THIRTY-SIX
Gigi
My eyes carry the weight of a thousand decisions, struggling to open. They hurt. Sting. Ache. But they find the strength to power through, feeling the call of eyes as green as freshly cut grass. The sight brings weightlessness to my chest, making me feel like I’m dancing on the whitest of clouds.
Harry.
Those eyes are always beautiful, yet this time they’re downturned, sad, and duller in colour, with harsh lines underneath them.
I … I don’t understand.
As I scan his features a piercing ring echoes in my ears like a deep-rooted headache, warning me of his appearance. My smile from seeing him drops into a frown. He looks utterly exhausted, appearing as if he hasn’t slept in a week. When he blinks a few times, I falter at the glimmer of tears glazing his eyes.
“What happened? Was the Boss happy? Did I make it in?”
His hand clasps mine on top of the bedsheet, squeezing.
“Harry?” I press, trying to encourage a response. “What did he say?”
He groans under his breath, and his grip twitches on my hand. Despite wanting to pull away, his touch remains. He drags his spare hand down his face, puffing his cheeks with air and then releasing a heavy breath.
“Gigi, you’re out. ”
I shake my head no.
No.
No.
NO!
“Th-that’s not true.”
Harry’s eyes are sympathetic, but distress outweighs the emotion as he says, “Gigi … you could’ve died.”
The events play through my mind like a movie reel, coming through like flashes. Poppy. The man. The bullet. My knight in shining armour – Harry. The wound is no doubt numbed by pain relief, yet it feels like nothing compared to my utter heartbreak.
It wasn’t my fault.
The Boss can’t kick me out.
There’s no other option for me than this.
“Isn’t that the point? Isn’t that everything you strive for? A life worth dying for? I … I want to stay.”
“I told you to stay in the van.”
I rear back, ripping my hand from his. “Why would you even say that?”
“Because it’s all my fucking fault!” He raises his voice, but it’s still hushed enough to keep our conversation private.
I shake my head. “It was Poppy’s.”
“You don’t get it, do you? If only I’d kept you away from all this like I promised. Instead you carry a burn mark on your back that was caused by my own hands, and you suffered a bullet wound. Both of which I could have prevented …” He drops his face to his palms, and I hear the strangled breaths behind them. His palms shake, and he presses them tight to his skin as if he’s trying to hold himself together.
“But I’m here – I’m fine. He’ll change his mind. If I can just talk to him—”
“What are you trying to prove?” Harry pulls his hands from his face. “You’ve been given an out. Fucking take it. You don’t want this life.”
“But … I do.”
I finally feel a purpose here.
There is nothing else for me anymore.
“Is this all because of Jack?” he asks, surprising me. “Is that why you’re so insistent on being here?”
I sputter. “Wh-what? No!”
“If you’re trying to chase after a ghost …”
How dare he say that!
He’s been fighting with me non-stop, insisting I throw this life behind me. I can take the back-and-forth, but insinuating I’m chasing after my dead brother … that’s the final straw. This is so much bigger than he ever was.
The machines I’m attached to beat frantically. “God, Harry, why is it so hard for you to understand that I want this? You were young once too and saw the potential in this new life, so stop trying to bend me into something different.”
Before he has a chance to respond, a nurse runs into the room in a panic. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a tight bun.
“Is everything okay, Miss?”
“Yes, everything is just fine.” Turning to the man beside me, I watch the emotion drain from his face as unexpected calm washes over me. “St. James was just leaving.”
The words tug at my chest the instant they leave my mouth.
Harry’s smile is forced and lacks all his real emotion as he collects his jacket, shrugging it on without a fight to stay. “It’s your funeral,” he says, voice gruff as he throws my own words back at me.
Seven weeks later
“Jab, cross, uppercut. Let’s go!” Oliver shouts, holding the punching bag with tight hands, no argument in his tone. “Eyes on your footwork.”
I hit the shots in rapid succession, my chest spiralling with exhaustion as I land the heavy punches, repeating the combo again and again. And again .
“Right hook!” he shouts, hoping to catch me off-guard.
I smirk behind breathless lips, having trained for weeks for these scenarios. Swinging my right arm in a burst of adrenaline, I finish with a final blow. Drawing back my leg, I launch the sole of my shoe into my target, causing Oliver to stumble over his feet and fall to the floor from the heavy impact.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” I say, reaching out to help him up from the floor.
He sits down on the padded mat, accepting his defeat. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he cackles with laughter, the sound causing me to smile.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
Oliver shakes his head, his lips stretching into a grin before he finally takes my offering, pulling himself to his feet with a heavy grunt. Rubbing my upper back, pride engulfs his voice as he says, “I’m impressed.”
The statement threatens to knock me off my feet.
He’s … impressed.
It’s like I’ve been waiting a lifetime for someone’s approval, and finally, right when I’m craving it the most, it hits with such meaning I feel close to tears. Everything has been leading up to this.
It’s been almost two months since the Weathers heist. The doctor at medical filled in the blanks once I was awake, and Harry was right – I came close to losing my life. I lost more than two litres of blood and required three blood transfusions to counteract the loss. Thankfully, the bullet provided a plug to stop most of the bleeding before any major damage was done, narrowly missing my femoral artery.
While the shot has scarred to no bigger than a two-pound coin, I look at it with pride, as I do with the burn covering my neck. They’re both trademarks to show how far I’ve come.
My recovery has been long and painful. Working on my physical strength was a challenge, but working on my mental health is more tiresome. I’m still struggling to differentiate my life from the Circle, having never considered I wouldn’t be accepted. The Boss gave me a two-month deadline from the date of the incident to pack up and leave, and it’s narrowly creeping up on me.
At any given opportunity I’ve been at the gym working my muscles sore. From the moment I decided I was willing to turn my life around, it was clear I required additional aid. One night, when I was passing Oliver in the hallway, I pleaded with my life for him to help me. As one of the only people who could relate to my torturous inner drive for success, he reluctantly agreed.
I’ve been training every morning and every night like clockwork. Since I didn’t want to tear Oliver from his wife and child at home, he agreed to meet with me for an hour daily, helping me grow muscle in places I never thought I could. With each burning, sore limb I feel my strength increasing.
“You’ve come so far,” Oliver says, pulling me back to the present. “I’m proud of you.”
“She certainly has.”
Turning towards the source of the noise, my intake of breath is sharp as the Boss enters the gym. No amount of training will dull my determination to seek his approval. No matter if he’s just a greying man in a business suit, he holds the meaning of my life in the palm of his hands.
He strolls over, hands pushed deep into his pockets. Straightening my spine, I nod in greeting.
“Boss.”
His lips curl at the sides in a rare smile at hearing the name I chose for him. Maybe the more times I speak it into existence, it’ll finally come true.
Cracking my composed fa?ade, he says, “You’re leaving in a few days.”
I force my throat clear. “I am.
But I don’t want to.
“I’ve been watching you train relentlessly this past month. All the sessions you’ve been putting in with Oliver of your own free will. It shows you have what it takes to become a good recruit. It’s a shame, really …”
My heart rate spikes, silently pleading for another chance. But I know better, and I’m expecting the rejection as he adds, “But rules are rules, and I promised not to go easy on you, Miss Thomas.”
A bitter truth I’m forced to swallow no matter how much I’m blind with need.
Smiling through true emotions, I say, “I understand. Perhaps in another life I won’t let you down.”
His lips downturn as he ponders the statement. “Perhaps.”
Well, that settles it then.
For the sake of my sanity, I choose not to press further. Oliver squeezes my shoulders and bids farewell to the Boss and me, having to rush home to put his son to sleep, and he leaves the two of us alone. The old Gigi would relish this time and push for another chance at forgiveness, but I don’t beg. Not anymore.
“It really is a life worth dying for,” Richard reminds me.
I draw in a short, measured breath, but his face refuses to give away a fraction of emotion. I know I must choose my words carefully.
“Yes,” I state. “Your most honourable rule.”
His face remains still, but there’s a slight flicker of pride in the way his eyes crinkle. Without speaking, his expression changes ever so slightly. It’s as if the tinged emotion in his eyes encourages me to read between the lines.
… As if he’s sending me a private message.
Bowing his head, he takes a step back towards the door. “Have a good night, Gigi. And good luck.”
Good luck?
Before my mind starts to spiral with possibilities, I hurry to pack the rest of my bag. On my pursuit to exit, the door opens, and the only man in existence capable of stealing every bit of air from my lungs walks in. Halting my steps, I watch as he realises his mistake.
“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I didn’t know anybody was in here.”
“It’s okay,” I say, my voice rushed. “I was just leaving.”
He raises his head, and our eyes lock.
And what pretty eyes they are.
I almost forgot how beautiful they were. From the moment Harry broke into my house, I knew his eyes were special. They make you feel like you’re the centre of attention and nothing else in the world matters. The feeling causes my throat to swell, having been without the sight of them for several weeks.
“Gigi.” He does a double take before stepping fully into the room, letting the door shut behind him. “You look … you look …”
“Different?” I offer. My physical appearance can’t be much different to the naked eye, but Harry always did notice me as if he were viewing me through a microscopic lens.
In response he smiles, though his expression says I’m completely off the mark. “Something like that,” he says. His eyes sweep the length of my body, and I teeter under his gaze the way I always do when it feels like he could undress me with just a look.
“I could give you a run for your money now. No playing it easy on me during sparring.”
He gives a half-smile. “Oh, I bet you could.”
Silence fills the space, but not the awkward kind. It’s never the awkward kind.
As I’m about to excuse myself, he puts his hands up in a fighting stance like a peace offering. He wants me to spar with him.
The action is overloaded with meaning. It’s his way of calling a truce, putting our issues behind us. But no matter how much the truth hurts, I’ll never be the person Harry wants. He wants to protect me from this society, and while I’m a different woman now, my goal hasn’t changed.
I strive to become someone like him. Consequences be damned.
“I never wanted to fight you, Harry,” I say, so much more than the current situation laced in my words.
He drops his hands, nodding like he’s trying to convince himself it’s the truth. “I know you didn’t.”
“It was really good to see you.”
I back away, towards the door, until I turn and leave the room.
But not because I want to finish the conversation …
Because there’s something I urgently need to do.