31. Maeve
Chapter 31
Maeve
June
I wake up with a soft gasp, my heart pounding. It takes me a moment to remember that I’m back in Boston, in my old room at Mom and Dad’s. Breathing through the last bits of panic leaving my system, I shove my sweat-soaked pillow aside and reach for my phone. It’s nearly five, which means I slept through most of the night without incident. Seems like the Prazosin is helping, after all.
I was dreaming about Callum again. I used to have this dream every night. It takes different shapes, but it always comes back to the impact of my bullets and the look on his face. The pain, the betrayal, a gut-wrenching mix of memory and whatever my brain has conjured up.
Climbing out of bed, I pad over to the bathroom to pee. Afterward I wash my hands, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Slowly turning my face from side to side, I brush my fingertips over my cheek. It’s healed now, and it looks fine, but sometimes it feels a little numb. My doctor said that’s normal, and that eventually it would go away. I wish the memory of how I got the injury would go away, too.
When Bria and Liam were kidnapped, and her bodyguard was murdered right in front of her, she had nightmares for months, too. I would keep her company, sleeping in her bed until Lucky came home so she wouldn’t be alone. The first two months that I was back, I stayed at their place and she did the same for me. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, crying, and feel her soft, warm body wrapped around mine.
“You’re okay,” she’d whisper, stroking my hair. “I got you. You’re okay.”
But she’s pregnant, and I couldn’t justify ruining her sleep with my trauma, so eventually I moved into my childhood home in Back Bay. I’d given up my own apartment before moving to Oakland, so I had nowhere else to go. It’s okay for now, though. I don’t want to be alone, and my parents like having me close.
Still, at times like this, I wish Bria were here.
And I wish Jaime were here. He’s still Jaime to me, no matter how much my brain argues with itself. I never really got a chance to know him as Cruz.
Returning to the bedroom, I change into a clean, dry t-shirt and strip my sweaty sheets from the bed. I bring everything to the laundry room and start a load then go to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Even now, months and months later, the smell of freshly ground coffee beans makes my stomach hurt and my eyes burn. It reminds me of Jaime.
I thought for a while that maybe he’d succumbed to his injuries. That’s what was floating around—that I was the sole survivor of the horrors that occurred that cold December night. It was the morning, actually. Just before dawn. I couldn’t believe it, refused to believe it, but it wasn’t looking good and nobody seemed to have any information.
The thought of him dying was agonizing, but not knowing was almost more than I could handle. And after the year I’d just had, I was a wreck. My stomach was in knots for days at a time, and I could barely eat or sleep despite lots of therapy and a prescription for Zoloft.
On my second trip back to the Bay Area, during a special meeting with the task force that had been investigating the De Leon family, I’d finally had it. I’d been giving them the same information over and over, and I was tired.
“I’m not giving you anything else until you can tell me what happened to Jaime,” I said, interrupting the agent’s current barrage of questions.
She looked at me, cocking an eyebrow. “Excuse me? ”
“Cruz,” I clarified. “I just need to know if he’s dead like everyone’s saying.”
After exchanging a glance with one of the other agents, she gave me a small nod. “His status is confidential?—”
“He told me himself who he was and what he was doing right before everything went down,” I said. “I get that this is sensitive, but I need to know.”
“Our agent is alive,” she said simply. “But Jaime Reyes is deceased. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I whispered, and the relief that washed over me was so powerful that I began to cry. I sobbed so hard that my lawyer requested we take a break until I could get it together.
After the Feds let me go for good in February, I kept up with the trial from Boston. I watched snippets on the news or YouTube every day, always wondering if I’d catch a glimpse of Jaime. Which was ridiculous. He was supposed to be dead, so no, he wasn’t going to be traipsing around in public.
I’ve been keeping a low profile since I got back, too. Lucky has guys on me whenever I leave the house, and for the first few months, I even wore a mask. He and Bria offered the beach house to me, and I could always go to my parents’ cottage, but I don’t want to be alone. Not now, and maybe not ever.
My life isn’t as small as it was in the Bay, but it’s nothing like it used to be. I spend lots of time with my family and dance every day. I go to therapy once a week and the gun range with my brothers when the mood strikes. I don’t go out much otherwise, and this time it isn’t Callum holding me captive, it’s my own fear. Even after seeing Dario De Leon and all of his cronies go to jail for the rest of their lives, even knowing that Callum and his friends are dead, I’m still afraid that one day someone will want revenge for what I did.
Making myself a cup of coffee, I go back upstairs to start my day.
“Those were the prettiest plies I’ve ever seen!” I call from the front of the class, beaming into the mirror. Behind me, a dozen five- and six-year-olds beam back, their little faces open and bright. Except for Greta. Her leotard is too big, so she keeps fidgeting with it. “Okay, now who remembers what a sauté is?”
Malika jumps up and down, her hand raised. Before I can even call on her, she executes three perfect little jumps.
“Beautiful, Malika!” I praise, clapping my hands as I glance back at her. “I like how you kept your toes pointed when you were in the air.” Turning to face the mirror again, I stand in first position. “We’re going to do five sautés from first position, like this, then five in second and five in fifth.” I demonstrate each position as I say it, scanning the class for confused expressions.
Grant raises his hand. “Can I go to the bathroom?”
After class, I chat with some of the moms while their littles get ready to go. I teach pre-ballet four times a week, and it’s become one of the highlights of my life. It feels so good to teach what I love, especially to kids as cute as these ones. I usually take classes too, but not today. Slipping a t-shirt and shorts over my leotard and tights, I wave to the girls coming in for the afternoon class and head out.
A black SUV is parked on the curb, hazards flashing. Walking over, I open the door and climb in. “Boo.”
Alex looks up from his phone. “Hey, Maeve.”
“I could’ve been a killer, jumping into your car like that,” I half-tease.
“Nah,” he says, putting the car in drive. “I saw you comin’.”
I squint at him. “Did you, though?”
“I’ve clocked everybody on this street,” he says breezily. “Father Time over there’s been working on the same cuppa for the past hour and shit, look at these thugs. Neighborhood’s really going downhill.” He zeroes in on a little boy skipping into a nearby cookie shop with his dad.
Snickering, I buckle up as we start driving.
“How was class, twinkle toes?”
“Great. I think Malika Carson is going to be the next Misty Copeland.”
“Couldn’t be happier,” he says. “Listen, you okay with me dropping you off at T’s? I got an errand to run for Lucky.”
“That’s fine,” I say with a shrug. Not like we have much of a choice. Lucky might be one of Alex’s best friends, but he’s still his boss. If he needs him to do something, that’s it.
We chat all the way to Tristan and Evie’s building, where Alex parks illegally so he can accompany me to the top floor. They know we’re here, and the door swings open before we even knock. Tristan gives me a quick hug before knocking Alex’s fist. “Thanks, Al,” he says, dropping his voice. “You still on your way to do that thing?”
“Yeah.” Alex nods. “You got the other thing?”
Rolling my eyes, I push past them to where a grinning redhead waits with open arms. “Hey, Evie.”
“Hey, honey,” she coos, wrapping me in a hug as gentle as her Georgia accent. She and Tristan have spent the past two years bouncing between here and Savannah. “How’re you doing?”
“I’m okay.” I give her a soft smile. Like Bria, Evie’s been through some shit. I can be real with her.
“Some days are better than others,” she says, her hand lingering on my arm. We walk deeper into their condo, which smells like incense but also something savory. My stomach growls. “Hope you’re hungry, because we made a ton of quiche. Tristan went a little overboard.”
“Tristan, overboard? Never!” I say in mock shock, hand to my chest. “Lucky for you, I’m starving.”
Snorting, she leads me to the kitchen, where there are about fifty mini quiches cooling on the counter. Tristan’s always liked to cook, and Evie is dismal at it, so he’s been teaching her. It’s cute.
Behind us, Alex and Tristan are still murmuring about money and timelines but I tune them out. I grew up in this world, and I’ve resigned myself to it, but ignorance is usually bliss.
“Your mom dropped this off the other day. I’m kind of in the mood for a wine spritzer,” muses Evie, holding up a bottle of white. “Want one?”
“That sounds great,” I say, dropping my bag as I take a chair at the counter.
“Bye, Maeve,” Alex calls from the door. “Text me if you need me.”
“Okay,” I call back. “Thanks.”
My brother eyes me as he takes the chair beside me. He’s got big brother concern all over his face, the kind that makes me want to either cry or punch something. I’m leaning toward punching .
“What?” I ask warily.
“How you doin’?” he asks gently. “For real. None of this ‘fine’ bullshit.”
“And here I thought you had me over so I could chill with Evie,” I tease. “And apparently eat quiche ‘til I hurl. We should send a few over to Liam—I bet he’d love these.”
But his patient eyes bore into mine. “C’mon, Mae.”
“I’m in the same place that I was yesterday, and the day before that,” I say, reaching gratefully for the drink Evie places in front of me. I know Tristan means well, but sometimes it’s exhausting—everyone worried about me and checking in on me all the time. “You know how it is.”
“Yeah.” He nods, a faraway expression in his eyes for just a second before he snaps out of it. “Yeah, I do know.”
I squeeze his hand. I know he knows.
I help Tristan and Evie carry quiche and salad over to the dining room table, and we catch up for the next couple of hours. Evie tells me about the latest additions she’s made to their property in Savannah—a greenhouse, of course—and what her gardens are yielding. She’s got an honest-to-God Eden down in Georgia, but her setup here isn’t too shabby. She has all sorts of herbs and veggies growing on their ginormous deck, one of the perks of being on the penthouse floor.
Meanwhile, Tristan’s got a jiu jitsu match coming up in New York City. He teaches kids to fight just like I teach them to dance, but also like me, he does it himself. Losing a local match recently really lit a fire underneath his ass—Evie’s words, not mine.
“’Cause I don’t lose,” he says with a scoff. “That was a fluke.”
Evie’s hazel eyes meet mine over the top of her wine glass, sparkling with mirth.
“Hey,” Tristan says, standing abruptly. Their cat Poppy jets off, startled by the screech of the chair. “I have something for you.”
I wipe my hands and sit a little straighter. “Okay?”
He and Evie share an indecipherable look that makes my stomach clench with anxiety. “Lucky wasn’t sure I should give it to you, but I think it’s time.”
“Give me what?” I ask with a nervous laugh. “Is it bad?”
Shaking his head, he walks over to the kitchen and pulls an envelope from the stack of mail on the counter. He hands it to me, running his hands through his hair until Evie tells him to sit.
I look down at the envelope. It’s addressed to Callaghan’s, the boxing club Tristan belongs to, with Tristan Kelly written beneath. Frowning, I peek inside. There’s another envelope with my name on it. I look at my brother.
“Go ahead,” he says, jerking his chin.
Pulling the smaller envelope out, I open it to find a postcard featuring a stunning white bridge surrounded by lush, green foliage. Puente Atirantado de Naranjito, Jesús Izcoa Moure . Puerto Rico . My throat closes. I stare at it for a long time, afraid to hope, before finally flipping it over with trembling fingers.
I think about you when I make cafecito.
I think about you all day long.
I held my breath when I crossed this bridge, but I hope you’re not holding your breath. I hope you’re living your life, that you’re finally happy.
Do you miss me? Because I really miss you.
I read it until my eyes blur, trying to reconcile what I thought I knew with what I’m reading. I have spent the past six months grieving the loss of someone who made a crater-sized impact in my heart in the most unlikely of times. What we had was beautiful in the midst of something awful, but it was temporary. Wasn’t it? I didn’t want it to be, but there was no space for us in the world. We didn’t even live in the same world. He belonged to the Feds and I belonged far, far away.
What is he saying? That we can be in the same world?
Wiping my eyes, I read the postcard one more time before putting it on my lap and looking up at Tristan. “How do you have this? How did he know …?”
“We met him,” he says, staring at his napkin as he fiddles with it. “Lucky and me. It was back in January or February, I think? One of the times we went with you.”
“I don’t understand.” I shake my head slowly. “How did you meet him? I thought his location and identity were under wraps. ”
“They were.” He clears his throat. “He, uh, sent a message to the hotel, asking you to meet him in the lounge. Lucky got to it first, though, so we met up with him instead.”
“Of course, he did.” I scoff indignantly, trying to quell the rage bubbling through my veins. It doesn’t take much these days. Rage, sadness, anguish, anxiety—all ready to encroach on me at the drop of a hat. “Lucky had no fucking right to do that, and you know it.”
“It’s complicated, Mae.” Tristan sighs, glancing at Evie again. I know he’s caught between a rock and a hard place. Lucky is his brother, his best friend, and now his boss. The love and loyalty they share is off the charts. But what about me? Don’t I deserve love and loyalty, too? “You know he loves you. Everything he does is out of love. You weren’t in the best place back then, and he was worried you might?—”
“Love or control?” I ask. “Lucky might run Saoirse, but he doesn’t run me!”
“That’s not fair. He gave you plenty of space, Maeve. He knew you wanted to figure your own shit out, which is why we didn’t hound you while you were living out there. But it didn’t work out in the end, did it?” Tristan says loudly, I guess having had enough of my shit.
“So I get why Lucky was trying to protect you. You were a mess, okay? And that guy was a cop. But I could tell he was a good guy and after everything you told us about him, I didn’t think it was right to shut him out forever.”
I raise the postcard from my lap, gazing at the bridge. “Is this the first time he’s reached out to you?”
Tristan nods.
Emotion washes over me like a tidal wave. I don’t even know what I feel. Scared? Relieved? Hopeful? Rising from the table, I walk over to the doors leading to the deck and step outside. The sun is out, its light gentle, and a cool spring breeze blows by, ruffling the strands of hair that have escaped my bun. I stare at Evie’s plants, trying to get a grip on myself, but I can’t. I should be used to this by now, the crying.
Was Lucky right? Was I too much of a trainwreck back then to handle something like this? What would seeing Cruz have been like? I imagine it would’ve been wonderful, but maybe it would’ve been difficult, too. Seeing him and then having to leave. Knowing we couldn’t safely see each other again. I was still being investigated at the time, and he was right in the thick of it from the other side. We were both recovering from terrible physical injuries.
Still, I’ll have to talk to my oldest brother. I know Tristan’s right, that Lucky has a lot of responsibilities and that he does things from a place of love, but I also know that avoidance is his preferred method of handling emotional things. He almost ran Bria off with his bullshit, for God’s sake, keeping her at a distance while pining over her like a martyr.
Tristan’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, though. He’s still at the table when I finally go back inside, scrolling on his phone. Bending over him, I slip my arms around his neck and rest my chin on his shoulder. “I don’t deserve you,” I whisper. “Thank you.”