31. Brook
The end.
The exhilaration from typing those two words hits me, bittersweet. It’s relief and grief wrapped together.
A sense of accomplishment along with a sense of loss. Like the characters lived with me for months and now they’ve moved out, and I already miss them. Happy and scared to share them.
I lean against the chair, stretching my neck to the side. It’s a good thing I’ve finished, because continuing to write in coffee shops or at Baldo’s dining table, like right now, would soon result in a chiropractor visit.
He went to Italy, but he’ll be back tonight. He left at the crack of dawn, promising to be back as soon as possible. And telling me he’s leaving for a change. Progress.
I miss him, but I’m glad I had the chance to work. After the night of the fire and the following morning, I was finally able to focus on the story I was writing.
We didn’t say everything, and he didn’t open up completely, but we’re moving in the right direction. Now I just hope we can maintain the course.
I’ll believe enough for both of us.
What a bold statement. I don’t even know where it came from.
He had an engagement ring made for me. How long did he have this ring? A ring that a silly girl dreamed of back then.
He never came back for me, but at one point he was planning on it.
What stopped him?
We might not have survived if he had come for me. I was broken, in full-blown PTSD mode.
Years healed me to an extent, and what was still festering I successfully tuned out with work and social life. The louder, the better.
Would I have healed better and faster if he had returned? Probably not. Our parents would have suffered, our siblings would have hated us.
They were just establishing their own names in the world, and they wouldn’t want us tainting it.
Out of eight of us, as the two youngest, we were always the closest—we were like a real brother and sister. Our stepparents were our real parents.
Our family might be supportive, but this would have been a bit too much for them. And society would have gossiped to no avail.
Dad would have suffered. He already did.
What’s to say it would be different this time around?
I’ll believe enough for both of us.But can I believe that the rest of the world would be happy with us? That is, if we find our own happiness. Because as we stand now, it’s all fragile and tentative.
As temporary as our marriage certificate.
And yet I hope. I hope we can overcome our trust issues. That we can grow stronger and heal each other.
That we can uncover the hidden parts of each other and make them shine. That our families will support us.
The last one scares me. Just the idea of upsetting Dad in his frail state. Maybe the idea of us is not the right one.
Maybe the timing would never work for us.
Or the geography. Wrong place, wrong time, and all of that.
Because clearly Baldo needs to be here, and I want to be with my dad as much as possible.
So can we even make it work? Would he resent me if I make him move? Would he travel so much back and forth that we’d grow apart?
And once the TV production starts, I’ll need to be in the States. I insisted on being involved as an executive producer.
Though we might resolve some of our issues as a couple, the world outside is a very different ball game.
His work. My work. Our families. So many variables where not even the two of us are a constant yet.
Depressed by all my thoughts, I try to distract myself by re-reading the last chapter I just finished.
I save the file again then email it to myself and upload it to the cloud. As always, I need to make a copy. I don’t know why I fear losing my manuscript so much, but better safe than sorry.
I rummage through my purse for my USB key, but I can’t find it. I flip through all the gazillion compartments of my computer bag.
I re-save the file again and dive into my purse one more time. Nothing.
My phone chimes with an incoming message.
Baldo
Finished in Rome, making a quick stop in Milan. I should be back by 8 pm.
I grin at the message as if it’s a love note. In his strange Baldo way, he’s giving me an update, which is significantly better than him disappearing.
I miss you too.
Three dots dance on my screen.
Baldo
There is a delivery on its way. Let me know when it arrives.
Jesus. The warmth seeping through his messages is arctic.
Not a fan of sexting then?
Baldo
My meeting is starting…
I roll my eyes, but before I can respond, my phone rings with an unknown number. I answer to speak with one of Baldo’s men, asking for permission to bring up a package.
Within minutes, I’m staring at a sleek black box.
Your package arrived.
I don’t expect an answer because of his meeting. I save my file again and go to make my tea. A message pings again.
Baldo
Open it.
Me: I thought you had a meeting.
Baldo
Open it.
Jesus, you’re bossy.
Baldo
Brook!
God, I can almost hear him growl. Dominant bastard.
I take off my shirt and bra and pose, licking the rim of his favorite espresso cup. It takes me several takes before I’m satisfied, but I finally get a pic that I’m happy with. Salacious but tasteful.
I send it and get dressed, waiting for his reply. Instead of a message, my phone rings.
“Brook speaking,” I say innocently.
“What the fuck, Brook? I dropped the phone and now I have to bleach my associates’ eyes,” he says with urgency, but softly.
I guess he is still within earshot of his current company.
I laugh. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to impede your business negotiations, but you were so strict and businesslike in your messages I needed to make sure your personality didn’t get lost on your flight.”
He snorts. “I have to get back. Have you opened the package?” His voice is more relaxed now, and it rumbles through me like a symphony.
“Let me do it now.”
“Are you still topless?”
“Maybe.”
He groans and I giggle.
With a knife, I slice the tape at the edges, then lift the lid and remove the pink tissue paper.
“You didn’t want me to feel lonely?” I drawl, pulling out a vibrator and a silk gown so skimpy it will literally cover nothing. It’s more of an accessory.
“Wear that when I come home. I’m arriving at eight. You start playing with it at seven, and don’t stop until I arrive.”
He hangs up. What the hell?
Goosebumps sprout all over my skin and I clench my core, squeezing my tights together as if that will stop the heat his words sparked.
I check my watch. It’s only noon. Argh. I press the button, but the toy remains off. I fish the cord from the package and go to the bedroom to plug it in.
The outlet is behind the nightstand, and as I move it, the drawer slides open.
I put the toy on the charger and am about to close the drawer when I notice a small USB key. Bingo.
I go to my computer. I’m sure Baldo wouldn’t mind. I won’t erase anything, just back up my file until I can find my own USB or buy a new one.
Pushing it into the slot on my laptop, I wait for the new window to open. When it does, I pause.
I’m not sure what I’m seeing, but I can’t unsee it anymore. Nor can I keep my curiosity contained.
Why does Baldo have files called Project Tokyo? They are numbered with six digits, looking like a date stamp.
I click on one of them, killing any thoughts about invading privacy or breaking trust. I’m Tokyo after all.
What I find is a report by the Mathison Corp summing up my life that month, along with a few pics. Me with my ex, Dylan. Me on the street, leaving a nightclub. Me entering the building of my agent’s offices.
The written summary gives notes about my whereabouts, my routine, and even about a new deal with my publisher.
No wonder he never asked what exactly I do. He knew.
Like a woman possessed, I keep opening other files. It’s like reading a very clinical personal diary. It’s my life condensed into one USB key. No emotions, just pure facts.
Hours pass as I read and review the visual depiction of my last seven years.
Some of it is strangely comforting. Like the one time when Dylan really got out of control and the police showed up.
I always assumed it was my neighbor who called them. Turns out it was the shadow hired by my guardian angel. Or the man who obsessively invaded my privacy.
The files end shortly before Paris came to visit. Maybe they didn’t fit on this flash drive anymore. I rush to the nightstand and rummage through it, but I find nothing.
Returning to my laptop, I stare at all the Project Tokyo files.
Numbness and an odd elation course through me, and I’m utterly confused about my discovery.
What was he thinking? I knew he didn’t just forget about me. He had Tokyo tattooed near his heart, after all.
His tattoos!
I scroll through my pictures and find the one I snapped that morning when I admired his artwork.
It doesn’t take long to find out they truly are Japanese characters, spelling one word only.
Tokyo.
It wasn’t just one map outline with a heart. He inked his body with the name he used to tease me and please me with.
I open a few more files, weirdly obsessed with the details of my life as if I didn’t live through them.
Diving into my story is easier than thinking about what all this means. The man has been obsessed with me. He invaded my privacy.
But he—or rather his people—intervened on a few occasions when I would have gotten into trouble, or could have been hurt.
I groan when I read how my shadow got me into a cab when I was plastered at a club one night. Jesus. How embarrassing. What did Baldo think about my lifestyle?
The elevator dings and I jerk my head up. God, I didn’t realize it’s a little past eight already.
Baldo steps inside and frowns. His expression darkens as he rakes his eyes up and down my body. My heartbeat drums in my temples.
“I thought my instructions were clear,” he warns.
Putting his hands into the pocket of his pants, he saunters down the three steps and crosses the vast space toward me.
He’s so handsome and commanding, prowling to me like the predator he is. I almost want to forget about my discovery and just enjoy this hungry version of him.
But something propels me forward and I yank the USB out and hold it in front of me.
The hunger in his eyes disappears, replaced with an unreadable expression. A mask he wears so well.
His dominance solidifies though, and I step back. Not that I fear him, but his natural authority is too overwhelming.
“You went through my things?” His voice is cold and calculated.
If my discovery disturbed him in any way, panicked him, annoyed him, there is no trace of it in his countenance or his voice.
The man is unreadable. No wonder he won a club at poker.
“I didn’t go through your things. But even if I did, my invasion of privacy would pale in comparison with years of files about me.”
I have been strangely stunned, mostly perversely engrossed in reading about myself for hours. But now when he’s standing in front of me, I’m mad.
I’m upset with him.
He never let me go. Yet he never came back for me.
Should his obsession horrify me? Perhaps. But I’m more concerned about him keeping in the shadows, letting me wonder for years why he abandoned me.
“I can try to paint it in a different color, but the reality is I used to have an unhealthy obsession with you.”
He delivers this statement with no emotions. It’s simply a matter of fact. He is not trying to apologize or explain. Or I guess the admission of his obsession explains somewhat.
“Why?”
He lets out a loaded breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know.”
That answer hurts. It disappoints me more than anything I found today. “You don’t know?” I spit the words.
Is he lying to me or to himself?
“As I said, it was an unhealthy obsession. I don’t think there is an explanation for those. I lost you, but the need to protect you remained.”
I think about the drunken cab ride, or the police saving me from Dylan’s antics. In his own unorthodox way, he did protect me.
Only that one time, he wasn’t there.
I’ve never blamed him for what happened to me, so I’m not going to start now, but my wounded heart, or perhaps perplexed mind, goes there for a moment.
“Did you come home last month because you knew I was there?”
“I didn’t know you were there. I stopped the surveillance six months ago.” He doesn’t move.
He doesn’t try to touch me. To make excuses. He handles this exchange with no pleading, and somehow that makes it worse.
“Why? You realized protecting me wasn’t your business anymore?”
“You were always my business.” His nostrils flare. Finally, some reaction.
“You have a funny way of showing it. Carrying an engagement ring and watching me from afar, but never fucking coming for me.”
“Well, one rejection was enough. You made it clear you didn’t want to have anything to do with me.”
What the hell? All the contrasting feelings collide inside me, exploding.
“If you really cared, you would have come back for me. You would have returned home to see why I didn’t show up. You would have been there to help me.”
“I did come back!”