Twin Savage

by Sunniva Dee

  So now you know. We’re fully done, my brother and I, and I’m checking off a lot of lasts. I just received my last paycheck from Lucid Entertainment. Just paid the last installment on Julian’s last rehab. Today, I’m packing my last things at the Queen, and tomorrow, I’m taking my last exam. Then, I’ll be off to residency.

  If it weren’t for you, Julian would have succumbed years ago. It’s you who made my brother stay with us longer than his spirit had decided. Now, I pray that you find it in you to forgive both of our shortcomings.

  I have loved you for a very long time, Geneva. Here’s to hoping you read this letter all the way to the end.

  Until I see you,

  xx

  Luka

  The weeks disappear in a blur. I can’t concentrate, not even on the article I’m supposed to edit. It was a miracle I’d sent number three off to the magazine before Luka’s letter hit me in the face, in the heart, and in the tear ducts.

  I need Luka and Julian out of my head.

  I need my new job to start.

  At the Queen, I had the guys to keep me busy. Here, I don’t. Nothing compares to long-time friends, and the first days after the letter, I was in a haze of sleep and wine.

  But it didn’t take me long to find a better alternative. I signed up for a gym. Or more like the Diakos-Miller family gym, which means I don’t pay. It’s a family membership through Mom and Dad. I’m not even ashamed of that.

  I wear myself out entirely there, and lose weight in fistfuls. The treadmill isn’t enough, though. I need cold, fresh air and my iPhone loud on the ear, and with the way my heart grinds against my lungs, the only band that lets me breathe is Limelight.

  Dark and hoarse, Jesse Everett’s vocals reach deep inside of me. Sometimes he shakes me up. Sometimes he comforts me. Every day, I run, slapping the pavement, hitting the park, then looping through the forest where green canopies sink over me.

  Tonight, I lift my phone and stare at a shaky photo of long, wavy dark hair while I run. Jesse’s eyes are as pained as I feel, and his mouth looks made to be kissed. The sight of him, so different to my twins, calms me even before he rasps out my bridge.

  Stop begging for the hunt, babe—

  You’ve got nothing I want

  Keep checkin’ for clues, cuz I

  Refuse your bait.

  It’s my third Friday at work. I’m in a lab coat though I do nothing medical, and I glide through hallways, nod at colleagues, take elevators to different floors, and walk between buildings. I’m on a cross-departmental team working with refugees from developing countries and war zones. None from Brazil, but they value my input, here, for my “proven ability to integrate, describe, and understand.”

  I work with psychologists, physicians, and social workers. There are also a few nurses and a couple of medical students on the team. Our goal is to come up with a detailed, holistic plan for new refugees so that all facets of their lives can become satisfactory in record time.

  I work with caring colleagues who believe in our mission as much as I do. Through my job, I can make a difference to people who have suffered, and that feels damn good, especially when, after hours, I read and re-read Luka’s letter until I have to run out the door with Limelight blasting in my ears.

  Sure, it’s love. Sure, it’s grief and agitation. I was so angry at him for not telling me earlier. Why would he have kept me in the dark like that? He should have trusted me. Understood that I was strong, that I could take Julian’s truth. Maybe I could have helped set him straight too. If we’d been two against him the whole time he indulged his addiction, maybe he would still have been alive.

  Would I have stayed with him?

  Years of deep addiction and stays at different rehabs.

  Would I?

  I turn Jesse’s voice up on my living-room speakers and shut the door to the fridge so I can’t see the half-empty bottle of wine. Thirty minutes later, the neighbor knocks on my door and asks if I can turn the music down because his baby is going to bed.

  I don’t like weekends. I try not to crawl back to Mom and Dad’s like I’m five, huddling in the Reading Room with my headphones blaring on high. It’s better to meet up with high-school friends, and there’s a colleague from oncology who subtly invites me out for drinks. Just, I’m not up for that.

  This morning, relief seeps in as I park the car in the hospital garage. Five days of work ahead. I’ll make my hours longer this week, and I’ll eat at the cafeteria and only pass by my apartment to change clothes. If I work out hard every night, a run with Jesse Everett in my head, then weights at the gym, I’ll get home late, chug a glass of wine, and go to bed.

  This week is it. I’m on a mission to choke Luka Verenich out of my thoughts. It’s been four weeks since the letter, and—where did my anger go?

  I’m not above forgiveness. It’s been done before, and it works for people. Hell, it’s worked for me before. I’m giving it another week, and if I still feel this way, I’ll send a short letter to Joy and ask her to take it to Luka. I lug my purse out of the car and walk toward the main entrance of the hospital.

  In my head, the letter writes itself.

  Luka,

  Things happened so fast between us. We didn’t know what we were doing. It was grief that pushed us together, and I’d be better off if that was all we had.

  So many lies. So much omission of reality. Luka, if you ever want to try for a serious relationship again, be honest to a fault, even when it hurts the other person. That’s what love is. It might sound funny coming from someone who was kept in the dark for years, but I grew up in an honest family, and that’s what I want in my future.

  I was furious at you for having hogged the burden of Julian. I was pissed that you didn’t tell me why you worked in the adult industry. All these years, you let me believe in my own ideas about you filming for pleasure. You knew how much I hated you for it.

  But I’ll be frank. I’m not upset with you anymore, because no one is perfect. Just look at me! Whoever ends up with me will have to deal with my mix of stubborn/rational/emotional.

  Anyway, this is to say that I forgive you. It’s also to ask your forgiveness for all the times I looked at you with contempt. I love you too, you know, and you’re right. We did have some good times, you and I.

  xx,

  Geneva.

  The truths from my imaginary letter shout at me all day. They do it while I space out during meetings, during client appointments and assessments of potential health disparities. I love this job. I can make a difference. But by lunch I have to write the words down to give room in my head for what I’m here to do. It doesn’t mean I’ll send it off. Just writing it down will make me feel better.

  Luka.

  I find a seat in a secluded corner of the cafeteria. I see my oncology colleague stroll in, but I swing my back to him so I’m left in my own world. The notepad and pen from my last meeting wait for me on the tabletop. I fold the first pages away. Then I begin to write exactly what my brain has been churning on.

  Everything happened so fast between us.

  The week following the letter is tough. I should leave the damn thing on the mantel at home, but I need it against my body. It’s in my pocket on the way to work. It’s in my lab coat, next to pens and keys and Post-it pads. I’ve got it folded in an envelope, and I rub it between my fingers as I walk between rooms and meetings.

  I don’t want to do anything rash. I’ve given myself a week, and that’s what it’ll be. In a week, if my intestines still war against my heart and my brain, I’ll ship this piece of crap off and call it a night.

  It’s Friday afternoon when I get the call from Immunology. They offer me the opportunity to interview refugees from Sierra Leone. Of course, I jump at the chance.

  It’s been raining all day, which is fine. I’m not looking forward to the weekend, and if it stays
this way, a little drizzle during my run will only solidify my bleak view of spare time, so super.

  My hair is wet. I rake my fingers through it in an effort to look presentable as I get into the elevator. It slows at the second floor, the doors slide open, and I walk off. A low-ceilinged glass wall with white letters announces my destination as Center for Immunology and Inflammatory Diseases.

  Immunology. I don’t need any more reminders. In my pocket, Luka’s letter squirms from my fidgeting.

  The door squeaks open at my push, and I step onto dark carpet with grey stripes. A young nurse lifts her head from behind a counter.

  “Hi there.” Her gaze floats to my nametag. Then she stands and stretches out a hand. “Geneva Diakos-Miller? I’ve heard good things about you. I’m Sandra Green.” She points at her own nametag. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you too.”

  “Hold on, let me buzz Dr. Johar.”

  The doctor’s voice sounds tinny and business-like over the small intercom she’s got tucked against the inner wall of her counter. “Great. Be right there.”

  Sandra looks up again, a smile extending. “You can take a seat while he... Oh never mind.”

  A door opens, a tall man emerging from it. White coat over broad shoulders. A confident stride taking him toward me. Long, flaxen-white hair? So, so white. Confused, I squint until I absorb that his appearance doesn’t match the Indian accent from the intercom.

  “That’s our new resident. Dr. Verenich? This is Dr. Diakos-Miller,” Sandra introduces.

  Luka’s eyes are lighter than I’ve ever seen them. They’re just-polished gold made of optimism and bright futures, shimmering and not backing off even when I suffocate a gasp.

  My heart is racing. I want to say I know him, break the news to this girl who has nothing to do with our past.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Diakos-Miller,” he murmurs like liquid velvet, and that too is different. It’s been so long. God, my heart is skipping, dancing, dying, ready to eat so much dust for him.

  I accept his hand. It’s warm and dry, safe and still around mine. I remember this feeling.

  “Ditto,” I manage, and as we pass through the door he came out of, my hand wrinkles his letter in my coat.

  “We’re changing conference rooms,” Dr. Johar says. “They need two-oh-four, so we’re getting two fifteen since we’re only five people. Dr. Diakos-Miller.” He lifts dark eyebrows and greets me with a firm clasp as we walk together. “Our interviewees are already there. The daughter is five, and the wife, who transmitted the disease to her daughter in the womb, is surprisingly well for...”

  Dr. Johar introduces me to his patients, a small, skinny family with eyes that have seen too much. I take notes though everything about this moment will forever be seared into memory. Luka’s presence is warm, like in the jungle when death struck and my mind wanted to leave. He helps me, triggers with questions he’s heard me ask before.

  An hour and a half later, my hands don’t tremble when we say goodbye to our interviewees, but my heart can’t stop swelling, and it doesn’t know if it’s from happiness or pain.

  I say goodbye to Dr. Johar. Wave to Sandra at the front desk. I’m in the doorway, glass door against the side of my body and elbow on the handle when I flick a glance at Luka.

  He’s there, tall, thick-shouldered, gaze molten with tenderness as he watches me and juts his chin toward the elevator.

  “Night, Sandra,” he says.

  “You leaving for the day?” she asks.

  “Yeah. See you Monday.”

  In the elevator, I lean against the back wall and look up. His eyes fall free and unguarded on me. I drink up high cheekbones, a straight nose with nostrils that flare when he’s moved. I’ve pulled that plump lower lip into my mouth before.

  I shut my eyes. Whimper when his hands steady my face. “I can’t take this any longer,” he whispers.

  He kisses me against the mirrored wall of the elevator, pushing me against it, and I can’t believe—can’t, can’t—he’s with me, he’s real, right here! Warm and demanding, he’s a wave of passion that craves and squeezes my body against the panel, and suddenly it’s the only thing that has ever felt right.

  Behind him, the door glides open on the first floor. I’m immobile in his arms, stare cemented to his dear, dear face. He guides me out, onto the curb. “You got the Mustang here?”

  I point.

  “We’re going to your place.”

  I should object.

  I wonder how I ever stayed away from him for so long.

  “We need to talk,” he breathes.

  “Let’s start with you explaining what you’re doing in Portland.”

  “Did you get my letter?”

  “Yeah.”

  We’re in my hallway. He’s closed the door behind us. He’s locked it too, and his eyes flare gold at me as if this is the most defining moment of his life.

  I’m in a corner, covered by him, supported by the walls of my apartment. My safe-place, invaded by Luka, and yet I feel safe inside these strong, violent arms. My heart drives blood through my veins in an unnatural gush.

  “Did you read it, Geneva?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  I tip my head back. For a second, his eyes dart to my lips. “Tell me what you thought. Tell me everything.”

  “You destroyed me.”

  His eyes flow shut, but then he opens them and fixes on me for more.

  “I couldn’t stop thinking about you and Julian. Then, I couldn’t stop thinking about what you went through. I wish I’d known,” I whisper. “I could have helped you slay dragons.”

  “You weren’t ready.”

  I crinkle the letter in my pocket again.

  “You want a glass of wine?” I sound mundane, but he inhales like I’m offering him the world.

  “I’d love that.” He steps backward, giving room for me to curve past him toward the kitchen. At the counter, I gesture in the direction of a bar stool. Luka slides his big body on top of it, exuding a testosterone I haven’t allowed in this place before.

  “I wrote you something the other day. It’s an answer to your letter.” I unfold my note and flatten it on the countertop. He stares but makes no move to pick it up.

  “Open it. Read while I get the wine.”

  Insecurity. Fear. Hope. The emotions flicker over his face in a way you don’t see on Russian bears made of glaciers.

  “Do I want to read it?”

  “Don’t you?”

  His back hunches as he accepts. I lower his wine, grazing the paper, but he scoots my words to safety while I inhale my own liquid meant to soothe.

  Luka’s eyes dart across the page. He drinks my cursive, rushing downward. He swallows my words, not the wine, and it happens so, so fast.

  A stone statue with eyes that don’t stop, he reaches the bottom and stills on my last letters. I see them in my head because they’re hulks now that he’s here.

  My note sails out of his grip as he shoots to his feet and bends around the kitchen counter. “You love me too?”

  “I do, but...”

  “What else matters?” He hauls me in, melts against my mouth, and when Russian ice thaws, it catches fire too. He presses me against him, hard, so hard. He makes me whimper. Suddenly, I’m airborne and he’s striding down my hallway.

  I want to object. A couple of letters can’t change what he did. Can they? I’m an educated person who’s never going to—

  Oomph!

  I huff a giggle as he backs us out of the bathroom, sucking on my throat. “The other door. You had fifty percent chance of getting it right,” I whisper.

  “Smartass.”

  I catch his face between my hands. Is there anything more perfect than Luka’s mouth needing me?

 
He dumps me on my bed. I wring out of my clothes before he can get to me. I stare. In so long, I haven’t seen him. God, how beautiful it is that he burns for me. He singes me onto his retinas as he stares back.

  Six months apart are minutes. We were yesterday. Now, we’re today. I know the feel of each muscle shifting beneath the shirt he removes, the miniscule, pink areolas with nipples taut as gravel; I salivate, remembering him against my tongue, and I can’t get him over me fast enough.

  “Luka...”

  “Baby.”

  “I’ve missed you so much.”

  He falls over me, body swaying in a strained, acrobatic dance that has me arching into his warmth. I gasp, the pressure of him against me what I’ve lacked for so long.

  “I’d die without you.”

  My flames rush through me on kerosene-high. I moan, undulate with him as he lowers, dives, kisses my softest core until I whimper.

  His hands are sure—ah he spoils. Gentle, he forms my legs around him, and before I can think he pushes inside of me in one breathtaking rush.

  “Fuck!” he roars. My stomach stings with pleasure-filled pain. “Do you know how I love you?”

  Blissed, I receive him, take his hard-hard jabs. I know what he’s doing, making up for all we’ve squandered, and I want to feel him for weeks. That’s my body’s mission; it’s about this, about us, about making sure I’ll never ever miss him again.

  Wild, beautiful, out-of-control. Luka is infinite. My breath is lost. In a taut bow I do all I can to climb and take, until I tremble in orgasm beneath him.

  I can’t shut my eyes when he’s watching me with violence, with a love so passionate it borders on insanity, not when this is it. When it’s everything.

  “Every culture has its view of the world. Its core set of beliefs describe the inner workings of the universe and our roles in it as human beings. Religion is often a big part of this world view, more in some cultures than in others. Amongst the Lara’ people, the king jaguar kept the machinery of their society oiled.”