by J. Kenner
Right now, I'm in the tiny living room on a tiny couch while Celia sits in front of me on her tiny coffee table.
It feels a lot like we're camping out inside a dollhouse.
"I appreciate the offer," I say. "But honestly, I just want to get home."
She nods slowly. "Because you have such an intense work schedule planned out? I thought as of yesterday you were contractless."
"Do I have to be going home for work? Maybe I want to see my place. Or maybe I want to get with Maia and put together some new proposals. Strike while the iron is hot. Or maybe I want to drive up to Dallas and do a couple of shows with Seven Percent before we get churning on Pink Chameleon."
"Really?" Her brows lift. "Do you?" She stands, then moves into her surprisingly roomy kitchen, keeping an eye on me as she walks.
I lift a shoulder, feeling trapped. "Maybe."
She pulls a corkscrew out of a drawer and waves it at me before violently attacking a bottle of Chardonnay. "You're a piece of work," she says. "You know that, right?"
I pull my knees up and tug the blanket tighter around me. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"The hell you don't. Come on, Keeks, I know how you are. You don't look at the future through rose-colored glasses. To you, it's all baby shit brown."
"Ew. And again, ew."
She's unrepentant as she brings me a glass of wine. "Maybe, but accurate."
"No, it's not. I'm pragmatic, that's all."
"Really? Because going to Dallas and joining Seven Percent makes so much sense when Noah's going to be back."
I look down into my wine. I don't want to do this; I just want to sleep and wake up and have the world be back the way I want it.
"Dammit, Keeks. Things are not crap right now." She leaves her wine on the coffee table and sits down on the couch beside me, then takes my hand. "I mean, come on. For one thing, Pink Chameleon is about to rock the music world, right? We have Matthew Holt interested, our sound is amazing. And you know that. You know it's going to happen, you just don't want to admit it."
"It should happen," I agree. "But not everything turns out the way it should. Most things don't." I think of Noah right beside me just yesterday, talking about rings and futures. And then everything shifted, and suddenly it was ten years ago all over again.
"Noah loves you," she says, reading my mind as only a best friend can. "You're just scared."
"I'm terrified," I admit. What I don't say out loud is that I'm also angry. He was mine again--for a few, wonderful days, he was really and truly mine. And then she came in and stole him away a second time. And I can't even hate her. Not after what's happened to her. Not after everything she's lost.
Celia squeezes my hand. "Do you really want to be someone who lives their life anticipating the worst?"
"No." The word comes out hoarse because of the unexpected tears that suddenly clog my throat. "No," I repeat, my voice stronger. "But this is what happens. The world doesn't care what I think, and the people in it make decisions without me. My world changes, and I don't get a say in it."
"But you do," she says firmly.
I just tilt my head and start to count on my fingers. "Really? My dad. My stepfather. My mom. They all just left. They just walked. And then Noah and Darla. He didn't even ask what I thought. Didn't ask if I understood. And after she was kidnapped, he didn't come find me. He said he didn't want to burden me with his guilt. His suffering. He made the goddamn decision for me."
"Because you didn't fight." She pushes up off the couch and starts to pace. "You didn't fight, and I don't get it. Because you're the strongest fighter I know. You built Crown Consulting out of nothing. You practically forced your way back to your music even when you didn't have to. You didn't have any illusions about reforming PC when you started writing again. You were just fighting to get back something you love."
She's right. I know she is, even though it's hard to think about how I've sat back and allowed things to happen to me without trying to battle them back.
And no, I couldn't have fought for my dad and stepdad and mom. I was too young. They left, I had no way of fighting, and that impotence scarred me.
But I could have fought for Noah. When Darla told him she was pregnant, I should have jumped into the ring. Instead, I lingered on the sideline until Noah told me that he was marrying her. Even then, I didn't fight. Not really. I numbly accepted his decision, even though it was so damn wrong for both of us.
And Owen--I'd done the opposite of fight. He'd started talking about moving out of state, and I began to suspect that he was seeing Abby behind my back. And rather than fight, I just pulled the plug.
With him, though, it didn't haunt me, because the sad truth is, I didn't love him enough to fight for.
Not the way I love Noah.
"This is torture," I whisper. "And you're right." I stand up as she sits down, and now it's my turn to pace. "I am a fighter. I pulled out all the stops to get that Stark contract, and then Darla came waltzing back into town, and suddenly I'm back in Los Angeles all those years ago. And she's running to him again, and she has a kid again.
"And I'm sitting on my ass again," I continue, "not doing a thing. And damn sure not fighting."
"Do you honestly think it's the same this time?" she asks. "Do you truly believe he'll leave you?"
"Yes. No." I drag my fingers through my disheveled hair in a very Noah-like manner. "I don't know. My heart can't believe it, but my head can't help but fear it. And either way, I'm pissed off. Because he's making the rules, and I'm sure he thinks he's protecting me, but that's not what he gets to do. If we're a couple, then we need to be a couple."
"And there you go," Celia says smugly. "That's the fight."
"Yes," I say, looking blankly around the room, not even sure what I'm searching for. And then I realize. "Where's my purse? I can't get to Oklahoma without my purse."
"Oh," she says innocently. "Are you going somewhere?"
"I'm going to be there to support him, to help him, whether he wants me to or not. His goddamn guilt be damned."
"Good for you."
"And if we're not still a couple--"
"Don't even go there," she says, sticking her fingers in her ears.
I smirk and stay quiet. But in my head, I make a pledge. He's not getting rid of me that easily. This is a fight I intend to win. And if he even thinks about trying to leave me . . . well, he's going to damn well tell me to my face.
23
"I can't believe this is happening." Kiki's words came in uneven gasps, forced out past her tears.
"I have to," he said. "I have to do the right thing."
"You do." Her earnest brown eyes were fixed on him. "Please, Noah, please do the right thing."
She lifted her hand, reaching for him, but he couldn't hold onto her. The diamond engagement ring flashed, and it seemed to him that every sparkle cut him like glass, slicing his hand until it bled.
He tried to hold tight to her hand, but the blood was too slippery. And every time he grasped her, she slipped further away, until they were looking at each other across a wide pool of blood.
Noah woke with a start in the too-soft motel bed. He'd arrived at the rundown motel outside of Oklahoma City yesterday evening, but it had been too late to visit Darla even if he'd wanted to.
He hadn't.
Eventually, yes. Soon, even.
In just a few hours, he'd have to get his head on straight. Then he'd pull on clothes, slip on his shoes. He'd have to go through all the motions of a normal morning on a morning that was the farthest thing from normal. A morning where ghosts and fears and everything he thought he'd gotten past were right back beside him again. Telling him he owed her. That Darla was his responsibility, and it was on his head to make it right for her.
And Kiki--oh, dear God, he wanted her beside him. Wanted her hand in his, her strength flowing through him.
But at the same time, he didn't want her seeing him like this. Lost and ripped open. All hi
s old wounds exposed. The guilt that had dulled, now sharp and fresh again.
Guilt for taking Darla to Mexico. For losing her.
And, now that he knew she was alive, the hard, bitter guilt of failure. The raw, painful tearing of his gut, punishing him because he hadn't done enough. Telling him that if he'd spent just a few more hours--tried just a little harder--he would have saved her years ago.
It was true, goddammit. He'd given up. He'd held Diana's tiny body, and he'd been certain that Darla had been murdered, too.
He'd given up, and his wife had suffered.
No way was he making Kiki suffer, too. Because she would. She'd hear what happened to Darla, and every moment would feel real to her. She'd face the existence of a child he had by another woman, and suddenly she'd end up cowering under the weight of the loss and guilt and fucked-up emotional mess that had settled on his shoulders once again. A guilt that wasn't hers to bear.
He couldn't be that selfish. He wanted her beside him, yes. But he couldn't have her. And he'd done the right thing by coming to Oklahoma alone. He was certain of it.
That painful reality propelled him off the bed and onto his feet.
Goddammit.
He'd been doing so well. Hell, they'd been doing so well. He'd finally got his shit together--finally felt as though he'd earned his right to be with her. And now . . .
Well, now it felt like he was being punished.
Without letting himself have time to think about it, he grabbed his phone off his dresser, then pressed the button to speed dial Kiki. But he disconnected the call even before the first ring.
He was being selfish. Wanting to hear her voice, even though he knew damn well that he'd hurt her by coming to Oklahoma on his own.
But, dammit, maybe he was just a selfish son-of-a-bitch, because he couldn't stand it.
The phone in his hand seemed to taunt him, and before he could talk himself out of it another time, he called her number again.
His heart pounded in his chest, every cell in his body anticipating her answer--and yet when he finally heard her soft, breathy, "This is Kiki Porter," it wasn't enough because it wasn't really her.
He'd reached her voicemail, and his entire body seemed to deflate.
"Kiki," he said, wishing it truly was her. And, more than that, wishing that she was beside him.
"Kiki," he repeated, "it's me. I--I just want to say that I love you. And I'm so goddamn sorry. But I have to do this. I have to do it alone."
He thought for a moment, wondering if there wasn't something else he needed to say. But there wasn't. Or, rather, he needed to say everything. But how the hell could he do that on a voicemail? For that matter, how could he find the words?
He clicked off without saying goodbye, unable to deal with the finality of even that simple word.
With a sigh, he closed his eyes, replaying her message in his head. Memorizing the sound of her voice, the rise and fall of inflection.
It didn't help. He still felt alone. Hollow.
But he also knew it was time.
He had to go see Darla.
He had to do the right thing.
The house sat small and gray and lonely at the end of a long driveway that cut through the middle of acres of farmland. Noah slouched in his rented Nissan at the intersection of the driveway and the county road and stared at it like something out of a horror movie.
And why not?
He was fucking terrified.
He could turn back, he knew. Tell Darla that she was on her own. Tell Kiki that he belonged to her.
Except he couldn't, not really. He didn't love Darla any more. He wasn't sure he ever really had. But they'd worked to build a life together, and between the two of them, she'd damn sure drawn the short straw.
Forget his guilt. Forget his desperate wish that he could erase the past and start all over again. In the end, none of that mattered. All that mattered was doing the right thing by Darla today. Right now. In this moment.
And that meant turning into the driveway.
The closer he got to the house, the more he could see the deterioration. The siding was coming off, and most of the exterior walls needed painting. The front, however, had been recently spruced up. Fresh flowers in pots, and the simple wooden railing painted in a cheerful blue.
Darla, he thought. Probably with help from her son.
Even as the thought entered his head, a gangly boy with dark hair came barreling around the corner. He wore a simple blue T-shirt and jeans with holes at the knees. He skidded to a halt when he saw the car, and his dark brown eyes went wide.
Noah looked at his face, and his heart flipped over.
The boy turned sharply and barreled up the stairs onto the porch. He yanked open the door, his cry of "Mama, Mama," echoing behind him.
Noah parked the car, gathered himself, and walked to the steps.
He was just starting to climb them, when he heard Darla's still-familiar voice from inside the house. "Ricardo Garcia, do we yell in the house?"
Noah couldn't hear the answer, but a moment later she pushed open the screen door, then stepped onto the porch at the same time he reached the top step.
Her eyes widened. In surprise. In joy. Maybe even in fear. He didn't know, and he supposed it didn't matter. For better or for worse, he was here.
"Noah," she whispered.
"Darla. Oh, God, Darla." His throat was thick. His vision blurry. She was alive--she was really alive.
He'd known it, of course. But seeing it was different, and a whirlwind of emotion swirled inside of him, both wonderful and terrifying.
She hurried to him, obviously intent on throwing her arms around him, then stopped only inches away, her head down, her hands going deep into the pockets of the simple dress she wore.
He took her hands and held them tight in his. He knew she wanted more--a full-on embrace--but this was all he could offer her right now. Slowly, he thought. Right now, he had to move slowly.
"How?" he said. "How are you here? I thought--I thought you were dead. Diana, she--"
"I know." She blinked, and tears spilled from her pale blue eyes. "They took her. They took us both."
He swallowed, not wanting to hear this, but knowing he had to. "Tell me what happened." His voice was gentle. But also insistent.
With a small nod, she took his hand, then led him to the porch swing. "You don't want to go inside. It's--well, my mother hasn't been well for a while. I'm trying to help her clean it up, but I work a double-shift at the Dairy Queen, and I'm usually too tired to do much cleaning."
She said it casually, and once again he wondered why she'd sought him out. Was it for help? Or was it simply for the connection to someone from her past?
"Outside is fine. Is your son--is Ricardo okay by himself?"
"He's fine. He's a good kid." She drew a deep breath, then dove into her story without warning. "You remember I'd taken Diana out to the market, and we were supposed to meet you later, after you gave that presentation."
It wasn't a question. Of course he remembered that day. It was burned into his memory. "I never saw you again."
"I never saw Diana again," she said, then reached out, took his hand, and squeezed. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry they took her from me. I'm sorry she--"
"No." His voice was hard. Firm. "Don't do that to yourself. Do you think it was your fault? It wasn't. It was their fault. Whoever they were, they're the ones who did this to her. To us."
The words came out with a fierce intensity, and he meant every one of them. But it was only then--in that moment of speaking them to the woman who'd been his wife, who'd been the mother of his child--that he realized how true they were for him, too. Diana's death wasn't his fault any more than it was Darla's. And whatever hell Darla had experienced wasn't his fault, either.
The revelation felt transcendent, and yet the world remained remarkably mundane. The porch swing creaked. The wind whistled through a nearby elm. And Darla sat beside him, her face sad but hopeful. As if s
he wanted to believe, but couldn't.
"Go on," he said gently. "Tell me what happened that day. And then what happened after."
"That's just it--I don't know. All these years, and the only thing I know is that I was wearing the baby sling, and Diana was asleep. I was in the market looking at leather goods. I wanted to get you a wallet. I remember it was very crowded, people bumping into me all the time, and I kept one hand on Diana. I remember I was glad that my money was in my bra, because it would be so easy for someone to pick a pocket in that crowd."
She licked her lips. "I turned toward the noise, and as I did, I felt something sharp prick my arm. I was wearing a sleeveless dress, and I thought I'd brushed against a display rack or something. I remember thinking that I'd need to put some Neosporin on it when we got back to the hotel. And that's it."
"It?"
With a small shrug, she released his hand, then twisted her fingers together in her lap. As she spoke, she looked down at her hands. "That's all I remember. The next memory I have, it was six months later. I was in a hospital. A mental ward. Like something out of one of those horror movies where the people in asylums get free and rampage the town. It was dark and smelled like mildew and the food was never solid, and my first thought was that I was dead. I didn't remember Diana--or find out what happened to her--until much later."
"Darla . . ." He trailed off. He didn't know what else to say.
"There was a doctor. Enrique Garcia. He was kind to me. He worked with me. Told me that I'd been found in a gutter with a knife wound." She lifted her shirt to reveal a jagged abdominal scar.
"Did he know who you were?"
Darla shook her head. "No. Later I found out we were halfway across the country. So he hadn't heard any reports about my disappearance." She licked her lips. "And he told me that I was pregnant. About six months."
His gut twisted. Their marriage had always felt tentative, but the trip to Mexico was supposed to end at a resort. It was almost supposed to be a second honeymoon. He'd felt like a heel for dragging her to Mexico City first, and he'd surprised her on their second night in town with a candlelit dinner in their room, and they'd made love while the baby slept peacefully in her bassinet.
But he had to ask--of course, he had to ask.
"Did they--when they took you--did they rape you?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. I don't think so. I don't want to think so."