plump woman answered dressed in one of her colorful kaftans, while the irresistible scent of chocolate hit Amalie’s nostrils.
“Dear, come right in! I’ve just taken the brownies out of the oven.”
“Lordy, Lordy, do you never stop baking?” Amalie stepped inside, her feet sinking slightly against the lush shag carpeting.
“Oh, I stop every now and then.” She turned and winked. “But there’s something about the smell of freshly baked goods in my house. I just can’t help myself! I give most of it away, but I sure love to make it.” Roseanne busied herself in the kitchen, slicing brownies and placing the pans in the sink.
Since they’d become friends, Amalie often visited her with no reason in mind, so she wasn’t surprised Roseanne had simply turned back to what she’d been doing and left Amalie to her own devices. But as she stood there, waiting, Roseanne appeared to notice something was on her mind. She finished up and wiped her hands on her apron.
“Okay, girl. Out with it,” the older woman said. “I see this isn’t just a friendly visit.”