by W. H. Vega
“Nadia...” Trace says softly, as the first round tear slides down my cheek.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Come on. If you act all nice to me now, I’m only going to cry that much harder.”
But my protestations fall on deaf ears. In a heartbeat, Trace crosses the room and draws me up into a tight embrace. I soften into his body, resting my cheek against the firm panes of his chest. All at once, the warring emotions within me erupt. I bury my face in Trace’s flannel shirt and let everything out—the surprise, the anger, the joy, the abandonment, the guilt. Trace wraps his arms more tightly around me, and lays a sweet, ardent kiss on my forehead.
I hear Carly’s bedroom door click closed. At least the girl knows when to make her exit, most of the time. Weeping freely, I turn myself up toward Trace’s. The closeness of our bodies only adds an exponent to everything that I’m feeling. How can it feel so right to be near him, pressed against him like this, even after ten years?
Feeling his body against mine is like remembering something I’ve always known. It’s deeper than muscle memory, more lasting than lust. Trace’s arms simply feel like home.
“I got sn-snot...all over...your shirt,” I cry, resting my hands on Trace’s broad shoulders.
“I think I’ll live,” he tells me, as his face cracks open in the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. “Can I get you anything?” he asks.
“No, no...Just—let’s get out of here for a minute, OK?” I say, “I need to clear my head.”
“OK,” Trace says, “Do you need to get ready, or...?”
“Ha. You saw me every day at the brutal end of my awkward years,” I remind him. “I think I’ll live.”
Chapter Seven
Trace
Reunited At Last
We walk out of Nadia’s building without any idea where we’re heading. The doorman gives us quite the suspicious look as we leave together. I suppose that the Delivery Man Trope is generally reserved for badly written pornos. If only he knew what the real story is.
It’s just about noon as we step out into the sunlight. The early spring morning is absolutely perfect, and the entire city seems to be reveling in it. A slow panic starts to creep through me as I struggle to reacquaint myself to being in a city like this.
After so much time overseas, the littlest things about America strike me as strange. From the stacks of prepackaged food to the tabloids in the newsstands, it’s hard to imagine accepting these things at face value. But I suppose I was never really quite “in” with American culture. After all, so much of the commodities available were beyond the reach of foster kids like me and Nadia.
We were never up to speed on the newest TV shows or snack foods or what have you. In some ways, it’s like we did live in a little country all our own. Nadia was just about to immigrate back to the mainland more gracefully than I was. Hell, even after with a detour to the Middle East, I still feel like I’m circling the runway.
“Where are you staying now?” Nadia asks, tugging me out of my reverie.
“Oh. Just this little one bedroom. Nothing fancy,” I tell her.
“Is Garrick there too?” she asks, setting off down the sidewalk.
“Nah, he’s got his own thing figured out,” I say, following behind her like a goddamn puppy dog.
“I can’t believe you guys have stuck together this whole time,” Nadia says, shaking her head. “Makes me feel like a bad friend.”
“You did what you had to do, right?” I say, “There’s no use talking about good or bad, when it comes to all of us. We’re all just trying to get by.”
“Still,” she says, “It might have been nice to know where in the world you guys were. Would have been a whole lot less lonely.”
“Well...I was thinking about you, even when I wasn’t there,” I tell her. “I never let you out of my mind for long.”
“...Same here,” she says, peering up at me in the sunlight.
We walk along in silence for a long while. I shove my hands deep into my front pockets to keep myself from grabbing her hand. For some reason, it feels like no time has passed between us. I have to remind myself that I don’t have permission to behave however I want with her, just because we used to fool around in high school. I want her to know that I’m after more than just a quickie with my old flame. Though honestly, I guess I don’t know what it is I’m after, exactly.
“Here we are,” Nadia finally says.
I look up and let a bark of laughter escape my throat. We’ve stopped outside a greasy spoon, just like the one we used to frequent during out tutoring sessions in high school.
“Your tastes haven’t developed beyond this yet, Faber?” I tease.
“Bite me,” she replies with a smile. God, if only she knew what I would do if she asked me twice.
We make our way inside and settle into a booth. Our waitress quickly furnishes our table with coffee, and we put in our orders without missing a beat. Falling back into sync with Nadia is at once comfortable and sad. It’s sad to think how many years we missed out on because of one terrible accident.
What would it have been like to watch her go through college and law school, kicking ass all the way? What would I have been up to, instead of sitting in jail and dealing?
“You thinking about what I’m thinking about?” Nadia asks.
“I don’t know,” I tell her, “But probably.”
“What we would have done, if...?”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“I used to fantasize about that all the time,” Nadia tells me, “When they first took you away. I wondered how we would pick things up when you were out. Then more time went by, and I imagined you calling out of the blue, wandering back into my life. But as more time went by, I figured those were all just pipe dreams. So I started wondering what we would have been like together, if we’d been allowed to grow up.”
“And what did you imagine then?” I ask quietly.
A slow smile creeps across Nadia’s face as she recalls. “A small wedding,” she all but whispers, “A little house in Evanston. A teaching job for me. Something manly and artisan-like for you. Maybe a baby, or three.”
“Sounds nice,” I tell her, trying to ignore the painful constriction of my heart.
“Yeah,” she says wistfully. “Guess that ship has sailed though, huh?”
“Maybe,” I allow, “But that’s the great thing about ships.”
“Sorry?”
“I just mean that, when one sails away, another pulls into harbor.”
“Ah,” she says, resting her elbows on the table, “Is that what this is? Are you the ship I’ve been waiting for to carry me off across the horizon, off to some brave new world?”
“I’m not trying to carry you anywhere you don’t want to go,” I tell her sincerely, “I would just love to be along on the trip.”
She opens her mouth to respond, but our waitress bustles back with our food just at that moment. Nadia swallows her reply, keeping her eyes trained intently on me. We hold each other’s gaze over the generous plates of pancakes and home fries, daring the other to point out how ridiculous this is, how impossible.
But instead of caving, we simply take up our forks and tuck in. “Ridiculous” and “impossible” have their time and place, but for now we’re just savoring “together”.
Chapter Eight
Nadia
Two Single People
“That is such bullshit,” Trace laughs, shaking his head in disbelief.
“What?” I say, playing up my indignation, “What are you saying?”
“Just that there’s no way you haven’t had any serious boyfriends in the last ten years,” Trace says. We’ve made our way through the concrete maze of downtown Chicago into one of the parks that presses right up against Lake Michigan.
“I’m telling you the truth,” I insist, “I’m not saying that there haven’t been men in my life. I’ve just...been more of a casual dater, is all.”
“Ah, a real hit ‘em an
d quit ‘em type of girl, huh?” Trace teases. I roll my eyes at him, trying very hard not to think about how handsome his face looks, all flushed with fresh air off the wide water.
“What, you’re telling me that you’ve been in a ton of long, lasting relationships?” I counter, “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”
“Oh no,” Trace says, “But I’ve never been the type to get wrapped up in romance.”
“I wouldn’t say never,” I tell him pointedly. He casts his eyes my way, looking at me with a silent look of longing. “What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”
“You’ve just always known how to push my buttons, Faber,” he says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black jeans. “How the hell do you do it?”
“I just know you, Trace,” I shrug, “Or at least I used to. Maybe you haven’t changed all that much since we were kids.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” he mutters, his tone darkening. I glance over at him, wishing I could extract my foot out of my mouth with something resembling grace.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, “That was...of course you’ve changed. After everything you’ve been through, everything you’ve seen—”
“It’s fine,” he says, looking out across the lake. “Man. I never spent enough time here when I was younger.”
“Yeah,” I say, going along with his change of subject, “It’s...something.”
“It almost looks like the ocean, doesn’t it?” he says, staring out across the calm blue expanse. It’s a remarkably quiet day, down here by the water. Those infamous Chicago winds have given us the afternoon off. Almost as if they knew that Trace and I would be wandering along the shore, trading quiet remarks and half-remembered impressions. It’s the sort of talk that needs a steady sky.
“I’m really glad you came to see me,” I say finally, not daring to look Trace in the eye.
“You’re not angry with me then?” he asks.
“I was, at first,” I admit, “But I was happy, too. And overwhelmed. And terribly sad. It’s not every day your first love just shows up at your door after—”
“First love, huh?” he says, a smile twisting his lips into a bow.
“Of course,” I tell him, coming to a stop along the walking path. “Trace, you know I loved you. Didn’t you?”
“I guess I did,” he says softly, “It’s funny, I don’t remember ever saying it out loud.”
“I don’t suppose we did,” I say.
“You know I loved you too, right?” Trace says, his eyes hard and shining.
It’s all I can manage to nod and smile shakily. He can’t possibly still love me, after all this time. He doesn’t even know me, not anymore. I’m a completely different person than I was ten years ago. At least...I always thought I was. But maybe more has remained from those long-ago days than I ever imagined.
I turn back down the path and hurry along, knowing that Trace can easily catch up with me. He’s always been tall, but now he seems somehow larger than life. It’s as if all his experiences have transformed him into something more than a mere man. And yet, beneath the rugged exterior, I know that a clean-shaven young man with a broken heart and a troubled past still remains. I hope, somewhere along the way, that the boy inside Trace got some closure after everything that happened in the Daniels’ home. I hope that he’s had the chance to heal, or at least begin to.
“You’re awful quiet over there,” Trace says, pulling me out of my churning thoughts.
“Do you blame me?” I laugh, “There isn’t exactly an etiquette for quizzing your childhood sweetheart about his time in jail and military service.”
“Ask me anything,” Trace says, “I’m not shy.”
“I know you’re not,” I smile. “I guess...I just...Are you OK?”
“That’s a pretty broad question,” Trace says, cocking an eyebrow at me.
“I mean, after the war,” I clarify, as delicately as possible. “I know that so many soldiers coming home from Iraq and Afghanistan are dealing with PTSD. Or fighting to be heard by the VA, or God knows what else.”
“You’ve been reading up,” Trace says. There’s a harsh bitterness in his voice that takes me off guard.
“I’m not trying to pry,” I tell him, “I’m just worried about you. Sorry if I sound out of touch. I don’t think anyone who hasn’t been over there can imagine what you’ve been through.”
“Damn straight,” Trace says, “You know how many times I’ve had total strangers thank me for me service? And all I can think every time is, where were you people when I was a kid? How is it I’m suddenly worth a minute of your time, just because I spent a few tours abroad? I wonder if any of them would still be thankful, if they knew who I really was. What I’ve really done in my life.”
“Of course they would,” I tell him, reaching instinctively for his hand. As our fingers entwine, a warm radiance pulses through me. And I can tell right away that Trace feels it too. “You’re a good man, Trace. As long as I’ve known you, you’ve always stood up for what was right.”
“Yeah. Guess I’m a fucking hero or something,” he mutters, unable to meet my gaze.
“That’s right,” I say, laying my other hand on his cheek and turning his face to mine. “You’re a goddamned hero, Trace O’Conner. You were a hero long before you shipped off to Afghanistan, too.”
“How can you think that?” he asks, looking down at me with baffled wonderment. “I abandoned you in that house. We were supposed to be family. We were supposed to stick together. Dammit, Nadia, I was supposed to look out for you!”
“And you did,” I tell him, the breeze off Lake Michigan tossing my hair against my shoulders, “You gave up everything to save me from Paul that night. I owe you everything, Trace. Everything I am, everything I’ve done with my life, is all thanks to you.”
“Are you happy, Nadia?” he asks adamantly.
My mouth falls open wordlessly as I search for a suitable answer. I want to tell him yes, of course I’m happy. I have a fabulous apartment, an incredible job, the best education a person could have, and...no one to share it with. I try to let my eyes drop from his, but this time it’s Trace who catches my face in his hands.
“You’re not,” he says softly, “I can see it, clear as day. You’ve done so much since I saw you last, built this whole life for yourself, but it still isn’t enough, is it?”
“Of course not,” I allow, “But—”
“I could have made you happy,” Trace says, cutting me off. His emerald eyes bore into me, laying my soul bare with no effort at all. “It was my responsibility to make you happy, Nadia. I should have been there with you this whole time. And in that, I failed.”
“You think we would have been A-OK, had you not gotten arrested that night?” I challenge him. “Our lives were still shit up until we met each other, Trace. We had no home, no families, nothing to look forward to. You think we were ever gonna have it easy?”
“No,” he says, “But at least we could have had each other.”
My breath quickens as Trace lets hands move down across my shoulders. There’s not a foot of space between our faces, and even less between his body and mine. My eyes flutter closed as his hands brush down the length of my arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps as they go. He takes my hands firmly in his and brings them to his chest, tugging me against him.
“All I want,” he says, his voice rasping determinedly, “Is to somehow make it up to you. All those years you had to spend wandering through this world alone. I’ll do anything, Nadia, just to know that I’ve given you even a scrap of the happiness you always deserved. What can I do to make things right between us?”
“This...” I begin, my voice low and fervent, “Is a pretty good start.”
A slow smile spreads across Trace’s lips, and is freckle-spattered nose wrinkles adorably. Before I can stop to think, I raise myself onto my toes and plant a kiss just below his sculpted cheekbone. My lips tremble as they brush against his sun-tanned skin. I feel like I’m sixte
en again, giddy and eager and scared out of my mind.
Before my heels touch the ground again, Trace’s hand finds the small of my back. I open my mouth to speak, but my words rush away as his lips press firmly against mine. For a moment, I’m too overwhelmed to respond. But the taste of him brings a thousand memories rushing back to the forefront of my mind. His kiss is one that I know so well. I fold into him, letting him wrap me up in his arms as I kiss him back just the same.
He’s at once swift and tender, opening my mouth to his and letting his tongue slide against my own. My fingers find their way into his shorn hair, and I’m vaguely aware of how my body trembles against his. I can feel hot tears slipping through my closed lids as I savor the feel of Trace’s body against mine. This is the feeling I’ve been fighting to forget for a decade. I couldn’t bear to remember how it good it felt, being with him. Opening myself to him. If I’d remembered all this time, I would have missed him too terribly to get out of bed in the morning.
Trace’s hands move along my back, working further down with every passing moment. I swallow a low moan, secretly wishing to feel those hands glide over the swell of my ass. Part of me wishes that we could just steal away together for an hour or two and explore each other as we always wanted to. The night of Trace’s arrest, we’d planned on making love. It would have been my first time, ever. It would have been amazing to have shared that with him. But there’s nothing wrong with making up for lost time, either.
The urgent chiming of a bicycle bell tears us out of our moment. A cyclist races past us, nearly bowling us over along the way. I look around and notice that we’ve planted ourselves smack in the middle of the pedestrian path along the lake. I can’t help but laugh at us, making out in the park like the teenagers we were when last we spoke.
Trace laces his fingers through mine, pulling me away from the path. “I, uh, hope that wasn’t out of line,” he says.