by Colt, Elodie
I poke around her store, my gaze lingering on all the unusual pieces she’s collected over the years. Necklaces in rainbow colors, jewelry boxes embellished with blooming flowers, stick pins made of yellow gold.
Janice once said this store was like one you’d find in Diagon Alley, and she isn’t completely off base with that considering the display case in the corner contains a Snitch from Harry Potter—a charm made of pure gold with silver wings attached and matching earrings.
A huge dragonfly statue stands sentry next to the entrance, and I circle it with slow steps, my gaze roaming over the famous piece from René Lalique. It was originally a corsage ornament, but I’m not surprised that Susan found a bigger duplicate. A helmeted woman forms the body with wide dragonfly wings growing from her shoulders. I wouldn’t be able to count the gems on the wings in a lifetime, but I know the statue is worth a fortune.
The pungent smell of incense starts to give me a headache, and I step outside to get some fresh air. The sun shows her face today, but her rays are weak, my breath foggy as I exhale.
I watch the people hurrying to cross the street. A woman in her fifties exits the post office, her hands full with a package. Her brown hair has the same shade of mocha as mine.
This woman could be your mother.
My eyes latch onto a tall female marching down the sidewalk.
And this woman could be Devon.
A slouchy top peeks out from underneath a black, worn biker jacket, and a pair of ripped jeans hugs her long legs. While all the people rambling about shield themselves from the cold with hats and scarves, she keeps her jacket unzipped, her neck only covered by the mass of dark hair twisting in the wind. A bag dangles from her hand, and I recognize the logo of the pet store from a few blocks down.
I wonder what kind of animals she’s got waiting for her at home. She doesn’t strike me as the cats-and-dogs type of girl. More like rats or snakes. There’s a slight scowl on her face along with an almost guarded look.
She stops at the streetlights, her eyes darting left and right until they slice into mine. For a moment, she sizes me up, and her scowl deepens as she dismisses me with a condemning look. Fucking uptight snob, is what’s probably going on in her mind.
The door opens behind me, drawing my gaze away from her.
“Wow, that chick just sliced you in half with those laser eyes,” Nick remarks, his eyes on the dark-haired woman.
“Yeah…”
She could be Devon.
Don’t be stupid. The chances of crossing paths with her are as good as returning to the office and finding the alexandrite ring back in its sixth nook. And even if I stumbled into her by any chance, I would never recognize her.
Puffing out my chest, I toss Nick my car keys, and he catches them awkwardly.
“You drive,” I say as we head toward my car.
“You allow me to drive your BMW?” He blinks at me as I pull out my phone and log into my Silent Sins app.
“There’s something I need to do real quick.”
And that is, get my head out of my ass and send Devon that damn invitation.
‘Say yes.’
The words are a never-ending echo in my mind, and it’s slowly driving me nuts. It feels as if someone hacked into my brain, uploaded an audio file, and is now playing it on loop.
A gentle plea. A soft command. A loud warning.
“Oh, my God, they are so cute!” Holly gushes, leaning closer to the aquarium in my living room.
Zoya stands behind her with pursed lips, keeping her distance. “I don’t know. The full-grown ones are pretty, but the babies look… weird.”
“Not babies,” I grunt in annoyance. “Nymphs. And they don’t look weird.”
I hand Holly the tub of blood worms I bought earlier, and she rips it open. Zoya takes a step back, wrinkling her nose.
“Which one is that?” Holly points to the tiniest nymph in the aquarium.
“Bitsy. She’s a purple skimmer.”
Holly plucks out a bloodworm and lets it drop into the water. As soon as the worm is within reach, Bitsy unlocks her lower lip and snatches the worm, munching on it leisurely.
Holly giggles, feeding the nymph another blood worm. “How do you know it’s a she?”
“Females are stockier than males,” I explain as I stuff the greasy pizza cartons from dinner into the trash.
“Alright, honey, enough feeding dragonflies for today,” Zoya says. “Let’s get going. We’ve got to get up early tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Okay, then…” Holly gathers her purse from beside the couch and then turns to me. “Thanks for the pizza, Ella. See you around.”
She air-kisses my cheeks, and I see them both to the door, eager to resume my usual single girl’s night in and recharge after the brutal cross-examination.
Zoya and Holly put me through the wringer the entire evening. How was your meeting? Was the guy a good match? How did he look like? (Duh, no idea!) Will you meet again? Will you take the next step?
While they dug into their pizzas, I absently nibbled on my slices, forcing down the bites of molten cheese and pepperoni.
I didn’t tell them that a notification from my Silent Sins app popped up today. Like, seven hours ago. I haven’t found the guts yet to look at it, and the trepidation wobbles in my belly like a heavy stone.
What if eNtimacy found out that my birth certificate is fake? Would they report me?
What if Ross sent me an invitation? The one I’ve been dreading—and waiting for—ever since we parted ways?
‘Say yes.’
But it’s been three days already. He seemed so eager to meet again but waited three days to send a fucking online invitation? Maybe he kicked me out. Maybe he figured I wasn’t worth the trouble and went on to his next match. After all, he was quite weird when I pointed out our ranking.
‘It’s an inside-joke. One I might tell you another time.’
I grab my used shot glass and pour myself a double before I knock it back down, rejoicing in the liquid burning a fracture of my doubts. Feeling slightly more relaxed, I trot into my bedroom, open my safe, and pull out the shoebox.
It’s become some sort of ritual for me. Whenever I have to make a tough decision, I allow myself a moment to reminisce and fumble through Mom’s stuff. She had a fancy box for every precious item, but I’m happy with my everything-in-one-place shoebox solution.
Gently, I open the lid. On top of the pile is Mom’s famous Beef Stroganoff recipe, the paper yellowed and wrinkled. No matter how often I try to recreate it, it never tastes the same.
I’ve also kept some of her favorite jewelry—a pearl necklace, sapphire earrings, a Victorian brooch, a golden locket. Stuff that I didn’t have the heart to sell.
Further down is a stack of faded pictures from when she was younger, her brunette hair thick and her lips blood-red. There are also some newer pictures, but her dark brown eyes had lost their sparkle, and she didn’t bother with lipstick anymore.
Half a million women give their lives to breast cancer every year. Mom was one of them. She did the whole shebang—radiation therapy, hormonal therapy, chemotherapy. In the end, the fucking cancer spread so wide, it came down to surgical removal of her breasts. She refused. And there was nothing I could do but accept her decision.
Blinking back tears, I pick up her favorite fountain pen. Yes, Mom used fountain pens. All the time. She never wrote with anything else, let alone typed anything on a digital device. She liked it the old-fashioned way.
Just like the letter now shaking in my hands.
Her goodbye letter. Her last words.
Her biggest secret.
She gave it to me on her deathbed, and I had to promise not to open it until she was gone.
Shortly before she faded away, literally minutes before, she summoned her last strength and pressed something small and cold into my hand. I’ll never forget her raspy voice as she forced the next words over her parched lips.
‘From your real father�
�� I’m sorry, Elenka. So, so sorry.’
I had no clue what she meant, and for me, the ring she gave me was just another piece of jewelry she’d collected over the years. After her eyes dropped shut, I read the letter.
Instead of some final words of encouragement, she had written a confession.
A confession that Roman Jendarov was not my biological father. That she wanted to wait until I was older to tell me, but that something happened later on that made her decide I was better off not knowing who my real father was. That he was a wonderful man with his heart in the right place but also a criminal and a cheater. That she hadn’t wanted to take the secret to her grave, but that I should just leave this in the past and not let the knowledge affect my future.
I wanted to rip the fucking letter into pieces. All six pages of neatly hand-written words, each cutting me down to the bone. This letter was proof that my mother was a coward—kind and loving but also weak and fainthearted.
Timidly, I pick up the ring. The ring that allegedly belonged to my biological father once. Yellow gold flourishes curl around a breathtakingly beautiful gem, one I’ve never seen before. Purple, blue, turquoise, green—all colors are swirling in its depths like an Aurora Borealis. Chances are it might be worth quite a lot, but I never bothered to take it to an appraisal, so how am I supposed to know?
Jaded, I put the ring and the letter back into the box. I wish I could talk to Zoya about it, but she would lose her shit if she knew I didn’t tell her right away that she is, in fact, only my half-sister.
Which makes me just as much a coward as Mom was, I realize with a pang of guilt. Because the longer I wait, the harder it gets.
‘Say yes.’
With a swallow that feels as if I’m trying to get down barbed wire, I reluctantly pull out my phone and navigate to the Silent Sins app to check the new message.
Ross sent you an invitation for a date! Scroll down to opt for one of the vacant spots.
My heart hammers so hard against my rib cage, pulsating waves pop up in my vision. He sent me an invitation after all. He wants to meet again. Take things to the next level.
I hold my breath, my finger hovering over the buttons.
Approve? Decline?
Approve… Decline… Approve… Decl—
Ping!
A message from someone pops up in the private chat.
No, not just someone. Ross.
I open the message, and the breath I’ve been holding rasps over my lips in a sharp, guttural blow.
Rosswell: Breathe…
The dots move as he types. He knows I’m online.
Rosswell: And then say yes.
Do you remember the first time you had sex? How it felt to share this level of intimacy with someone else?
I do. It was terrible. Not painful, but just… gruesome.
I had no idea what I was doing with my hands or my mouth or any other body part. Kids have it easy today—browse some how-to blogs, watch a few YouPorn clips, and you have at least acquired the basic knowledge of where to stroke and what to rub.
I didn’t even have online access at that age. I was completely clueless and so fucking nervous, I made one mistake after another. It didn’t matter back then. The guy didn’t care as long as he could shoot his load inside a hole that wasn’t his hand.
But it matters tonight.
Everything matters tonight.
With an intense look of concentration, I cross the secret passageway at Club Nova, the dull bass notes from the dancefloor above thumping down the ceiling. We’re in the basement here, but the passageway looks similar to the first, and the security guy doesn’t look that different, either. Same suit, same scowl.
This time, I know how things work, and quickly swipe my bracelet over his scanner. I tap a loose fist against my lips as he checks my bag before I stash the precarious stuff away and walk into the changing room.
I’m twenty minutes early. Hopefully enough time to prep accordingly, and that includes bathing in all the lotions and soaps to cover up the stench of ‘bike’. And of course, downing half a bottle of mouthwash.
I called Kate after Ross’ invitation dropped in, just to make sure I was prepared (I’m not, by the way—not by a long shot). She said if neither of us didn’t ask explicitly for another meeting, we would go straight for the date. Very clever how they twisted the words. The way I see it, Ross and I already had our date.
Just not a Silent Sins date.
Needless to say, it took me the entire afternoon to decide on what to wear. Kate told me it was advisable not to go in there with street clothes because you won’t find your stuff again. I contemplated opting for one of the bathrobes they provide here, but then figured it would be weird to dress like I just had a spa treatment.
Hence, my wardrobe choice—a set of nice but casual underwear, yoga shorts, and an oversized flannel shirt.
I check my reflection in the mirror, chewing at the inside of my cheek. Last time, it was the whole in-a-dark-room-with-a-stranger idea that freaked me out. This time, I’m shitting my pants because I don’t want to make a fool of myself, like tripping over my feet or accidentally breaking his nose with my elbow.
I glance at the clock. My time is up. Ross is probably already in The Room, waiting for me like last time.
And sure enough, as soon as the lights go out and the door opens, his glowing bracelet from across the room is the first thing I see. Seconds tick by as we both size each other up until I produce a calculated exhale, one that is eerily loud in this bubble.
“I’m breathing,” I tell him, and a low chuckle follows.
“I can hear that.”
Hearing his voice again sparks something inside me, the strange familiarity of it warming me from the inside. Keeping him in my periphery, my gaze bounces across the room. It looks similar to the last one, but this time, the bed in the middle is basically shouting at us. I grip my hands together, my toes curling into the plush carpet.
“How was your week?” he asks as he strides over, keeping his movements slow and precise.
“Uhm, uneventful,” I mumble, rubbing my cheek. “Yours?”
“Same.”
He halts a foot in front of me—close enough for me to smell his aftershave. The room is cozy warm, but I wrap my hands around my middle, hyperaware of the fact that I’m naked from my thighs down. I flinch when his hands reach out to take mine, forcing me to uncoil my shielded posture.
My jumpiness doesn’t escape him, and he brushes his thumbs over my hands in a reassuring gesture.
“Took you a long time to accept my invitation,” he says after a moment. “Did you have second thoughts?”
I rack my brain for words, but his fingers skating up my arms distract me. They move up to the collar of my shirt, exploring the fabric and the buttons.
“N-no,” I stutter, but I’m sure he can hear the lie.
I gasp when his hands drop down to my hem only to find bare skin below.
“Breathe.”
Dammit!
I exhale on command, my chin trembling with the motion.
“How about,” he starts, placing my hands on his broad chest—a clear sign that I should take a journey and feel him up, “we each share a secret.”
My hands brush over soft fabric. He’s not wearing a suit today. No, he’s clad in a soft shirt and sweatpants, my fingers tracing a stretchy waistband.
“What are you wearing?”
“Cookie pants,” he replies with a smile, and I giggle. “But this isn’t the secret I’m talking about.”
“What do you want to share?”
He shrugs, and I feel my way back up, cataloging the toned muscles of his stomach. Man, he’s got some abs.
“Anything,” Ross says.
“Alright. You start.”
He chuckles, and I feel the vibration in his rib cage. Shit, that guy is sturdy. Not massive like a bodybuilder but packed with enough muscles to give him a bulging biceps and a chiseled chest.
“I
don’t know my biological parents,” he confesses at last, and I tense.
“Did they give you up for adoption?”
“Not really,” is his cryptic answer.
Taking my hands in his, he leads me over to the bed and sits down. I want to do the same, but he tugs me down onto his lap. The sudden proximity makes me press my knees together as he rests his hand on my thigh.
“When I was just a few weeks old,” he starts, “my mother went with me to Central Park and asked a woman to look after me for a second. She walked away and… never returned.”
I stiffen in his arms. “What? Your mother just handed you over and left?”
His hand grazes my legs while the other moves up to my hair, massaging my scalp. It feels nice.
“She did.”
Dear God. His mother literally abandoned him. What kind of merciless, immoral person can do this to her baby?
“And then?” I ask in a brittle voice.
“Then, Broo— the woman adopted me,” he concludes after a harrumph, his tone signaling that he’d rather change to subject. “Your turn.”
“Okay, uhm…” I tug a strand of hair behind my ear, trying to think of something equally grave to reveal. “I don’t know my biological father. I’m not adopted, but I was totally clueless until recently.”
“I’m sorry,” Ross says after a beat of silence, and the sincerity in his tone leaves me stunned.
The hand in front makes its way up the inside of my arm, leaving a trail of tingles.
“You’ve got a tattoo,” he remarks when he grazes the still swollen skin where Zoya branded me with Crawly. “Do you have more?”
“Maybe,” I tease as he leans down to put a soft kiss there, and I can feel something light but hard brushing my wrist.
Reaching for it, I twirl it between my fingers, touching a pendant the size of a coin dangling from a metal chain.
It’s strange how things are different than last time. We’ve started trusting each other to some extent, but whereas we couldn’t wait to rip each other's clothes off last week, we’re now testing the water with slow touches and sweet caresses.