Why did I dance with her?
Goddamn Aida for sticking her nose in where it doesn’t belong.
I’m used to my sister’s complete disregard for other people’s boundaries, but this time she went too far. She knows that Simone is off-limits, in every conceivable way. I don’t talk about her. I don’t even think about her.
But that’s not really true, is it?
I think about her every fucking day, one way or another.
Why hasn’t that ever gone away?
After she left, I think I went mad for a while. I saw Simone everywhere—on street corners, in restaurants, in cars that passed. Every time I’d turn my head, thinking it was really her, only to realize it was a stranger. Someone who didn’t actually look like her at all.
And then the real mind-fuck started. Her face began appearing on the covers of magazines, in retail shops, and cosmetic aisles. Her new career seemed like a cruel joke designed to torment me. Once I fell asleep watching TV and I woke up to the sound of her laugh—she was on The Late Show being interviewed by Stephen Colbert.
“So what’s it like being the most beautiful woman in the world, Simone? As the most beautiful man, I have some thoughts . . .” Cue audience laughter.
I couldn’t get away from her. There was nowhere I could hide.
I hated Chicago. I hated my work. I even hated my family, though it wasn’t their fault. I hated all the things that made Simone leave me. The things that made me unworthy.
I didn’t want to be myself anymore—the man who loved her and wasn’t loved in return.
So I joined the military.
I flew across the world to the godforsaken desert, just to find a place where I wouldn’t have to see her face.
I still did, though. I saw her face in barracks, in sand dunes, in empty starry nights. It floated behind my closed eyelids at night when I tried to sleep.
I would have told you that I remembered every detail of it.
And yet, she took my breath away at the rally. I hadn’t remembered even a quarter of how beautiful she can be.
She looked even more stunning tonight. She was wearing a simple white gown, one-shouldered with a tasteful slit up her left thigh. Every time she moved, I got a glimpse of that long leg, and her deep bronze skin against the glowing white.
Her waist felt tight and lean under my palm. But her figure was fuller than it used to be. That’s why they call her The Body—because there’s never been a body like that in all of creation. Every other woman in the world is just a pale imitation of her. Like they were all made in her image, but with none of the same skill. She’s the Picasso and the rest are just postcards.
Why did she leave me?
I know why. I know I failed her that night, leaving her alone and scared in the park. I know I terrified her when I showed up, crazed and dripping blood. And I know she was teetering on the edge of leaving me even before that, because I wasn’t the man she planned to love, the one her family wanted for her.
So I guess the question I really want to know the answer to is, Why didn’t she love me anyway? Why didn’t she love me as much as I loved her?
I thought she did. I looked into her eyes and I thought I saw my own feelings reflected back at me. I thought I could see inside of her, and I knew exactly what she felt.
I’ve never been so wrong.
Now she’s back here, like an angel that only visits the earth once every decade. I’m the fool who wants to fall down at her feet and beg her to take me back up to heaven with her.
A man like me doesn’t deserve heaven.
I can see the musicians finishing up their set. The event organizer is messing with the microphones, probably about to bring Yafeu Solomon up on stage to speak.
I remember what he said about wanting to “thank me in public.” I’ve got zero interest in that. I don’t want his thanks, or anybody’s attention.
So I start heading toward the exit.
It was stupid to come here in the first place. I don’t know why I let Riona rope me into it. What did I think was going to happen? That Simone would apologize? That she’d beg me to take her back?
She didn’t do it at the rally, so why would she do it here tonight?
I wouldn’t want that anyway.
She didn’t want me then, and she certainly doesn’t now. Her status has risen like a rocket. I’m the same gangster I was before—shined up a little, but still with bruised, battered knuckles if you look close enough.
I’m almost at the door when Riona intercepts me.
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t want to hear Solomon’s speech.”
Riona brushes back a strand of bright red hair. She looks nice tonight—she always looks nice. But I’m not fooled by the dress or the heels. She’s a pit bull at her core. And I can see she’s debating how hard to push me, after she already strong-armed me into coming here tonight.
“I saw you dancing with Simone,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing. We barely spoke.”
Riona sighs. “You know she’s only here for a couple of days . . .”
“Good,” I say roughly. “Then I probably won’t see her again.”
I push past Riona, leaving Heritage House.
After the heat and press of the dance floor, the cool night air is a relief. Riona picked me up on her way over, so she won’t care if I leave without her.
As I cross the parking lot, I see Mikolaj Wilk and Nessa Griffin pull up in Nessa’s Jeep. Miko’s driving, and Nessa is leaning over to rest her head on his shoulder. Nessa’s laughing about something, and even Miko has a smile on his lean, pale face. His pale hair is ghostly in the dim interior of the car, and the tattoos rising up his neck look like a dark collar.
I raise my hand to wave at them, but they don’t see me, too wrapped up in each other.
Fucking hell. I don’t want to be jealous, but it’s hard not to feel bitter, when even the most unlikely couple can make it work, while Simone and I couldn’t.
Mikolaj hated the Griffins with every fiber of his being. He kidnapped Nessa, their youngest child. He murdered Jack Du Pont, Callum’s bodyguard and best friend. Yet somehow, after all that, he and Nessa fell in love, were married, and even made peace with the Griffin family.
I guess there’s something missing in me.
Some core component required for happiness.
Because the only time I’ve felt it were those few, short months with Simone. And she obviously didn’t feel the same.
I take an Uber back to my house. The lights are mostly out—Papa goes to bed early now, and Nero’s probably out with his girlfriend Camille. Only Seb’s bedroom light is on. I can see it high up on the third floor, like a lighthouse above the dark sea of the lawn.
I jog up the front walk. The pavement is cracked. The yard is full of dead leaves. The old oak trees have grown up so tall and thick that the house is too shady—perpetually dim, even in the daytime.
It’s still a beautiful old mansion, but it won’t last forever.
Aida’s son will probably never live here.
Maybe if Nero or Seb have a kid, there will be one more generation giving life to these old walls.
I don’t see myself ever having children. Even though I’m barely over thirty, I feel old. Like life already passed me by.
As I climb the steps to the front door, I see a package on the porch. It’s small, about the size of a ring box, wrapped in brown paper.
In my world, you don’t pick up unmarked packages. But this is too small to be a bomb. It could be full of anthrax, I suppose.
At this moment, I don’t really care. I pick it up and strip off the wrapping.
I can hear something rattling around inside the box. It sounds small and hard. Too heavy to be a ring.
I open the lid.
It’s a fifty-caliber bullet—hand-turned on a lathe. Bronze alloy. Smelling of oil and gunpowder.
I lift it out of the box, turning the cool, slippery cylinder between my fingers.
There’s a note nested in cotton. Small, square, and hand-written.
It says: I know who you are.
