They called them visitors. One was on his way. I had to wash up, get ready. But I was finished waiting to be saved.
It wasn’t a suicide attempt. I didn’t want to die.
I wanted to be ugly.
The rusty metal. It called to me, made promises. I didn’t want to be pretty. Once I started marking my skin, I couldn’t stop. The blood was addicting. The pain . . . a low groan rumbles in my chest. I loved the pain. Digging in deep, it was my answer. My rescue. Hands wet with my life-blood, shirt soaked, hair caked. I covered myself. Hiding. Protecting. Not pretty. Never again.
Then the world went black.
I left the bear behind.
A sob rips from my throat, but it sounds far away in my ears.
“Sing to me.”
“What do you want me to sing?”
I bury my head in my knees and wrap my hands around my head. “Anything, your voice is enough.” Tears pour from my eyes. My body quakes with memories. All of them.
“I’ll get you out of here.”
Her voice was my refuge.
“Oh my God, Rex!” Arms wrap around me. Soul-wracking sobs in my ear. “I wanted to tell you.”
There’s her voice again, but now . . . woman.
I hold my breath.
From Nothing, Arizona.
Looking for peace.
Watching me.
It can’t be. She looks nothing like the girl I remember from under the door. Her eyes, her hair.
But the bear.
I push up from my crumpled position on the floor, and I focus through the blur of tears. Her eyes. Light brown. She’s wearing my tee, her black hair flowing over her shoulders. It’s not possible. They can’t be the same person.
“Gia?”
Her hands fly to her mouth. Eyes wide. A whimper escapes from behind her fingers.
Time stops.
Pale skin, those lips.
The storage room at The Blackout. Her dreams.
My cure.
My refuge.
My Gia.
*
Mac
The pain. I can’t feel anything but the pain. Ripping, excruciating. His eyes, void, empty. They stare me down from a few feet away.
“Talk to me.” I inch toward him on my knees.
He flinches, recoils, and scoots away. “No. Don’t.”
I’ve lost him. “Let me explain . . .”
“Your eyes. Hair.” He shakes his head. “You’re not her.”
Agony slices through my chest. He loved her. Not me. And even though we’re the same, he doesn’t see it that way.
I hold up my hands. “Give me a second to explain.”
He doesn’t answer, but continues to stare through me with dead eyes. His body is tense, up on his knees, arms flexed, ready to bolt.
I dip my head to remove my colored contacts. He shifts against the carpet. Please, God, let this work. Let him see me.
With a deep breath, I close my eyes. I can do this. I have to do this. It’s my only chance to get him to understand.
“I wanted to tell you.” I peek up from beneath the heavy veil of my hair.
His eyes narrow on mine. All the blood drains from his face, even his torso looks pale beneath the myriad of ink. He shakes his head. “No.”
I scoot closer; this time he doesn’t try to get away. He leans in.
Making sure to keep my eyes on his, I stop about a foot away.
A lone tear falls from his eye, racing down his cheek. “Gia.”
“Yes, it’s me.” I hiccup on the relief, the need to talk but reluctance to do so. “I’m so sorry”—my heart cramps—“for everything. I was so young.”
The tears come faster; his lip quivers.
“You have to believe me.” I swallow and stare as conflict replaces the emptiness of his eyes. “I didn’t know.”
His shoulders curl forward and he slumps in on himself. “But you know now.”
“I do.”
His eyes narrow and he tilts his head. “How?”
I reach under my bed to the box I shoved there before Rex came into my room before we made love. This isn’t supposed to happen like this. Not after what we shared. What’s going to happen to us now?
Pushing the old metal container that used to represent a connection between us, it now feels like the blade that’ll separate us forever. I move back to give him some space. “The box. Our secret.”
He blinks up at me, recognition in his eyes, but makes no move toward the box. I brace myself, terrified of what he’ll do, confronting this part of his past. He stares down at it.
“After they took you away, I thought you were dead.” The memory soaks my cheeks. Being so little, feeling responsible for his death, fourteen years later the devastation is so fresh.
His eyes dart to mine, wide and terrified. He remembers. With a tentative reach, he pulls the box to him and flips it open. Taking out each piece of scrap paper, he runs his eyes over them just long enough to see but not read.
One after the other he pulls out the yellowing pages and sets them aside. He tucks his arms under his biceps and glares at the box. “You’ve been watching me for how long?”
“Ten months, two weeks, four days.”
When he finally pulls his attention from the box to look at me, I find it hard to look back at him.
His eyes are cold, chin high, and jaw ticking. “You moved here to find peace.”
“I moved here to find you.”