Chapter 39
ELIJAH
Exhausted, I slap my wallet onto the counter and grab the bourbon and two glasses, pouring a double shot into each.
The first one goes down smooth—but the guilt sticks, bitter on the back of my tongue.
So I pour another. Swish it. Gargle. Swallow.
Damn it. Still there. Whoever said guilt takes a toll on one’s body definitely knew what they were talking about.
I’m living proof. Ever since that shower with Gabriel in Puerto Rico, the guilt’s been eating me alive. Him too.
And now, apparently, Noah’s dealing with some shit of his own.
Unstable.
I pour another shot. Is that what we’ve become?
Unstable… in the name of love? I swirl the amber liquid in the glass, watching it catch the light.
But is love ever really stable? Does anyone actually know the way to someone’s heart?
Go this way. No, that way. There should be a road map to finding love.
Or maybe not. Maybe it’s better when you just stumble into it.
Noah is lost. You can see it in his eyes. That sadness—it runs deep. But there are so many ways to be lost. Lost in a kiss. Lost in a touch. Lost in a world of unknowns. Wouldn’t you rather explore a place like that? A land of the lost? I know I would.
I drop two ice cubes into the glass and splash in more bourbon. I give my head a quick shake, attempting to knock my thoughts loose. Instead, I scatter them. And still, I wonder…
Where’s the fun in following directions?
What’s the point in finding love if there was never any love lost to begin with?
Hmm… lost in love. That’s where I’d like to be.
I’d like to stay lost. I think about Noah—and that poem, lost between rain and tears.
God, I wish I could bring beauty into his storm.
Adventures can be found in the rain… smiles can form through tears.
So why the hell am I feeling guilty for getting lost in the arms of my ex-husband? Really, Elijah?
I swirl the amber liquid around the ice, watching it melt slowly. And—damn it! I’m still holding the other glass of bourbon. All because I got lost—in my goddamn head.
The glass scrapes across the counter as I slide it to Noah. He barely catches it before it tips, fingers trembling so much the ice shivers with him. I didn’t even realize he was that close. He’s just as on edge as I am. Poor soul.
I step toward him as he lifts the glass, gently taking it from his trembling hand.
Tears pool in his eyes—those beautiful, troubled blue eyes—and I feel that nobody has ever tried to look past them.
But I want to. At least—I’d like to try.
I wipe the wetness from his cheek, then lift the glass to his lips, resting the rim gently against his soft pink mouth.
He looks up, eyes glossy, and slowly tilts his head back—letting me pour the amber liquid in.
He swallows, and my fingers trail lightly along his neck, feeling the warmth of the bourbon slide down. “Good?” I ask, setting the glass down. I drag my thumb across his puckered mouth, wiping away the drop of liquor still clinging to his bottom lip.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
Rounding the corner of the counter, I take a seat beside him—beside this beautiful, bashful boy trying so hard to be brave.
“Don’t be mad.” He sighs, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. I spin him to face me and tug him closer.
“Noah, love… there’s no reason for me to be mad. Your poetry is beautiful.”
“But—”
“Shh…” I bring my fingers up to his glossy lips. They give under my touch, then spring back as I pull away. Soft. Spongy.
“Butt,” I tease, drawing out the word, “you love him… with a double T.” I wink, and he cracks a grin. “And for the record…” I glance at him, quieter now. “I love him too.”
He drops his head, giggling shyly. Femboys usually aren’t my cup of tea—but this one?
He’s a goddamn thirst trap. There’s something about Noah that pulls me in and doesn’t let go.
Maybe I’m seeing what Alex see’s when he looks at him.
Gabriel too. The boy’s beautiful, unfairly so.
Soft, plump cheeks. Eyes the color of a clear sky after rain.
Dark lashes that go on forever. And those lips…
full, pink, touched with the faintest strawberry hue.
I tilt his chin up, thumb brushing against the faint tremble of his jaw.
“Eres un alma valiente.” He blinks rapidly; his lashes fluttering like butterfly wings.
“It means,” I murmur, “you are a brave soul.” His chin dips again, but I catch it this time, not letting his shyness pull him under.
There’s strength in him, somewhere beneath the fear. I can feel it.
“Would you like another?” I gesture toward the bourbon bottle.
His eyes follow the motion, landing on the label as though it’s part of a secret shared between us.
I rise slowly, pour two more shots, and slide one toward him.
He surprises me—tossing his back in one go.
I can’t help the grin that curves my mouth as I match him, the liquid burning down smooth.
The warmth blooms in my chest, loosening the edges of everything.
When I set the glass down, I glance sideways at him. “You’ve got a strong kick for someone so quiet.” A flicker of pride—maybe even defiance—passes through his eyes. Then it’s gone, swallowed by the same sadness that’s been clinging to him all night.
I lean closer, lowering my voice. “Noah. About what you were telling me earlier…”
He stiffens, gaze dropping to his hands.
I can almost hear the memory rising—heavy, unwelcome.
I continue gently. “What happened when the authorities came to arrest your father?” I push our glasses aside and rest my elbows on the counter, watching him through the faint amber glow of the bourbon bottle.
His lashes sweep down again, a dark frame over his blue eyes that suddenly look years older.
For a moment, I wonder if I’ve gone too far—if asking him to revisit that storm will undo the fragile calm we’ve managed to build. But he needs to let it out. And maybe… I need to hear it. If only to help Alex understand it all. Maybe Gabriel too.
He uncrosses his legs and places his hands in his lap. His voice trembles, but he starts anyway. “There were at least twenty law enforcement officers who rushed onto our yacht. I was in the galley when I heard the commotion.”
“Mom! Mom!” I yell, slamming the refrigerator door, leaving slices of ham and pastrami scattered across the counter as I haul ass down the narrow hallway leading to her bedroom.
Her door flies open. She shoves a book into my chest so hard it knocks the breath out of me.
“Take this, Noah! And get the hell off this boat. Go to New York, baby… you’ll find her there.”
Her voice is breaking—between fear and fury.
It’s my chance to escape. And America… America is behind this raid. I feel it in my bones.
I’d been waiting for this day, imagining it a thousand different ways. I’d played every scenario over and over again, preparing myself to run the moment freedom called.
But I hadn’t imagined this version.
“JULIEN VALENTINO! SHOW YOURSELF! WE HAVE A WARRANT FOR YOUR ARREST!”
The world explodes. Feet pounding. Orders shouted in both English and French.
Putain! They’re getting closer.
I clutch the book tighter, heart hammering. Mom storms past me, hair wild, eyes aflame.
“Move, Noah! Get off this boat!”
Why is she helping me? Why now? I’ve been wanting to get off this damn boat since I was five.
She shoves something into my pants pocket—cold, sharp metal—and pushes me backward into the hall.
“Now, Noah! Run!”
“JULIEN VALENTINO!”
Putain! Putain! Putain!
Panic burns through my veins; confusion claws at my chest. My nerves plummet to my stomach—I want to vomit.
Run? But why? They’re here to save me, aren’t they? To take my father away, to lock him up?
Only one problem—he’s not here.
And I don’t exist.
If they don’t know about me, they can’t look for me.
If they aren’t looking for me… I’ll be free.
Just like America.
I spin and sprint back toward America’s room, legs pumping hard, lungs screaming. There’s a hidden passageway beneath the boat—something America told me about but could never open herself.
I shove the old dresser aside, nails tearing into the wood as I pry up a floorboard.
With shaking hands, I find the latch—locked.
Putain!
“OVER HERE!” It’s my mother’s voice. “PAR ICI!” she yells again, this time in French.
Footsteps stop.
Silence drops like a blade.
I hold my breath. Close my eyes. Summon the rain.
My thighs ache as I crouch lower—something sharp jabs into my leg. Voices ricochet down the hallways like bullets.
Careful, careful… I dig into my pocket and pull out the sharp object that was pressing into my thigh.
A key.
“JULIEN VALENTINO! SHOW YOURSELF!”
Mother’s voice is gone. Boots pound again. Doors splinter.
I shove the key into the latch and twist.
It clicks.
Holy shit.
I push the panel inward and drop underground, muscles screaming. With everything in me, I slide the dresser back, sealing the trapdoor. The silence that follows is suffocating.
I run—blind, breathless, the air thick with salt and fear. The corridor narrows, closing in around me. My heartbeat sounds too loud. My thoughts echo, chaotic, colliding.
Then—a window.
Long and thin, barely a meter wide. I reach for it, stand on my tiptoes, peering through.
Ocean waves lick at the wall where my feet rest, not quite reaching the glass. I pull myself higher, fingers scraping at the slick surface until I find a small, inverted handle.
If I open this, I’m free.
But also—fucked.
I don’t know how to swim.
The dock could be miles away for all I know.
For someone who’s spent his life at sea, you’d think I’d be at one with the water. But I’m not. Water frightens me—it always has.
Tears spill hot and heavy—streaming over my trembling lips, falling from my chin.