Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Ella
“Thank you for the drive,” I sign, the obvious embarrassment making me squirm on the backseat of his fancy black car.
The wings behind my back are still very much fluttering, still absorbing the care he put into our, well, to be honest, date.
I never knew these people, nor read about them, but they would not be the first to try to break the rules when customs and tradition were the backbone of society.
I suppose, in a way, nothing has really changed.
We just wear different masks, and use other ways to recognize each other.
And somehow, Tristan and I seem to cross every line in the sand, destroying the limits of our status.
His hand finds my wrist, his index finger right above my pulse. One. Two. Three. Is he… God, is he counting my heartbeat? Dismissing my remark, he speaks.
“It will be okay, Ella.” He looks toward Mara’s house at the end of the street, his discretion in parking a few cars away truly appreciated.
Even if I am guessing that a grown, powerful man like him smirks at the thought of having to hide.
Is my distress so obvious? “It’s not… it’s not about going back.
It’s…” I blush, wishing I could disappear beneath the ground.
It is you. You and your way of commanding any room.
You and your voice, startling me and rolling beneath my skin.
You and your kisses, which are becoming a seriously dangerous addiction.
You leaving me alone here, when your presence feels like… like home.
“I know, I…” I pause, shaking my head. Speak your mind, Ella. Be brave.
“Ask away, Ella. I don’t bite,” he murmurs, his body angled toward mine.
“Tonight, before I fall asleep…” I sign, stopping myself, because why am I even signing this? No. This is not reasonable. A childish request to a man who has, I am sure, better things to do. As if he is enjoying a private show inside the wheels of my mind, an uneven smile tugs at his lips.
“Midnight, angel. I’ll knock at your window.
” Biting my lip, I relish in his omniscient mind.
Soulmates. I have read about them, but could they truly exist?
And why do we seem to understand each other so well?
Unclipping my belt, my hand catches his wrist, holding on to it like an anchor, wishing, God, wishing I never had to go back.
Only Dad is there, and I cannot leave. He needs me.
And I… There is no way out of this impossible situation.
The air thickens with heat and unsaid words, tension pulsing beneath our skin, building and building until I can feel it swimming in my belly, crowding my ability to think straight.
Carefully removing my hand from his wrist, he signs, “Tell me you don’t want to go in there because you would rather…
You would rather stay with me.” A tang of betrayal fills my mouth at the thought of wishing for this while knowing that my father is there, dying slowly, needing me to remember what joy feels like.
“All in good time,” he signs again. “All in good time.” Only a wall stands between us now, as if he is trying to reassure me even though he doesn't believe his own words either.
Does he wish he could stay with me too? Does he wish for me to leave?
Without another sign, I open the door and put my feet down on the concrete, shutting the door without looking back.
Heat builds on my nape as I tug at my dress, still wishing it were longer, even though a part of me relishes the fact that he might…
he might be looking at my legs at this very moment.
The walk to my house has never felt longer, walking straight into the lion’s den.
Turning the key, I glance back at his black car, parked at the end of the street, waiting for me to enter safely before driving away.
A poem comes to me, and I write it in my head, picturing myself above a cliff, the storm raging underneath.
i kissed him today
could he tell
how petrified i was?
to love him is to fall
into the unknown
and you see,
the heights
are unforgiving
Tristan
My mother’s flashy red nail lifts my chin ever so slightly, assessing my face.
“And just when I thought you were done with fighting.”
I push her off gently. “Just a slight misunderstanding.”
“As you always say,” she sighs, turning back to the sink as I lean against the marble counter of the outdoor kitchenette on her covered terrace. “Amy, Paula’s staff coordinator, said she saw you in a… What was it called? Free-fight thing? Don’t bother lying, love, I’m glad you’ve found…an outlet.”
“Would you like to come see me fight next time?” I challenge her, knowing all too well she will find the worst excuses in the world to stay away from paper cups and sweat-permeated air.
If it is not champagne, candlelight, and small talk beneath a chandelier, my mother cannot even fathom the idea of stepping one foot inside.
“Oh, God, no. I mean, first, no, because you are very much still a baby in my head and watching you get hurt would be unbearable.”
Palms in the air, she repeats unbearable three times.
“And there are people, crowds. You know how I hate people yelling.” She covers her ears.
“Bright lights and yelling.” She shudders.
“There isn’t enough chamomile and calming crystals in my collection to make it better.
” Nate and I exchange a glance, both of us fighting for our lives not to burst into laughter.
He smirks, and I am almost done. Fuck you, he mouths in silence, and I give him the middle finger while our mother focuses on Maddie.
Grown-ups, but still very much brothers.
The terrace, even though covered in glass, is smaller than every other room in her house, or should I say mansion.
Father did not spare any expense, and since he knew her love of the arts, he made his personal advisor seek gems from small towns in Italy, paintings imported from Western Europe, and Persian tapestries, building, year after year, a museum-like home for her to wander through, each room filled with fabrics, colors, artistic craftsmanship, and handmade furniture for her to glide her fingers over.
Filled with enough stuff in the hope she would never notice how alone she was.
Nate and I grew up here, thinking this was normal, keeping both our rooms as empty as we could, the external maximalism behind the door choking both of us.
No wonder my house is made of various grays and metal, sharp angles, and a minimalist approach, which can seem clinical, even to me sometimes, but serves its purpose.
A safe place to recover, eat, sleep, train.
However, Nate allowed himself more flexibility after getting married and having Maddie.
Colors entered his home again and never quite left, which, I suppose, is not so bad since my niece enjoys it.
“So…why do you have this ugly bruise, darling? Was it from that fight event thing? Please don’t tell me this is business-related. Your father would turn in his grave knowing you behaved in such a disgraceful way.” If only she knew.
“I assure you, Mother, Father can rest in peace. It had nothing to do with the legitimate part of the business.”
“Um.” Drifting away, a cup of Earl Grey in her hand, she blows on it softly, looking outside at the garden beyond the covered terrace.
“Men,” she mutters. “Violence, always, one way or another,” she continues, talking to herself.
How many pills did she take today? I will need to have this talk with her soon.
Last month was out of hand when she could barely remember Maddie’s name.
Not that she neglects us purposefully. It is just those damn pills.
Nate wants us to let her be, says she is in pain from an incurable disease since Father died, and that the pills help soothe her heartbreak.
I have never understood it, but now that Ella has crashed into my life…
How would it feel now, if she slipped away like sand between my fingers?
Would I also want to numb the pain? A pang of pain pulls at my shoulder, and I roll it back.
Yes. Most definitely. I would seek any relief, any escape. And I have the awful sensation that the sun would never rise again.
“Are you going to tell me why you stopped by?”
“Can’t a son visit his mother?” I earn a knowing smile, her matte burgundy lips pursing as she shakes her head at my cockiness. We are still standing on the covered terrace as she sips her tea in a long black wooden dress.
“What do you know about Mara Brooks?” I ask, bluntly. Putting down her cup, she inspects her fingernails, a sanguine red matching the roses in the garden.
“Not much,” she sighs, looking back at me, sizing me up like a young investor. Shapeshifting on the spot. “What has she done?”
I run the edge of my index below my lip, drifting for a second to my woman. “Father always kept you in the dark; I’d like things to be different,” I explain. “This is one of those situations where your input could be extremely valuable.” She offers a clipped nod.
“I… She used to come to the spa with Lauren and Amalia. We would have tea together and, well, you are old enough.” She hums. “A brandy too.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know.” She waves in the air. “Once a month? But I haven’t seen her in a while.”
“Why?”
“Why? Why?” she repeats. “What do I know? We are not close, darling.”
“During those times, did she ever mention her company, her daughters, her… stepdaughter?” Arching a perfectly shaped black brow, she purses her lips.
“And here I thought it would never come.” Sipping her tea with the smile of someone trying to hide that she has just won the lottery, she continues, “Tell me about this girl, Tristan, and I will tell you what I know.
I sigh, crossing my arms, wanting to shield Ella from anyone who could harm her.