Chapter Nine
__________
Anya
The floorboards creaked. Her eyes fluttered open, heavy with sleep that scratched against them, begging to close again.
It smelled of barbecue, with laughter mixed in the background.
She soaked in the surroundings: the walls painted orange, curtainless windows, and the whistle of wind in the cracks of the wooden foundation. Her neck was stiff, her throat ached, and her stomach churned.
She had on what she wore in the morning, and slowly, she remembered paying for a small cabin just to rest her numb mind. She felt sleepy whenever she was confronted with something she didn’t know what to do with or how to solve.
So, avoidance became a default system. If she didn’t think about it, she wouldn’t have to feel anything because if she did, the feelings were mostly bad.
Anya liked being happy, but every emotion had a contradictory partner. She wasn’t strong like Meryl, who faced her feelings head-on and took matters into her own hands.
What was a better way to avoid painful emotions than to not experience the happiness that would come first?
She checked her phone. The battery was almost drained, and it was filled with messages. Anya turned it off and dropped it on her chest, a wheezed breath knocking the sleep out of her limbs.
Getting up from the stiff bed, she lazily stretched and put on her shoes. They felt tight, likely from her feet being slightly swollen after sleeping in an uncomfortable position.
She didn’t know where Alessio was or what he did during the three hours of sleep she got.
The sun was setting when she opened the cabin door, which was in an awful placement, in her opinion, since she couldn’t see the beautiful view.
She passed the key to the employee at the booth and made it to where his confession, faint but filled with conviction, took place.
He sat there, his hair gently swaying with the wind, holding a cup of steaming drink with pumpkin drawings on the coffee sleeve.
Like a burning divinity, he stood with a bleeding halo draped over his broad shoulders, his eyes beautifully determined.
He was waiting, as he had always been doing—like she was worth it.
Worth the trouble to stay and wonder which carpet she’d pull from underneath him again. Or worth the heartbreak when she inevitably pushed him away, fearing she’d lose him to a pit of debris and fire.
Was it worth it to lose him when she loved him the most?
No, never.
Anya wasn’t worth it.
She left him with the pieces she abandoned for maybes and what-ifs. She was plagued by fear, so much of it that his arms couldn’t protect her during sleepless nights. It felt surreal, the way she looked for comfort where her dread stemmed from.
But he genuinely cared and still did.
Her heart didn’t hurt, and it wouldn’t for quite some time.
“Ales,” she called, and he looked so vulnerable.
It had been years since she had called him that, his name, something she had the privilege of saying.
“We should talk,” she said as she took a determined step forward.
She was weak when running away and even weaker when running back to him. This time, though, she was kind of ready for the double-edged feelings. Trying… that counted for something, and she hoped she wouldn’t have to in the future.
They sat beside each other, facing the gorgeous sunset, immersed in the serenity. The drink warmed her hands. He got it for her, timing it perfectly when she woke up. He said she never slept more than three hours when she needed an escape.
He always knew.
She felt stupid for even trying to hide it from him.
Anya took a sip of the twenty percent sugar and eighty percent gingerbread milk. A new item, and she liked it.
Even with minutes of preparation, nervousness bubbled in her stomach, futilely fighting the thought of failing. Failed to explain and was unable to ease his guilt because, of course, he thought he had done something wrong.
She powered through the fog of uncertainty crafted hand-in-hand with fear.
Anya admitted she believed in soulmates when she was five. She saw it through her parents, how they cherished each other to the moon and back, how much joy was in their laughter when they danced in the kitchen before dinner, and how passionately they recited their wedding vows while holding her hands in theirs on their anniversaries.
They were a family until they weren’t ten years later. At fifteen, she was friends with eggshells. The house was a battlefield, with no ceasefire in sight.
Like the finest pendulum of a clock, it happened year after year—the same fights and misunderstandings. At some point, they fought just for the cycle.
When did their love turn into hate?
Whether they meant it or not, the inevitable blame shifted to her. It wasn’t spoken by either of them, but the implication was more than enough to crush the little fantasy of family, of home, on the last page of her diary.
It went into the trash afterward.
At seventeen, she took a leap of faith on a university tour miles away from home. It wasn’t her first choice, but she didn’t regret it. She met Alessio under less favorable circumstances, but he wasn’t her knight in shining armor.
At least, not at the right time.
Then he was, a year later, on a frigid night.
Fondness , a feeling of less than love, but close enough to keep her in denial. She wasn’t ready, not at eighteen or nineteen, which was normal. A two-year relationship was nothing in comparison to forever and eternity.
Turning twenty was like a drop of rain in the ocean. Nothing special happened. And she thought nothing of it until her life was missed by mere feet from streetlight steel.
Life was just as fleeting as love.
Time trudged forward, with avoidance being a pleasant lull. They were stronger than yesterday, and the space between their hearts closed a little more. It was comforting, like lying on freshly changed bedding at night with his arms around her.
Her parents had an inconclusive ending. She recognized the blame-shifting in each text they sent her, asking if she wanted them together for the holidays, if Alessio was treating her well, and if she was okay.
She never recovered from the loss, just burying it along with their deaths in the back of her mind. For her own good, she would tell herself.
There was a pattern of hurt that followed love, something akin to memories grasping at dream fragments.
So, when Alessio’s confession nestled in her heart, she knew things were going to change. For the worst, and she was prepared.
Anya didn’t love him.
One of many lies she held dear; they were adhesive tape on her skin from wounded memories.
She couldn’t love him, and a wall of reinforced denial helped with however many years it would take to forget him.
* * *
“You’re scared we’ll fall in love, then die.”
“Why do you say it like that?”
He listened to her, his shoulder pressing against hers as he shared heat from his coat, and the smell of him teased her fluttering heart.
He didn’t call her stupid for feeling those things, and he didn’t let go of her hand that he laced their fingers together a while ago, nor did he convince her to find peace with her parents’ death.
“That’s the gist of it,” he said.
It was hard to get a read on him.
“It’s not,” she countered, stubbornly refusing to admit how close it felt to the truth.
“Then talk to me.” He tightened his fingers, bringing their palms tightly together, and she returned it shakily. “I’m your boyfriend.”
“We broke up,” she reminded, the weight of her own resistance nagging at her.
“We didn’t,” he denied promptly at the last second of the sun disappearing behind the horizon.
“You agreed.”
His chest rumbled as his throat released a mix of sneering and purring. “I don’t remember.”
She hummed understandingly. Pretending to ponder over his reaction, she heard him sigh deeply and lean his weight on her to feel him, to shove his existence deep into reality and remind her that he wasn’t a hallucination in her daydream.
“Why did you agree?”
It had bothered her, yet it shouldn’t. It wasn’t fair to put the burden on him. She broke up with him, and regardless of her mind’s turmoil, blaming him was never realistic.
“I respect you,” he said softly, a gentle whisper between the pages of their lives. “Your decision is important to me.”
Her lips quivered, tears rimming her eyes as she mumbled, “Don’t respect me.”
Another hoarse rumble erupted from his chest as he stifled a chuckle. “Then, promise you won’t respect me, either.”
She didn’t fully grasp what he meant, but the question dissolved when he kissed the top of her head. Anya tried to ignore the way her hands were clammy and the intense confidence exuding from his fingers.
This is nice, she thought with white puffs from her parted lips as she stared out at the bleak sky.
“Do you want a hug?”
He stood with his back to the darkness, his body taking up so much space, demanding her to notice him. His arms opened with no hesitation, and she threw herself to him with tears stinging her eyes.
She wanted to wrap her arms around him, but her hands hovered over the wide expanse of his back. She wasn’t sure why she hesitated, only that she did.
Anya peered up to the sky to find a star to ask, and the abyss stared back at her.
“Hurry up,” he ushered, almost sounding like a pout.
And she did, slowly and carefully, treating him like a glass at the edge of sanity, but he squeezed her like he wanted to devour her.
* * *
“How did you know you were in love?”
As she sat in front of the fire pit where everyone from the show had met up and gathered for their last dinner, Anya realized she hadn’t answered that question.
She learned love wasn’t just a feeling, albeit a little late, but better than never.
Love was an event.
She was nineteen with a fear of driving. An anxious driver, the fourth driving instructor had reassured her after he nearly vomited. She had sixteen lessons and four instructors but still failed the test twice. The written test was passed with flying colors, and she showed Alessio proudly.
He said paper knowledge was practically useless on the road, and experience ruled all. On weekends, sometimes they would practice, and Alessio was an awful teacher. He took offense to that, but it was nothing a chaste kiss couldn’t fix.
Getting a driver’s license was set aside because she needed to recharge emotionally.
A slow electric moped didn’t require a license where they lived. She used it whenever she wanted to do spontaneous shopping or just go for a ride.
When Alessio called her one evening, at 6:48 PM to be precise, she hopped on her moped and drove to pick him up. His family had a gala that started at six, and out of respect for his parents, Alessio went.
Not even an hour later, she was on the way to retrieve him.
She parked three blocks away, a safe distance from anyone catching them since they decided to keep their relationship low-profile.
He was extremely handsome; his black suit accentuated his lean figure, his dark hair neatly styled, and he used the cologne she got for him on his birthday.
Leaning down to kiss her, his loosened tie grazed the back of her hand, sending an involuntary spasm through her fingers.
“Why so early?” she asked.
He grunted, visibly tired. “Social battery died.”
“Could’ve called a taxi.” Anya kneaded his hand, massaging the tense muscles, likely from holding a glass of untouched champagne.
“No,” he grumbled, swinging his long legs over, and sat on the back seat. “Want you.”
Alessio relied on instinct whenever he was tired, and it was sweet.
Onlookers gave them weird glances as they drove by Anya. She hoped tomorrow wouldn’t have a viral video of her in mismatched clothes, driving a fancily dressed man twice her size on an electric moped going at a snail’s pace.
It was already slow enough with her riding it. Alessio’s weight made it worse. And the culprit snuggled his face into her back, forcing her to bend forward a little even though she didn’t want to.
Then he wrapped his arms tighter around her waist, and one unbalanced inch backward would take her and the moped with him.
She prayed he was lucid enough to spare her the German suplex move.
What should have been twenty minutes turned into a grueling forty minutes.
They got sick the next morning from the harsh wind.
She remembered his car and asked him where it was with the heat pad working overtime underneath her aching body.
He said it had a flat tire and left it at the gala building. It never occurred to him to call a tow truck or even ask any of the guests, his parents even, for help.
She decided to be mad at him for the next thirty minutes.
* * *
If Anya was asked again how she knew she was in love. She’d tell them that her love language was actions.
She overcame the fear of driving and got her license.
She loved him immensely, but she didn’t want to get sick together again. He was annoying when he was ill—clingy and unreasonable—so she had spent most of the time in bed and was forced to snuggle with a man who had the sun under his skin.
“Here,” Alessio said as he handed her a cup of mixed soft drink.
The fire popped, and laughter surrounded her. Meryl and her husband had seemingly made up after their explosive fight.
Anya was content with where Alessio and her were now.
Acidic sweetness rolled down her throat as she drank from the cup. She pondered the taste dizzily, somewhat fruity and definitely alcoholic. She had a low tolerance for alcohol.
A small “oops” from Meryl came along with the wave of tutting around the fire.
“I would never take advantage of a drunk,” Cosmo stated keenly, chewing big bites of cheesy habanero skewers. “Are we still in the rejection aisle, or can we move to the congratulatory checkout lane?”
Anya squinted at his blurry features, either from the drink or the smoke. Her head bobbed and dropped onto Alessio’s arm, her brain rusting and creaking as a dozy look appeared on her face.
Despite being out of it, she nodded as firmly as her woozy head allowed.
“Yes.” Alessio followed her lead with a double confirmation. “We are together.”
Their clapping split her temple in two. She held his hand for support, a guide away from the noise, and he intertwined their fingers as he loved doing in the past.
Anya doesn’t think much about it, just using him as a hand warmer.
“Congrats to this old couple,” Cosmo teased.
His other two partners joined in the joke that vaguely registered in her mind.
“Wow, that took me by surprise! Didn’t see that coming.”
“They were so secretive.”
Anya scrunched her nose. Their words felt sharp in her ears, but she let it slide silently and enjoyed the night with a clear heart.
“I expect she gets nothing less than princess treatment.” Meryl’s threat sounded hollow, but maybe that was just her ringing ears.
“Keep your advice to yourself,” Alessio retorted curtly.
Meryl insisted, “Anya, muzzle him.”
Not a single cell in her body felt animosity between them, so they were fine. Any chance of them behaving civilly would be a concern for the future, but for now, they could bicker and be as hostile as they wanted.
They knew what lines to never cross, and Anya appreciated their efforts.