19. Zara
ZARA
Ihave postponed returning home because the last few days have felt like a dream—one I don’t want to wake from. I am falling in love with my husband.
We have been on daily dates, discovering more of the Windy City together.
Work has become secondary for both of us.
I postpone reality just to indulge in this exquisite feeling of togetherness—of belonging—but I must go back.
I have business meetings I can’t postpone any longer and my appointment with the new therapist.
I never thought that potentially finding out about my past would become an impediment.
If the previous doctors were right, maybe my brain has not been sabotaging me, but helping me remain sane.
The events that triggered my memory loss must have been horrendous. Maybe I should abandon the quest, aware that nothing good may await me. I just discovered happiness again. No more going through each day numb, no more surviving—only living to the fullest.
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, remembering the deal that our hearts would remain sealed. With how easily the other slipped in and made a home, I guess they never were.
The chemistry, the passion, the talks, everything makes my core rejoice, my heart jubilate, my very soul spark.
In the walk-in closet, I stare at my entire new wardrobe hanging there. He made space for me, and I made a place for him—in our lives, in our hearts.
My best decision so far.
He snakes his arm around my belly, and I lean back, loving my heavenly cocoon.
“I don’t want you to leave,” he whispers, nibbling along my neck and stirring that deep-seated ache only he can soothe.
His touch is electrifying, but his mouth is something else. He is like no other, making me so weak for him.
“I’ve heard distance makes the heart grow fonder.”
“Fuck that nonsense,” he grumbles.
I love his desperation, how deeply he feels for me. I am secure in his feelings. He infuses me with so much confidence, as if his life begins with me and I am his sole reason.
I turn into his arms, lift onto my toes, and lock my arms around his neck.
Peppering kisses over his jaw instantly relaxes his features, then I move to his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his eyelids, and his mouth.
With him, I’ve tapped into a side of me that is passionate, pouring out all my feelings in sheer abandon, as if my heart needs to expel everything to replenish.
“I’ll miss you too,” I whisper, and he presses his forehead against mine.
We stay embraced for long minutes, just breathing each other in. Time, responsibilities, life—nothing matters, only us. What a surreal feeling.
I put on a flowing silk dress, layer a blazer over it, and slip on sandals.
He looks mouthwatering in a suit, the metallic watch adding a note of sophistication.
I can’t see what he’s picking up with his back to me, but when he turns, my hand flies to my mouth. A diamond necklace dangles from his fingers, a large stone suspended in a heart shape. It’s stunning.
“May I?” he rasps.
The symbolism is not lost on me. He’s offering me his heart.
I nod, overcome with emotion. I am going to take care of it, cherish the man who rescued me, even though I was unaware I needed saving.
Love is being raw, vulnerable, and naked in front of your partner, and him loving every imperfect layer.
The lock clicks at my nape with something final, and I brush my fingers over the cold and precious gem. “Thank you.”
He kisses my forehead, holding me in a tight embrace. The closeness warms my chest, and I love his inability to keep his hands off me. Hand in hand, we head out.
In his car, I say, “Noemi should know.”
I’ve become close to her, and she loves her father. I have been a daddy’s girl, and I miss him terribly, wishing he were here to see how far I’ve come.
“It’s his last wish.”
I nod, aware of that, yet I insist. “I would give everything for a moment with my father.”
His fingers wrap around the wheel, knuckles whitening from the pressure he applies.
“Why are you assaulting the wheel?” I ask, not understanding his reaction.
“Nothing, just hate that you’re leaving,” he says, voice clipped.
I palm his arm, offering, “We’ll see each other soon.”
His features lose their hardness, and he glances my way. His love shines so brightly, no star in the universe could match it. I suck in a breath, my body’s involuntary reaction only emphasizing that I can’t be mistaken.
“We should go on a honeymoon.”
“This week’s endeavors could fit the description,” I say with a playful tilt.
My skin heats just thinking of our encounters.
We burn for each other, the passion consuming, our tangled limbs a violent dance of mating—sheer carnality wrapped in ecstasy.
Addicted is too mild a word to express what transpires between us: deliberate, purposeful, an animalistic drive taking over to become one.
He casts a knowing look my way. “A proper one.”
I’ve never thought about honeymooning, and all my travels have been for business. I don’t even know where I would like to spend ours. The destination doesn’t matter; spending time together does. After pondering longer, a secluded spot with no disturbances sounds dreamy. No phones, no work, just us.
His chest rumbles with a noncommittal sound. “You’re thinking about it.”
I can’t shake the impression he knows me better than I know myself, reading my mind with such ease. I got used to it, and it comes with benefits. I don’t even have to open my mouth, and he somehow knows what I mean, what I desire before I even form the thought, process it, or filter it.
I strongly believe that my fiancé was my soulmate.
For years, I held on to an elusive feeling, a blurry image, certain that if he were alive, I would recognize him by the connection, certain you have just one true love.
Maybe that’s a fallacy. What I am experiencing with Vian is not lesser in worth or meaning. It’s different. Stronger. Deeper.
We reach the Italian restaurant, and the letters flickering above my head hypnotize me. It’s this recurring experience: I was here before. In this city. With him.
It’s not the first time it has happened, but this flashback is strong. I shake my head, commanding my thoughts to cease their deceptive games. I don’t know what I should do with nothing. It’s as if the connection between my synapses is cut and only half the information travels.
“What is it?” he asks, placing his palm on my back in silent support.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment to ease the turmoil. “Nothing. I feel like I’ve been here before. Do I know you from before? I am crazy, Vian…”
In an instant, he gets in my face and grips my chin, forcing me to look up at him. “My wife is not crazy.”
My eyes water, and I clutch his lapels, sighing. “No, just broken.”
“You’re talking bad about my woman here. I won’t stand for it.”
I bury my face in his chest, not caring that anyone could see me. I’ve built a reputation for being inscrutable, yet with him, my emotions flow with such ease.
“You’re my beautiful, broken whole. Strong. Competent. I am in awe of you.”
What I see as weakness, he sees as strength. “Sorry for ruining our date.”
“Your feelings matter the most.” He looks between the restaurant and the car. “Let’s go home. I don’t have to share you with anyone there.”
But something pushes me to go inside. “No. I’m better now.”
“Sure? I don’t want it to trigger you again.”
Chicago triggers me. He triggers me. Currently, I think everything triggers me. Does that mean my brain is healing, that every little nudge is a sign I will recover my memories? It would be a wonder.
Inside, the chef greets us, looking at me with fondness and at him with barely contained glee.
The greeting is a bit much, I think, but I smile back.
“Welcome,” he says, his enthusiasm clear. “Let me show you to your table.”
My husband snaps his gaze at him, and the elderly man turns a fiery red, wearing an apologetic glance.
I am too stuck in my head to delve into the strange interaction.
At the small and intimate table, I look outside, simply watching the passersby, unperturbed by my inner conflict.
He places two menus in front of us, and I peruse mine a hundred times, but I always return to pizza Michelangelo. My mouth waters just at the thought of it.
When he comes back with our drinks, I say, “A pizza Michelangelo.”
My husband and he share a look before the latter says, “Good choice. You’ll love it.”
I know I will, which is strange.
What isn’t strange?
Vian grips my hand on the table and intertwines our fingers, the simple gesture causing my emotional turmoil to recede.
“This place is nice. It’s cozy, familiar,” I say, feeling my brows furrow.
“It has been in their family since the 1950s.”
“Family business. I like that.”
“We’ll start ours as well,” he says, yearning coating his voice, though I detect a trace of fear, as if it’s only a dream and something might snatch it away.
We share grief, its impact forged into the very essence of us.
I bring his palm to my cheek. “We have already begun.”
The smile he gifts me lights up my entire being.
Just then, succulent aromas of fresh basil, tomatoes, and prosciutto wrap around me, the pizza in front of me teasing my tastebuds.
He has gone with the classic: Pizza Napolitano. As I unceremoniously take a slice in my hand and bite into it, I close my eyes, savoring the divine taste.
The moan escapes me—unabashedly. “This is so good.”
Vian shifts in his seat, and I almost choke on my slice.
“Stop moaning… Fuck.” He drags a hand down his face, the distress unmistakable.
I giggle, unable to hide my reaction. It’s not that I like tormenting him, but one moan makes him hard, and I can’t stop myself from jubilating.
“Enjoying my misery, wife?” he asks low, the vibration of his deep timbre going straight between my thighs, which clench automatically.
I roll my eyes at him, saying in a playful tone, “Quite dramatic, husband.”
“There’s nothing dramatic about aching to have my wife.”
Inconspicuously, I glance around. For the life of me, I don’t understand where this adventurous side comes from. I thought I would be mortified to ever consider this, but I guess my leg has a mind of its own, and I plant my foot straight on his groin.
His surprised expression makes risking exposure worthwhile.
He groans, wrapping his calloused fingers around my ankle and holding it there. “Fuck, if you move it, I might come undone right here.”
Do I want him to come undone by just my touch? Yes, but witnessing the physical evidence nullifies the need for additional torture.
I am about to retract it when he holds my leg prisoner, caressing my calf up and down, lulling me into pure bliss.
“You like playing with fire, mi sol.” A statement, not a question.
“You make it burn so good,” I say, evoking a chuckle from him.
For dessert, we share tiramisu. I don’t have a sweet tooth; between us, he’s the one who indulges more. The cake is delicious, the creamy, fluffy taste melting on my tongue, and before I can order another, the chef places a plate in front of me, winking.
I smile and thank him as I savor the best dessert I’ve ever had.
The date passes too fast, like everything with him, when all I want is to prolong time and savor more of this wondrous thing transpiring between us.
Vian guides me outside, his palm protectively placed at my back, but when he opens the door, an inner voice pushes me in another direction. Someone else pulls my strings, and I speed-walk toward an unknown location, rounding the corner.
I can hear him calling my name, hot on my trail, but I am in a trance, driven by the need to reach this elusive destination.
I come to an abrupt halt in front of wrought-iron gates. Behind them, a city mansion stretches, looking uninhabited. I wrap my fingers around the bars, reaching for the other side, watching my entire life play out while still unable to grasp it.
His breaths come in shallow exhales. My husband is not one to get winded from a quick run, adding to my turmoil.
I press the heels of my palms into my temples, desperate to align my thoughts, so done with scattered puzzle pieces and no clear picture.
This is my dream house. Mine. I feel it. I know it, even if I can’t remember it.
“Zara,” he calls my name with unmistakable agony.
“This house…” I gulp.
“What is it with this house?” His voice is barely audible, as if he doesn’t want to scare me off.
“I think he was from here. I think it was ours.”
He lets out a sound like a growl from an injured animal, but if I overcame my jealousy of his first love, he needs to deal with his too.
“I would like to go inside.”
“No,” he says vehemently.
I spin on my heel, not expecting his harsh reaction—or that this is the first time he has refused me anything.
I blink at him, not knowing which of us has the brain injury. “This is where you draw the line? Trespassing?” I huff, pointing at it. “It looks abandoned.”
His jaw sets in such a hard line it could break cement. “Looking and being are two different things. Let’s go.”
He doesn’t give me a second to process this before he grabs my hand and forces me away.
“Vian, stop,” I say, breathless by the time we reach the car.
He rakes a hand through his hair, staring at the night sky, clearly conflicted, as if the stars could provide the right answer.
“I don’t understand your reaction.”
“Stay away from that house.” His tone drops to chilly, instantly freezing me.
“Excuse me. Why?” It only makes me want to go even more.
“I built it for her.”
I stumble back, his words unbalancing me. “Oh.”
Then why does it feel like mine? Why? Why? Why?
Heavy silence envelopes the drive to the penthouse, suffocating, each of us lost in thought.
I didn’t think our night would end like this, but once again, the past spins its web around us and traps us.
We can’t escape it.
We just fool each other into believing we can.
The future is already written. The past ensured that. We simply refuse to accept it.