FIFTEEN Lone Survivor
SADIE
I’ve spent countless hours in that arcade, so why I just shuddered in distress at the mere mention of it I don’t know. Or maybe I do. Maybe it’s because the man I used to share that time with is no longer here. The one who called me kiddo and encouraged my competitive streak. The one who’s the reason I have light caramel-brown hair and gray eyes.
The one that’s not alive.
Neither he nor my mother are alive.
All the people aboard our private jet—my parents, Jasper the pilot, and Natalie the flight attendant—were killed in that crash. With, of course, one exception.
Me.
At the time, everyone told me how much of a miracle it was that I didn’t die. Even today, if I cross paths with someone who knew my parents, they’ll remind me of how lucky/blessed/fortunate I am to have survived.
But it’s five years later, and I’m not so sure. I mean, objectively I can comprehend that being found unconscious but still breathing in that fiery tangle of wreckage is a miracle. I defied every odd ever conceived of, even if I suffered plenty while on the road to recovery.
That event forever changed me, and not just in the obvious and visible ways. I don’t ride in any type of aircraft anymore, even though I know that statistically they’re one of the safest modes of travel. But I can’t place myself in such a position again.
I just can’t do it.
I’ve reflected on this a lot, and I think what it boils down to is the lack of control. When we were dropping out of the sky like a leaden weight, all I could do was sit there in the crash position and drop right along with it. I couldn’t flip a switch, slam on the brakes, or jerk the steering wheel to one side. Never in my life have I been so helpless.
And never since. Now, even the concept of stepping aboard an airport entry ramp gives me hives.
But why feel squeamish about our arcade?
I do my best to shake it off. The whole first year as I endured skin grafts, surgeries, and all the other medical bullshit was about being a victim as much as the only survivor. I had to relearn how my body worked and didn’t work. It felt like being a toddler but without the benefit of not knowing my existence could be any different.
And as horrible as feeling like a victim is, being called “the lone survivor” isn’t any better. I’d rather not identify as either. Who likes to be reminded that everyone in their family is gone, no matter how it transpired?
Not me.
That’s why I like to stay occupied with some endeavor or another. Too much time to just think is never a healthy activity for me.
“What was that?” Zach asks me, but I haven’t even been paying attention to him.
“Excuse me?”
“That look. Did someone call off Christmas or something?”
Christmas. There’s a topic that’s not my fave. Neither is the other date that occurs this month, one that’s fast approaching. Why does December have to suck so bad?
I deliberately separate from my date and travel toward the open cubbies where Maxine has provided freshly washed towels. I hang my dripping tankini on a nearby rack, then seize a folded towel to dry off with. It’s fluffy, white, and smells like the floral laundry detergent Max has always used, just like I knew it would.
Surreptitiously, I bury my nose in the Egyptian cotton and give it a strong whiff. I love that scent. The familiarity of it. The feelings of safety it elicits in me, and I find the strength to gather myself together again. Smoothing out my features, I hitch that mask of equilibrium over my face, then don my clothing again sans any undergarments.
Well, that was shortsighted of me. I should’ve brought a bra and panties to replace my suit.
Unwilling to let any additional weakness show, I think about how it felt to engage in those games earlier. Zach is a fun guy and remembering our antics makes the corners of my mouth lift without effort.
Also, he’s standing there in all his nude glory, one hand gripping his discarded jeans, scrutinizing me. An impish question pops into my mind, one I hope will remove that solicitous look from his eye.
“You getting dressed?” I challenge him. “Or are you planning to demonstrate to the others just how well-endowed you are?”
He is well-endowed. Zach’s length is above average, but it’s the thick and bulbous head of him, even now protruding outwards despite him already finding his pleasure, that stands out. He has so much girth that I felt every single inch of him as he entered me. Like Dom, he’s been circumcised, too, and I wonder if that head would be even bigger if he hadn’t been.
The overprotective air he’s been projecting disappears as a smirk extends across his face, one side of his mouth bunching up. He likes that compliment. Oh, yes.
He’s giving me a blatant up and down as if remembering the parts of me I’ve just covered, then blinks as if someone shined a spotlight into his eyes.
“You’re trying to distract me.”
Maybe. Not that I’ll admit it.
“If you want to traipse around here in nothing but your skin, that’s fine by me.” I pinpoint that substantial part of him, meaning it as a tease to get his goat, but I can’t help but caught up by his overall shape.
Seriously, this man is hung.
He makes a huffing noise that sounds equal parts of amused and annoyed but commences to don his attire. Point for me. Though, if I’m keeping up with how things are going so far, his score’s definitely higher than mine. Especially considering that orgasm he gave me.
Goddamn.
And then there’s the running tally for all the guys, one that’s become informal and too flawed to be accurate. Because as much as my analytical brain wants everything to be cut and dried, these men are human beings, so nothing’s that simple.
A lot of it is due to them being so different from one another yet wonderful in his own way. Dom and his dirty talk. Jerome with his blindfold and bindings. Zach with his lightheartedness and sense of play.
Each has been tender with me. Each has been tolerant of my appearance. And each has been fucking exceptional in the lovemaking department. Not that they’re likely to refer to our times together as lovemaking. I’m sure sex is just sex to them.
Especially considering that they’re providing it as a service to me as their client.
But now isn’t the time to take measurements and assessments because we’re about to enter the arcade. I brace myself, although I can’t determine why I need to. The Starlight Chalet is full to the brim with memories from my past.
Yet perhaps this room carries the most significance for me.
Because Mom didn’t care for video games, she left Dad and I alone in here. And without her, we could goof off with impunity. My dad and I would go head-to-head on the two-player consoles and plug our initials into the ones that were single-play. But while our competition was fierce, it wasn’t as cutthroat. He and I would actually enjoy ourselves while here.
Dad’s the one who taught me about having a good time with an opponent, even while smack-talking them in the next breath. Yet Mom... Well, she approached every minor rivalry with so much venom that it took all the fun out of it.
Not that she was some horrible person.
I don’t even think she meant to be cruel. She used to say she was hard on me because she wanted me to be at my best. There were lots of times I consumed her criticisms like fuel to improve myself. And she’s the one who openly bragged about me to anyone who’d listen, whether it be her colleagues or our family friends.
To this day I remember completing my college applications and her making me pause.
“Under skills add in all those swimming techniques that swim coach taught you.”
“But I didn’t do that as a school or community activity.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Mom insisted. “It counts as physical education, and it’s true. You are a highly accomplished swimmer.”
She’s the reason my academics stood out and why I had so many strengths to list. She’s also why I can speak to others—even at a huge party—without coming across like a social pariah despite being such an introvert.
True, my mother wasn’t the type to be doting or soft. She had plenty of sharp edges. For example, I love cats. I discovered this due to the volunteer work at the humane society my dad encouraged me to do. But we never had any pets during my childhood because Mom refused to allow any “mangy flea-ridden beasts” into our home.
Still, I automatically follow the precepts she engrained into me, which makes her responsible in part for why I’m a success today in my career.
Got to give credit where credit is due.
“Do you know how much I geeked out once I saw all these retro consoles?” Zach says, snatching me back to the present. “These are the classics. Frogger. Tetris. Galaga. Ms. Pac Man. Donkey Kong. This is like...” He grabs both sides of his face in elation. “The most extensive collection I’ve ever witnessed. You even have neon lights along the walls.”
“My parents were Gen-Xers,” I explain, glancing at the lines and swirls of bright green, blue, and pink ambient lighting Dad told me were meant to look like lasers. “My dad grew up in arcades and wanted to share the experience with me.”
“These games are in mint condition, too.” Zach trails a hand along the original Centipede artwork on the side, one displaying a rather intricately detailed yet alien-looking insect. “Where did he get them all?”
“He bought seven or eight from some fastidious collector who kept them as immaculate as a surgical ward. The rest he found in various locations all over. A couple weren’t even in the country. But he knew a guy who restored them. The result is what you find here.”
Dad had gone on and on about how he tracked these down. He adored waxing poetic about Jim, his restoration guy, as well.
“Shit, I didn’t even notice that you had Mario Bros. Is this the original?”
“Yes.”
“It’s two-player,” he says in a sing-song voice. A clear invitation.
Out of habit, I take my place at the left set of controls, just like always, taking the joystick in hand. For once, I don’t have to change my approach because this is how I always played, the joystick in my right hand with my left on the fire and jump buttons. I won’t of course have access to those buttons and the joystick at the same time anymore, but I guess I can make do.
I manage the first level okay because I’m able to angle my right thumb so it can jab at the buttons without having to reach too terribly far. It’s not a foolproof system, yet I’m making it work. Sort of. But just as I begin to get more frustrated Zach switches us over to Frogger.
And on it goes.
If a game proves super difficult for me, my date moves us to another console. He even feigns boredom or ineptitude on his part. I’d call him on it, but I’ve realized he’s doing this not to condescend to me, but so I can have a nice time. We stay at Tetris for a while because I can do it one-handed. But eventually, we move on.
Ms. Pacman is next.
We’ve just cleared the first level when I glimpse over at him.
Dad and I played this game—played all these games—constantly, with him standing where Zach is. Maybe that’s why I get such a vivid sense of my father being in the room. I swear I can detect his Old Spice cologne and feel him hovering nearby. Not in some macabre or sinister way, but as if his spirit is here. As if he’s watching over me.
And without warning, my eyes well up.
Not wanting Zach to catch on, I mumble, “Bathroom.”
Speeding toward the half-bath two doors down, I lock myself in, leaning against the door as my breaths saw in and out of me. I will not ruin this date. I will not.
Splashing water on my face, I glare at my drenched reflection. “Get it together, Sadie,” I order myself in a silent whisper, all the while hearing my mother’s voice. “Get. Yourself. Together.”
My eyes are blazing like an inferno, so I hold that glare, letting the sting of the tears threatening to erupt be replaced by white-hot anger. Anger that grows and expands until I quell it, wrestling it to the ground and smothering it, like a thick blanket over a kitchen fire.
And once it’s out, I’m in control again. I’m so in control that I’m half numb.
I return to Zach. We play some more games I can’t seem to concentrate much on, then he leads me into one of the rarely used guest rooms near Max’s quarters. I expect it to be musty since it’s usually closed off, but it’s not. I don’t know if Zach somehow talked Max into cleaning it or if he did it himself, but he’s transformed this small room into a romantic dining space.
Gone is the bed, dresser, and seating area. Now, a wall of some fabric—possibly the sheets from the bed—partition off a table set with at least a dozen taper candles. The food, although I can’t see it quite yet, is giving off this mouthwatering aroma.
Maybe it’s because I haven’t eaten since breakfast or maybe because my date has gone above and beyond, but the fog I’ve been trapped in dissipates.
“Zach, what did you do?”
His cobalt blue eyes appear much darker in this dim candlelight, but his grin is front and center.
“Just a little something-something.”
There’s nothing little about it. As we move closer I can make out prime rib, some sort of buttery potato dish, and roasted veggies.
“Have you been speaking to Max?”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely,” I assume.
“Yeah, she’s a lifesaver. She cooked up all this. But I’m the one who prepared the room. The bed’s back there. I’ll put it all back later, I promise.”
There’s this eager look on his face as if seeking approval, and I can’t bear to not give it.
“This is incredible, Zach. Thank you.”
Relief emanates from him in a wave. “Anytime.”