The feeling was followed immediately by pity for this broken woman. "Are you okay?" I asked, my voice soft. "Do you need some ice?"
Silas' mother shook her head. "His room is down there if you want to wait. Don't know how long he'll be. I just need to lie down here for a minute. The headaches..." Her voice trailed off, and she stretched out on the tattered sofa. I wondered if she was drunk or if I should call a doctor.
I stood there for a moment contemplating what to do, when she spoke, her eyes still closed. "I know about you," she said. "About your family. Your grandmother, she's not as tight-lipped as you might think about things."
My heart sank. Silas would understand, I thought. I'd told him my name. I'd told him the truth.
Not really. He had no idea who I was. I was just as guilty as my parents, just as involved in all of their scams, ever since I was a kid.
Silas would hate me.
"Silas has a real shot, you know," she said, eyes still closed. She wouldn't even look at me. "Has a chance at a scholarship, at getting out of here. He doesn't need anything tying him down. Doesn't need anyone tying him down, neither. Especially not someone like you."
Tears welled up in my eyes, and I fought the urge to cry in front of her. I knew she was right. "I need to leave a note," I said. "I can't...just leave."
"Down the hall," she said. "Second door on the left. Don't go finding him. It'll only be worse on him, saying goodbye."
I stumbled my way down the hallway in a daze, unable to think. When I entered Silas' room, I paused just inside the door, taking it all in. A stack of books was tossed carelessly on the floor, a notebook resting on top, and a few papers were scattered on the bed. It was sterile, furniture and nothing more, except for Silas' wrestling medals hanging on one wall. They provided the only color in the room. Everything else was just...grey.
I fumbled around beside his books, reaching for a pen, and paused when I found one, waiting for the words that wouldn't come.
How could I explain the deception that was my life?
In the end, I didn't try to explain. There was too much to say and it was too overwhelming. Instead, I just told the truth -
I'm sorry for everything. I have to leave. It's best for both of us. You're going to do big things - you don't need me for luck anymore.
You'll always have my heart.
Tempest
I folded the paper and left it on Silas' bed. I almost walked out the door, but stepped back inside, pausing at the wall where his wrestling medals hung, memorializing his wins.
Memories of my time with him.
My fingers traced over the medals, and I considered my actions for a moment before slipping one of the medals from its place on the wall and putting it in my pocket.
It was the only thing I could think to do. I couldn't leave without something from him, a reminder of the boy who had stolen my heart.
Then I did the hardest thing I would ever do.
I walked away.
***
I turned the medal over and over in my fingers, the textured emblem and lettering on the surface the most familiar thing in the world to me by now. I had kept it, telling myself it was a good luck charm - like most grifters, I had a superstitious streak I couldn't help, no matter how irrational I knew it was. But it was more than just a good luck charm, and I couldn't bring myself to let it go.
A voice broke through my thoughts. "Well, Ariana?"
I looked up, responding to my name. Or, rather, the name my team knew me as. They were the closest people in the world to me, and yet even they didn't know my real name.
Only Silas knew.
Standing a few feet away from me, Iver pursed his lips thoughtfully, then backed up, sinking into a chair across from me, and smoothing the pant leg of what was undoubtedly a five thousand dollar suit. If there was one thing Iver had, it was impeccable taste, and that went for everything - art, clothing, jewelry, women. He was gorgeous, and an impossible flirt. But Iver and I didn't have that spark. I hadn't had that spark with anyone but Silas.
That was the trouble with a first love, the kind that burned hot the way mine and Silas’ had. It ruined you forever, left you comparing everything else to it for the rest of your life.
It burned bright, and no one would ever measure up after that.
Even now, the memory of Silas’ hands running over my body, caressing my skin, the heat of his breath against me, sent a shiver up my spine.
"Well, what?" I asked.
“Well,” Iver said, his brow furrowed as he looked at me. “Well something, darling. Your head was somewhere, and certainly wasn't thinking about the slovenly fight promoter we’re fleecing.”
I felt a flush rise to my cheeks, uncharacteristic of me. I had learned a long time ago to hide my reactions to things-blushing was not something you wanted to do in my line of work. It was a giveaway, a potential death sentence. Instead, I laughed off Iver’s suggestion that I was distracted by something. I wasn’t distracted. I wouldn’t allow myself to be distracted by the memory of Silas.
Silas was ancient history.