Because of You

by Laura Ward

My pulse raced, and tongue tangled. The struggle to say the next words was real. “I love her. I love her so much. She’s it for me. I know it. What do I do? Seriously, what the fuck do I do now?”

  “You love her?” Dean asked, his hand dragging through his shaggy hair.

  I nodded. “More than anything.”

  “You gotta come clean,” Landon answered. “Look, if this numb-nut can bone his best friend’s little sister and live to do it again, you have a chance.” Landon grinned, pointing to Jon and Dean.

  “Not fuckin’ funny, asshole. Not for a long, long time. No, not ever. Can’t picture that ever.” Dean growled.

  Jon ignored Dean and Landon. “Tell her man. Don’t wait another day. Tell her.”

  Jon was right. The only chance I had was to come clean and hope she could forgive me. I had tried to stay away, to protect her beautiful heart from the revenge consumed monster inside me. But she was too much. She won me over. Now I had to hope that the feelings we had for each other were enough.

  But what if they weren’t? I could lose Aveline. A sharp pain seared my chest. The thought of never seeing my butterfly again was unfathomable. The man I saw in her eyes was the one I wanted to be. Not the version creeping inside me that based his life on anger and revenge. An all-consuming desire to love and cherish Aveline shook me to my core.

  The DJ broke our pow-wow apart announcing that the bride would be tossing her bouquet and asked Dean to come to the stage.

  We split apart, heading to our women. I hung back, however, as I saw Aveline walking to me. She carried a flute of champagne in one hand and her sandals in the other. Her lower lip stuck out in a pout and she stumbled like she might be a bit tipsy.

  “You okay?” I asked, gathering her close to my side.

  “I’ve never had so much fun!” She giggled tossing back the last of her champagne and placing the empty glass on the table. “Dancing, drinking, laughing. I love these girls. I love this night! I love—”

  She stopped talking, casting her eyes to the floor. Was she about to say that me? Did she love me the way I loved her? Intensely and all-consuming? If so, would it be enough to forgive me? I wanted to move past her parents’ part in the accident. I was ready. Could she forgive me?

  “Perfect”, a slow song sung by Ed Sheeran played and the dance floor filled with couples. “Dance with me outside?” I asked her.

  She nodded and followed me out of the tent. We moved to the side where it was quiet and dark. I took her shoes and tucked them by the tent wall. Taking off my tuxedo jacket, I slipped it onto her shoulders. She moved her arms around my back and I bent my knees so that we could dance while looking into each other’s eyes. I listened to the words of the song, knowing this woman was perfect for me.

  “This is on my list.”

  Her voice was so slight I almost missed it. “What is, mariposa?”

  “Dancing outside under the stars,” she answered, tilting her head up to kiss my lips. “And it’s better than I imagined.”

  I held her tighter to me, the love and emotion growing deeper with every word she spoke and memory we made. I had to tell her the truth. And it needed to happen soon, because I wouldn’t be able to hold back telling her I loved her much longer. I opened my mouth to start but she spoke first.

  “Let’s each ask the other a question we’ve always wanted to know.” Aveline snuggled closer to me.

  I grinned kissing her forehead. “Anything for you. You go first.”

  “What do your tattoos mean?” she asked, a relaxed, dreamy look on her face.

  “Hmmm,” I kissed the tip of her nose. “Some are patterns, some are words in Spanish.” I held up my right hand. “This means loyalty, and this says familia.” I held up my left hand, the word right above my knuckles. “This one here is strength. A few on my chest are symbols of things that mean something to me. Football, the Peruvian flag. I’ll show them all to you and what they all mean.”

  Aveline nodded, resting her head on my shoulder as we swayed to the music. “Your turn to ask a question.”

  My heart hammered in my chest. Ask her about the accident. Ask her if she wants to know about the man who was hurt. She’ll say yes. She will want you to explain.

  A question hovered on my tongue that I had always wanted to ask her. “What does your name mean? Aveline? It’s French?”

  Aveline’s gentle eyes locked on mine. “Aveline means breath of life.” She paused, staring so deeply into my eyes I feared she could see my soul. “I’ve always thought that was surreal. Like the universe knew something all along. When I had my accident and almost drowned, the doctors told my parents that if the stranger had been one second later, I would have died. They said his ability to push me up and out of the water before succumbing to his injuries gave me, and I quote” she made air quotation marks with her fingers—“the breath of life.”

  A chill ran up my spine so severe, I shivered. Aveline held me close enough that she felt it, too. “Amazing, right? Like there was some kind of synchronicity between my name, a stranger’s gift, and the doctor’s exact words. I just wish no one got hurt. And that I could thank the man who gave me my breath of life…” Her voice trailed off.

  My breath caught in my chest. This was it. I should tell her right now. She’d met that man. She could help him if only I connected the dots. I begged my mouth to catch up to my brain, but before it did she spoke again.

  “I’m a little drunk. Sorry for all the rambling. I had too many fun drinks tonight and I’ve never been tipsy before. I probably should get home.”

  Fuck, I couldn’t have a discussion this important if she was drunk. I needed her clear-headed and sober. Rational and forgiving. Thoughts raced through my mind, but I wasn’t able to make sense of them here in her presence. I needed to get on my bike and ride.

  I nodded, escorting her in to get her purse and jacket. She slipped on her shoes and we said our goodbyes.

  Aveline had begged to ride home on the bike with me, dress be damned. Tucked in close, her arms tight around my waist, I gunned the engine and drove her home.

  I had never felt more conflicted. Desperately in love, petrified of losing her, hopeful that she would understand, and tired… so damn tired of the worry and sorrow.

  Dios mio, let her breath of life be enough to save us all.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Aveline

  THE TOASTER POPPED, my bagel springing up and I grabbed it, smearing on a hefty dose of cream cheese. Wrapping the prepped bagel in a paper towel, I poured a travel mug of coffee. I had work this morning and class this afternoon which meant I’d get to see Ricky.

  We didn’t talk much yesterday. I’d woken with my first ever hangover. As fun as the fruity cocktails and champagne felt going down on Saturday night, they felt much, much worse Sunday morning. I slept, watched movies, and drank lots of water. Ricky texted, but he was working all day, helping Ed pack up the bike shop.

  Dad had made us dinner last night, and with his lack of cooking skill, that meant heated soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. The light fare was just what my stomach needed. Mom stayed in her room all day like me. Knowing she didn’t overindulge on cocktails the night before, I wondered if she was punishing me for talking back to her, or if something else was going on.

  I chalked up the nervous roll of my tummy to over-imbibing and not odd premonitions.

  A light hand on my shoulder made me jump and I was glad my coffee thermos had a lid, or I’d be wearing some of the hot liquid.

  Turning, my eyes widened at the sight of my mom. Her hair was down, the light brown shade mixed with grey, hanging past her shoulders. She wore a navy blue satin robe, tightened at the waist—not her normal uniform of work clothes.

  “Mom, are you sick?” I signed. “Why aren’t you ready for work?”

  As I waited for her answer, I took in the dark circles under her eyes. Her pale skin, almost gray and her eyes looked dull. She had to be ill.

  “No, I’m not sick. Can you sit down?�
�� Mom signed, pulling out a kitchen chair and motioning to me.

  I shook my head. “I have work. I’m sorry. Can we talk tonight?”

  Mom gripped my forearm with her hand, firmly, signing with the other. “No. We need to talk now. I did some research on Ricardo Martinez.”

  My mouth fell open. “What?” I signed, my cheeks flushing with color. “How dare you?”

  She ignored my question. “Is his father named Pedro? Pedro Martinez?”

  Despite my irritation, my mind raced back, thinking of when I met his family. “I don’t know. Ricky introduced him as Papa.”

  This time her jaw dropped. “You met him?” she asked, her eyes round.

  “Of course,” I answered, tossing my bagel into my bag and shoving the strap onto my shoulder. “We did a project together for class. We had to go to each other’s homes.” I picked up my keys, but Mom turned me to face her. “He’s been here? In my home?”

  My eyebrows drew together, disgust crawling up my throat. “Yes, Mom. I know you’re probably disgusted, because if you researched him you know his father is disabled and his family is very poor. But they are also sweet and loving. And Ricky came here and—shocker—didn’t steal anything. Calm down. The perfect home that you care about so much is intact.”

  Crack.

  I heard the slap before I felt it. In twenty-two years I’d never been hit. But Mom chose that morning to slap me across the face.

  My hand flew to my cheek, cradling the hot skin.

  “Stop and listen to me, Aveline. You have to slow down and let me talk to you.” Mom had tears in her eyes, wide with panic.

  Tears filled my own and I did something I had never done before.

  I turned my back and walked away, leaving her without a way to communicate with me.

  Sliding into my car, I opened the garage door and reversed quickly. I might be late for work, but at that moment, I wasn’t concerned. What bothered me was twofold.

  Why would my mother react that strongly to Ricky’s status or class? His family’s lack of wealth wasn’t his fault and wasn’t anything to be ashamed of.

  Or was there more? When she studied Ricky, had she discovered something bad? Something Ricky was keeping from me?

  I didn’t want to believe it. The past two months of my life had been focused on overcoming the fears that had held me back.

  With Ricky’s help, I was doing that. But despite my resolve, that awful churning in my stomach got worse. Something was wrong. Something was off.

  And I prayed that those fears had nothing to do with the man I loved.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Aveline

  RACING INTO CLASS from work, I entered the classroom and saw Ricky in our usual row, the seat next to him empty, his arm draped over it in a silent claim.

  I grinned, waving up at him before jogging up the stairs as Dr. Redmond walked onto the stage.

  “Good afternoon, class,” Dr. Redmond greeted.

  I sat down. Ricky helped me pull off my jacket, kissing me on the cheek as the lights dimmed with the start of the PowerPoint presentation.

  “Thank you to everyone who turned in their Class Warfare projects on time. I’m currently about halfway through grading them. As usual, I find them compelling and informative. Today we transition to a topic that has fascinated humankind for as long as language has existed. Why do people lie?”

  From the corner of my eye, I could have sworn I saw Ricky stiffen. Man, Dr. Redmond’s class was popular on campus for a reason. If there was a hot topic like sex, or an uncomfortable one like social class structure or lying, she tackled it head on.

  I powered on my laptop to start taking notes.

  “A lie, at its core, misleads or conveys a false impression. Bella De Paulo, a social psychologist who has studied lying, finds that an average person will lie once or twice a day—what we call “altruistic lies” or lies said for the benefit of others. If you’ve ever told someone their dress looks nice on them, when it really doesn’t, but said individual had no time to change clothes, you’ve told an altruistic lie.”

  My fingers flew over the keyboard as I transcribed notes. Next to me, Ricky’s pencil moved much more slowly. Turning, I saw he was fixated on Dr. Redmond.

  Dr. Redmond forwarded her presentation to the next slide, pacing the stage. “What I’m more interested in today are the lies that are tied to our personality. Who we are at the core. And while there isn’t strong research to connect habitual liars with mental illness, we do know sociopaths and narcissists tend to be experienced liars.”

  Dr. Redmond faced the class. “But how do you”—she used her finger to point, sweeping the width of the classroom—“decide when and if to lie?”

  I squirmed in my seat. My lie was of omission, not sharing with Ricky the disability my parents lived with. My mom had alluded today to a lie that Ricky told. Would that be an altruistic lie? One told for my benefit? Or was she paranoid, overprotective?

  I stole another look at Ricky. His jaw was tense, popping as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. His grip on his pencil was deathly and his eyes narrowed. Something was going on. I knew that for sure.

  “And that research shows that we question ourselves,” Dr. Redmond continued. I’d missed some of what she’d said, sorting through my runaway thoughts. “If I lie, what can I gain? What can I lose? As humans, we decipher if it’s worthwhile to lie. If the cost is too big, we won’t risk it with the lie, but if the gain is bigger, many will go for it.”

  She switched the whiteboard to a chart filled with research studies. “Let’s break down these studies to see what we can learn about the individuals who chose to lie.”

  Ricky huffed out air, his nostrils flaring. He looked like he was in physical pain.

  “Are you okay?” I leaned over, whispering in his ear.

  He gave me a sharp nod, not one that brought me much confidence.

  From my purse, my phone vibrated with an incoming call. Ignoring it, I continued taking notes. Next, it vibrated with a text alert.

  This time I huffed out air in exasperation, bending down to retrieve my cell.

  “911. Come home now.” The text came from Dad.

  My stomach fell to my feet. I scrambled to throw my laptop in my bag. Leaning over, I took Ricky’s pencil from his hand and wrote a note in the margin of his paper—I have to go. Emergency at home. I’ll call soon. XoXo.

  He read my words, nodding. His forehead was creased, and his lips turned down in a frown. “I’ll go with you,” he wrote back on the paper.

  “I’ll call you. Stay and take notes for us,” I scribbled. Gathering my jacket and bag, I crept down the stairs, and eased out the door of the classroom.

  Within minutes, I pulled into the garage, racing into the house. I skidded to a halt when I saw my parents sitting calmly at the kitchen table, hands folded in front of them.

  “What’s wrong?” I signed, gasping for breath. “What’s the emergency?”

  “Sit down.” my father responded, his face grim.

  His expression left no room for argument. I dropped my bag and sat across from him.

  “You need to stop seeing Ricky. Your mother and I talked. There is no discussion here.” His mouth was a flat line, eyes hard.

  “What?” My eyes bulged, mouth open in shock. “Why? You pulled me out of class to talk about my boyfriend?” My cheeks burned hot. I was worried sick, and they wanted to chat about the guy I was dating?

  “He isn’t right for you. Keep your job if you must, but you are not to date him or see him anymore.” Mom’s hands flew with her words. She looked sadder and sicker than she did this morning. “We emailed Dr. Redmond this morning before your class and explained the situation. She will allow you to finish the course from home.”

  I stood up, smacking the table with my palms. “No! Stop! Stop controlling me. Stop protecting me from your ridiculous fears. There is nothing to be scared of anymore. I’m tired of being afraid. Leave me alone! Let me live my life.”
My fingers cramped, the force of signing with anger coursing through me, making my hands rigid.

  My mom stood, her chair falling behind her, the loud clatter making me jump. “We have our reasons! We have protected you and sheltered you because we had to. And now, after all this time, you meet…” She stopped signing to look at Dad before slowly turning back to me. “Him.”

  “Who?”

  “Your mother and a friend researched Ricky and his family this weekend after you told her about him. We realized he has been the person soliciting us for money,” Dad responded.

  I sat down, my back slamming against the chair. “What? Soliciting you for money?”

  “More like blackmailing us. We’ve given him nothing, but we’ve been terrified.” Mom signed, her breathing rapid. “About two months ago, someone began texting me. They claimed to have knowledge about an accident involving my daughter and promised to go to the press if I didn’t send money to a PO Box. I didn’t send the money. The texts have continued. This person had direct knowledge of our bank account numbers, address, home security company and such. It included the dog’s name and how to de-escalate him. There was so much personal information that we’ve been beside ourselves, trying to figure out who this was and how he or she could get such knowledge.”

  My throat was so dry, I gagged when I tried to swallow. I knew exactly who had access to their home, and that information. I looked back and forth between my parents, their anguished expressions causing tears to fill my eyes.

  “Why would Ricky blackmail you? Why would he try to get money from you? And why would he use me to do it?” I’d never signed so slowly. Each digit on my hand felt like it was filled with lead, heavy and clumsy. I struggled to ask my parents the questions I desperately needed answered.

  “At first, we couldn’t figure it out either, but we confirmed our findings last night. A friend of your mother is a city police detective. We asked her for help off the record, researching information we couldn’t access as a civilian. Ricardo Martinez’s father is Pedro Martinez,” Dad responded, looking me right in the eyes. “The man who saved your life.”