Between Octobers

By A.R. Rivera

Happy endings have often eluded Grace Zuniga. Now she finds herself facing down deadly trouble, hoping and praying the pattern will change.

When Grace wakes up in a dark, confined space with no memory of how she got there, the fear is nearly crippling. She can’t surrender to it. Her children need her. She’s all they have left after losing their father. Though Grace is not sure she can survive, she’s determined to try. But to do that, she has to figure out who took her and how she ended up trapped and alone in the wilderness, at the mercy of a person who will do anything to keep her from escaping.

Stumbling through her bleak circumstances, Graces’ mind wanders over the last life-changing year, from one October to the next, reliving the most precious and heart-rending moments that led up to her kidnapping.

The previous October, when Grace stepped into an elevator, and into the life of sexy, enigmatic actor Rhys Matthews, a new chapter of her life began. Now Grace must ask herself, “How will it end?”

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.R. Rivera
• Release date: Oct 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311155368

A.R. Rivera

A.R. Rivera loves to read, write, and talk. She does all of it, at every opportunity. Sometimes simultaneously, but not usually. A.R. blogs about the process of writing and makes up flash fiction over at her author website, arriverabooks.com, and tweets as @girlnxtdr2u. She's also a mom to four amazing boys (three of which are in a rock band), a wife to the greatest husband in the world, a daughter to two super parents, a baby sister to three siblings, an aunt to more nieces and nephews than she can count, as well as a self-professed weirdo, couch potato, and people-watcher. She’s currently hard at work on her first YA endeavor, Countdown to Chaos, which will be releasing in 2015. She’s also got a Sci-Fi trilogy in the works that she’s very excited about.

Book preview

Part One

Grace

Because of The King

My house doesn’t smell like this.

It’s a sort of musty odor, but with a hint of oil.

A horrendous, confusing pulse lashes through my cranium, its fingers reaching into my eyes and neck. Pieces and pictures wander in confusing ways, blurring into strange shapes. I don’t know what they mean.

My body, tight and uncomfortable, feels like jeans tangled inside a washing machine. Blinking—I know I blink because I feel my eyelids move—makes no difference against the blinding dark. My hands are bound together by something. And my feet are crammed uncomfortably against . . . something. My neck is kinked, forced to one side. The position isn’t the source of my throbbing headache, but it’s painfully unpleasant. I draw a deep breath. The air is hot, stuffy. The sound of release drags in reverb, noisy and close. It brushes back against my cheeks.

I focus on tracing the line of my stomach between my forearms. A bump answers from the inside, soothing me.

Something knocks against my head, contributing to the mindboggling ache that turns my stomach. I blink again, feel my lashes catching and shake my head, trying to remove the obstruction.

Entrancing fear cripples me as the room seems to bend. The floor jolts, disappearing for a terrifying second. My upturned face hits something before I slam back onto my side.

Suddenly, the sounds, sensations, and smells all come together but I can’t find the word that describes it. It laps at the edge, blotted out by fuzz.

There was a talk show I watched the other day. The guest was a woman, an expert who gave a list of guidelines about . . . The word isn’t there, but the flood of information is clear. Never let them take you to a secondary scene, the expert said. It’s always a place where there’s little to no chance of reaching help. The captor is in complete control.

I struggle in the cramped space, but it doesn’t help. It’s noisy, though. A loud crackling din; almost like paper. The word is back, on the tip of my tongue, but my brain can’t make the connection. I remember I was in the kitchen. I broke the coffee pot. The tarp in the garage. She made me close my eyes, and then . . . Pain. Now, I’m here.

I have a captor and I’ve already broken rule number one.

I’m crumpled, stuffed into the trunk of what can only be a compact car. The space is so tiny; it has to be, like, a Prius or something. I try to think through the hazy panic . . .

Lord Jesus, help me remember!

My hands are awkwardly stuck out over my belly; my wrists feel like they’ve been constricted for some time. They’re tingling, compressed by a vise. My puffy fingers feel more swollen than usual. I clasp my hands as in prayer; the same way Caleb does when he begs.

Caleb! Noah!

As far as my mouth can tell, whatever’s binding my wrists is too thin and smooth to be rope. I try with all my strength to stretch the hidden manacles, pushing and pressing into my restraints, popping the joints, but my wrists can’t separate.

It’s okay, my Nurse Voice soothes, I can work with restrained hands.

My feet, however . . . I have no idea what has them trapped. Again, I concentrate but . . . Fragments appear and fly away before I retain them and I can’t tell exactly how I’m wedged. Wiggling my toes, I can tell I’m wearing my shoes. The sensation helps me map my legs. My feet are apart but my knees are stuck against the side of what feels like a milk crate. I can’t get my hands down past my belly to free my scrunched-up knees, to work my feet free.

I try to turn, readying myself for when my captor, whoever it is, opens the trunk. A chilling thought freezes me, mid-roll.

What if they don’t?

No one will know. My boys, my baby, my Noah, Caleb, Lily, Ronnie, Aunt Rose and Evan. Evan, Evan. The faces flash before my wet, blind eyes.

October 5th

I sort of always assumed a person would know death was coming. They’d have some sort of inkling, like a gut feeling, or a sense of finality when they said goodbye the last time they left home. Like in the movies, when the creepy score starts to play, you know something bad is about to happen. But in real life, there’s no foreboding music.

I visualized that accident a thousand times. Dreamt about it. Solomon couldn’t have heard screeching tires; no one used their brakes. He couldn’t have seen it coming; the fog was too thick.

Loss: it’s too simple a word. Only four letters. Three alphabetic representations for such a broad term. The light tense, the singular syllable, they do it no justice. How can anyone understand what it means? Every letter of the alphabet should be used. Its implications touched every part of my life, so it makes sense that the word itself should carry every letter.

My life, for the last eleven months and three weeks, could be summed up in two words. Simple phrases: still breathing, keeping up, getting by. Holding on. I was barely holding on. To daily chores that didn’t get done unless I did them. Everything since the day Solomon died had been routine. I’d inhale to exhale and repeat. Eat, sleep, and breathe. Cooked to wash dishes. Got dirty to shower. Changed to wash clothes. It was all I could manage most days: inhale, exhale, repeat.

I know I should’ve been . . . not over it, but dealing well enough to put his clothes away. I couldn’t seem to let go of that part of my life. I was never sure if it was because I was holding onto it or if it was holding onto me.

There, in my big empty bed, inside my sleeping house, I took a deep breath and held it, straining to picture myself packing his things. Touching this shirt and that hat . . . I would have to remember where we were when he got them. I’d feel the stabbing pain, imagining the beautiful words he spoke when he wore them.

Aunt Rose said that God never gives us more than we’re able to handle. Solomon used to say that God may squeeze, but He doesn’t choke. Doctor Elena Williams, the grief counselor recommended to me by the pastor of the church I didn’t attend anymore, suggested I clean out the closet. She said by avoiding Sol’s things I was tying myself to his memory in an unhealthy way; and if I didn’t stop, it might affect our children. She called it pivoting—the illusion of movement while bound in one place. I didn’t quite agree with her analysis, but I knew something had to change. And come hell or high water, I had to wade through.

Words for tomorrow: new leaf, start moving.

October 6th

It was well past nine when I woke. I’d slept in—four hours. Oddly, I felt okay despite the fact that it was a day closer to the one-year mark.

Noah, the too cool teen, was in the kitchen making his famous waffles. While he was busy, I pulled out the jars of vitamins crammed near the rows of glassware in the kitchen cabinet and started sorting. One of each type into three different piles. That was routine, though I usually had them out before the boys got out of bed.

The morning conversation was easy. Noah wanted to hang out and maybe catch a matinee with some of his friends. Caleb wanted to go with him, but changed his mind once he realized he’d have to sit in the dark for two hours. Instead, he asked to go to his friend Nathan’s house, next door, for a play date.

While we were gathered around the table, I made my move. I’m putting Dad’s things away today.

After my last failed attempts, making the announcement was sort of an insurance policy. If I told them I was doing it, I’d stick to it. No more pivoting—from that day, I’d be ambulatory. Since making the decision last night, I felt lighter, more like me—the me I used to be. I wondered what the Good Doctor would have to say about that.

I took my morning run on the treadmill, setting the machine at the steepest incline, and ran until my legs went numb. When I walked into my giant closet after a shower, Sol’s clothes glared at me from under a thin coating of dust.

New leaf, I reminded myself, and pushed the thoughts to the back of my mind. It was easier to dwell with a shovel. If my shoulders weren’t so sore, I would’ve been outside working on the hole for the pool. The area was originally chosen for a gazebo, but leveling the ground was more difficult than I thought. By the time I stepped back to survey the damage, I was a solid three feet into the dirt. So, I kept going. The boys liked the idea of a pool.

Stretching the slump from my spine, I continued towards the kitchen for coffee. More liquid motivation.

My sister-in-law and best friend, Lily, arrived and entered without knocking. I made a call for reinforcements the night before—technically, it was a text message—and a solid back-up plan.

Grace! Help! She squealed, as the unbalanced stack of boxes flew to the floor.

Surprisingly, I almost giggled. Are you sure you got enough? I teased, stooping into the formal living room to help her restack. There must have been a dozen.

I’m going to keep everything you don’t want. Her shining brown eyes matched her older brothers exactly.

Lily was my closest—more accurate, only—friend. Best friend since the day we met. First day of eighth grade, fourth period Home Economics. She wanted to be my kitchen partner because she overheard me telling the teacher I already had a year of Home Ec at my old middle school in Bothell, a rinky-dink town outside Seattle where I grew up. I knew how to cook; all two of the women in my family did. Mom started teaching me as soon as I was old enough to reach the stove, and Aunt Rose picked up where she left off. I was trying to get out of the class and Lily wanted an easy A. After class, she ate lunch with me so I wouldn’t have to sit alone. I wouldn’t have gotten through that first day of school, let alone the past year, without her.

Getting started is the hardest part, I told myself, tugging at several shirt sleeves before mustering the strength to remove one. It reminded me too much of my parents. The way I had to take down and fold their clothes. So neatly and carefully. My big brother, Ronnie, was with me that day; Aunt Rose, too. Now, Sol’s sister was helping. With Lily there, it was easier to remember the moments triggered by his belongings. Memorabilia.

When I packed up my parents’ things, it was only a few days after my dad fell asleep driving, and right after they were cremated—before I developed the urge to cling. Mom’s only sister, Aunt Rose, happened to be visiting at the time. She was watching us that night they didn’t come home. She made the arrangements to have them laid to rest in Fresno—the place my brother and I were moving to. We didn’t just pack up their clothes, we packed our house. It wasn’t just a goodbye to my parents; it was a farewell to childhood, to life as I knew it. My security.

My mom and dad were good people. They raised me and Ronnie in the Bible-believing church of the South by way of the Pacific Northwest. My father was the son of a Baptist minister and my mother came from a long line of Pentecostals. They used to drag me and my big brother to every gathering, meeting, and event our church took part in. The church body was small and my parents took their Christian Duty very seriously. My brother and I attended every Sunday morning and evening service, every foot-washing ceremony, baptism, all-night prayer meeting, picnic, play, potluck and Bible study . . . no matter what. There is no good reason to miss church, Mom used to say. If I was sick, I could get healed; if I was tired, God would wake me; if I did not want to go, I had to pray for desire. I bet we went eight times a week. When I grew up, attendance often felt like punishment, but I still believed.

As we cleared away Sol’s belongings, Lily got nearly everything she asked for. The only things I held back were of too much sentimental value to part with. One being a pale pink dress shirt I bought Sol on his last birthday.

He hated pink on guys. Lily held the delicate fabric of the long sleeve between her fingers, rubbing it gently as I set it back on the hanger.

I had to beg him to try it on, I remembered. When he finally did, he looked in the mirror and said, ‘You’re right, Grace. It is a nice shirt.’ It was one of the only times he ever admitted he was wrong. I wiped the tears away with the back of my hand and felt an honest smile on my face.

Yeah, he was never wrong as far as he was concerned. Her eyes shone as she chuckled.

The other mementos I insisted on keeping were Sol’s old sports equipment, concert memorabilia, his guitar and saxophone. Those were going into the guest-slash-music room for the kids. I let Lily take the high school yearbooks and letterman jacket to give to Maria. I knew she would want those. There were also several shoe boxes of family photos we’d accumulated, only the ones of him in double print. She and Maria could fight over who got what amongst themselves.

Lily folded the cardboard flaps down one at a time, tucking them in on themselves.

I sighed, looking around the half-empty closet. I think we’re done.

It was a sad and rewarding moment, staring at the lopsided arrangement. The end of an era. My stomach lurched. Dr. Lena, as I call her, gave explicit instructions to fill the empty space because the visual emptiness could be counter-productive. I quickly reached for some hangers on my side of the closet and placed them in the opposite end. The recollection sparked a reminder of my second homework assignment.

Helping to carry two of four boxes, I lagged behind Lily. I wish you could stay longer, I whined.

She loaded up the trunk of her lemon-yellow Beamer. I’ll come back tomorrow. You can cook me dinner. She chirped. Hey, Dr. Pataki approved my vacation time. In one more week, I have a whole week off. She checked her cell phone for the time. See you tomorrow?

Want to go out for a drink or something?

Her brows pulled together. You want to go out?

I nodded.

Her eyes suddenly brightened. Absolutely, but why?

Homework. Dr. Lena and I discussed me packing Sol’s things last month. When I saw her the last Friday morning, she’d urged me to catch up.

Because of Wednesday?

Probably.

Geez, a whole year already, she marveled under her breath, touching her lips with her fingertips.

Pick me up at seven-thirty?

Seven-thirty, it is. Lily climbed into the driver’s seat.

I watched her little yellow car speed away until it disappeared down the hill, trying not to think about what we’d do or where we’d go. I never really liked wearing dresses, but Lily always did. I was positive she’d take the opportunity to shove me into one.

The afternoon passed quickly because I spent it in the back yard, digging the pool. Essentially using the shovel as pick-axe because the dirt was too hard and cold. The yard work helped keep my mind off my troubles, but fall was upon us and I needed to be reasonable. It was going to take professional help to get the hole finished and the pool completed before the rainy weather turned it into a mud pit. The installation of sophisticated water filtration and heating-related equipment was beyond my abilities, anyway.

Before setting the table, I made a quick call to Larry, Sol’s old business partner at the construction company he owned. Larry agreed to help me find someone to finish the job.

Dinner was a quiet meal. Spaghetti with meatballs and electronics. Noah was on his phone, Caleb had his Game Boy, and I was compiling a list of all the things that needed to get done before my night out. Right at the top of that list I wrote, ‘wax legs.’ I hadn’t been out anywhere in forever and didn’t really want to get dressed up to go sit in some dingy L.A. club. But much more than that, I didn’t want to bicker about it or listen to Lily complain about my hairy ways. A preemptive surrender was in order, by way of waxing.

In the dark night, as I laid in my lonely bed, I prayed for strength to do the things I’d been avoiding. I made a promise to myself that I’d do whatever it took. I would be the driver and not the passenger of my life. I would transfer the attention from myself onto others. I would stop asking myself how I felt about my problems and start remembering I was not the only person in the world who had them.

October 7th

Santa Monica was beautiful in the fall. The sky overhead was clear and blue, despite the biting cold that drifted in from the ocean. As I sat on the frigid patio chair, wrapped tightly in my robe, I could see through the slats of the wooden fence into the field behind the house. The hillside was covered in a blanket of purple blooming weeds. I finished my coffee and headed back inside for my morning run.

I was motivated. Begging for real change. It felt like a red letter day, as Mom used to say.

When my heart rate hit the target range, I let my mind go blank and ran to the rhythm of my music. Fifteen minutes in, inspiration struck. I hopped off the treadmill and into my Jeep, heading for the pharmacy down the road.

When I returned, the house was still silent. I looked in on the boys before setting up in the master bathroom. After yanking on a pair of latex gloves, I started mixing. My naturally blond hair wasn’t a pretty gold or bright yellow, it was the dirty-looking, dishwater tone. I always hated it and Sol didn’t. But he wasn’t here anymore. He’d died and left me all alone. I had to start over. I brushed out my hair and began applying the dark goo. When my head was thoroughly saturated, I used an old mascara brush to add a coat to my eyebrows.

The day slipped away. I kept busy washing, scrubbing, and in most places disinfecting, the entire house. After, I finished the grocery shopping and made chicken parmesan for an early dinner. The kids noticed my dark red locks as soon as they got up, but hadn’t said much about the dramatic change. I’m not sure if they liked it.

True to form, Lily showed up an hour early to dress me. She was decked in a tight, coral mini dress that beautifully accentuated her caramel skin. She’d straightened the natural curls from her hair. It was hanging silkily down her back. Her makeup was flawless as always—smoky eyes and nearly nude lips. The most envious part, aside from her effortless hourglass shape, was her thigh-high boots.

I complimented them, leaning against the door frame, pathetically posing, begging her to say something about my hair.

She gasped, It looks so good!

You think so? I loved the new color, but knowing Lily approved made me love it even more.

She rushed in, quickly kissing the boys hello on her way to the master closet. I sat at my vanity, watching as she combed through the racks for at least twenty minutes, searching for the perfect outfit.

What do you think of this? She held a very short red dress.

I could wear some slacks and a cute top, I pleaded. I don’t like that shade of red. It makes me look green.

Your hair is red.

It’s burgundy.

Maybe you’re right. Overkill . . . hmm . . . Where’s your LBD?

My what? I ask, picking at my chipped nail polish.

Little Black Dress. You have one, don’t you?

I have black dresses. I never gave any a title, though. Check in the back corner. I pointed in the general direction, suppressing a yawn and wondering how many I’d have to try on before she decided.

I don’t see any. She grunted, pushing and pressing between bulges. You need to move more stuff over. This is ridiculous. Murmuring a complaint, she lifted several hangers full of dresses and sweaters, too heavy for Southern California, and shifted them to the scantily clad opposite side of my closet.

There. She sighed the word, exaggerating a wipe of imaginary sweat from her brow.

There’s one, right there. I pointed behind her at the newly placed collection of hangers.

She yanked it down and bid me to try it on. When I grudgingly slipped into the dress, I realized it was made of stretch cotton. Now I remember why I don’t wear this.

Why?

Because it’ll fade when I wash it.

Lily laughed, A real clothing conservationist. You know, you’re fighting their reason for existing.

In the full-length mirror, I checked each angle. The fabric clung like a second skin, hugging my waist and thighs and coming to a halt just below my knees. The modest neckline led to three-quarter sleeves. The racy part was behind me. I turned my naked back to the mirror.

I have to change my bra.

You should wear it. Lily took the chair at my vanity.

It isn’t too tight? I hadn’t worn anything that tight since high school. Even then, it was denim jeans, covering my whole leg. The dress was tight everywhere. I don’t look like a slut, do I? The back makes me feel naked.

Grace, don’t over-think it. You have a great body, show it off a little. She smirked and shook her head.

I’m going to a place I’ve never been, dressed in a way I’m not used to. I do not want to give off the wrong impression.

Oh, honey, giving the wrong impression is fun, she sang, smiling brightly.

Lily was in full-on Barbie-play mode. After dressing me, she sat me down and started pinning my hair into a lovely chignon. Shoes were next—black platform heels she’d brought from her house. Slipping into them, I kind of felt like Frankenstein’s monster. There was no give in my stride, so it took a few trips around the house to get a feel for them. I insisted on wearing a pink wrap around my shoulders to cover my naked back. I told Lily it was just in case I got cold, but she knew better.

We kissed the kids and repeated the babysitting rules to Noah before leaving the house in a taxi. It was only for a few hours, dinner and a drink, but better safe than sorry.

The place she chose was surprising. In Hollywood, on the Strip. A poorly lit English style pub with a clean kitchen that Lily swore was frequented by celebrities. She thought it might be fun if we happened to see one. Not that I’d recognize any. My knowledge of pop culture was severely limited by my preferable lack of exposure to the outside world. I hardly watched television, except old shows from the nineties, and most of the music they played on the radio held no interest for me. I was quite content with my old CDs and books.

We approached the bar since most of the tables were taken and sat to wait for Natalia, Lily’s friend from work, who was running late. I was kind of glad. Natalia and I used to work together at the hospital. I liked her. Until she flirted with Sol. That kind of soured my attitude towards her. She knew he was my husband and acted like her advances meant nothing. But it was a long time ago, I reminded myself.

Lily and I ordered wine. After another twenty minutes, I got tired of waiting and ordered an appetizer. I couldn’t drink on an empty stomach in those shoes. I’d tip right over.

Geez, where is this woman? Lily’s head swiveled, her eyes panning the crowd. Natalia! She called over the music, waving her hand over her head, beckoning her friend in our direction.

I looked back and Natalia’s eyes lit up. I smiled politely and welcomed her as she sat on the stool between us.

I’m so happy to see you, Grace! I haven’t seen you since—

Lily’s pointed boot suddenly stabbed the back of her calf. I looked to my empty wine glass, trying to politely ignore what I’d seen.

Oh, let me buy you a drink. It’s the least I can do. She offered.

I felt myself stiffen at the offhand reference and wondered at it while Lily dramatically rolled her eyes behind Natalia’s back. I suppressed my grin, reminding myself of the new leaf, my pledge in the dark. Natalia was trying to be nice. The incident only bothered her now because he was gone—the same reason it shouldn’t have bothered me.

I bobbed my head, enjoying the rock music playing a little too loudly to make easy conversation, and thanked God for small favors as the bartender brought another round.

How have you been? Did you go back to the hospital? Natalia asked, almost yelling in my ear.

I noticed I was slumping and sat up straight. I’ve been okay. Taking care of the kids and house and all the normal stuff. I haven’t gone back to work yet. How are you? How is work going?

Fine, she answered sweetly, but her face hardened as she turned to Lily. I have to go to the bathroom. Lily, come with me. Before I knew it, she was stalking off.

Lily shook her head, getting up to follow, I’ll be back.

What’d I say?

She’s dramacidal. Hey, save our seats. It’s getting really crowded.

I used my purse and pink wrap to mark their stools and guzzled the last of my wine. Waiting. Then, ordered another round for all of us. They could play catch-up when they got back. From the corner of my eye, I spied a couple inching towards the seat where my purse was set. They stopped to talk to someone, but I grabbed my purse and wrap to reverse their positions, keeping my purse closer to me. As I did, the warm rush of alcohol spread through me and I relaxed. I wasn’t driving, so I snatched my glass and took a few more sips.

When I asked, the bartender assured me that my appetizer would be up any minute. As I stepped backwards, intending to plant my butt back onto my seat, it hit something. A quick look down and I saw it was a leg. The attached lap was currently parked beneath me. I flew away from the stranger’s touch, and caught a spiky heel on something. I managed to catch myself before I fell completely, but still wobbled enough to cause catastrophe.

It moved like slow motion on the DVR. The wine glass flying, sloshing, building a wave of black-purple liquid that stretched until it found escape, up and over the rim. Splattering the shoes attached to the legs of the lap that had just stolen my stool. The glass smashed to the ground beside a pair of expensive, Italian leather shoes.

I gasped, Crap!

The wine was in his socks! I cowered in embarrassment, eyes glued to the escaped liquid drenching the stylish feet. A stream of profanity came from the direction of my victim’s mouth. As luck would have it, there were no napkins on the bar. I grabbed the only thing I could think of—my silk wrap—and tried to soak up the wine from the offended feet, all the while blurting my shamed apologies over the ruined shoes and offering to replace them. The feet retreated in haste.

I looked up in time to apologize to the back of his head. I’m really sorry!

He waved his hand, dismissing me. I sighed, noticing the entire restaurant had stopped. Everyone had seen my faux pas. Heated chagrin washed over me.

What did you do? Natalia was suddenly beside me, her eyes scanning the splattered wine and glass on the floor, the stained scarf in my hand.

I spilled my wine on some poor man.

You can have mine. I have to go, anyways.

You spent more time in the bathroom than you did talking to me. Natalia, if I offended you, I hope you would just tell me.

She shook her head, No, I didn’t really have time to stop. I’ve been running behind all day, but I wanted to see you and say hello.

Well, I appreciate the effort. My heart warmed from sincerity. Or the wine. I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

I’m grabbing that table in the back. Lily interjected, reaching between us for her glass. Bye, honey! She called, darting away.

Natalia looked to me, then toward Lily and back before leaning in. "Grace, I know it’s too little too late. Lily didn’t want me to say anything but I am really sorry about Solomon. He was a good man and I am sorry you lost him."

There. She said it.

You know I’m not mad, don’t you? As I spoke the words, I realized how true they were.

I thought you’d be upset that I didn’t call you after, or go to his funeral. But I worried it would upset you more if I did.

I wouldn’t remember if you did. My hand touched my temple, remembering what a basket case I was those first six months.

Your hair is pretty. You should keep it that way. She smiled and winked before stalking towards the door.

That wasn’t so bad. It shouldn’t have taken so long to get around to.

The restaurant was packed. Lily and I spent most of the night at our table in the corner, making conversation and eating an assortment of fried foods. She told me Natalia’s sudden urge to pee was motivated by fear. She thought Lily spilled the secret that she was losing her job next month and didn’t want anyone to know. Lily hadn’t told me anything, of course. She was my vault, the most trusted secret-keeper I knew.

I’m being accused, so I may as well be guilty. She smiled, but don’t tell her I told you.

We watched people come and go, hoping for a sighting of a familiar face. But there were no celebrities to be found, much to Lily’s disappointment.

Maybe we’ll find one next time.

Lily answered with a smile as the taxi pulled up to take us home.

October 8th

The keys to the file room in Dr. Pataki’s office were devoured by the couch monster. I performed a random cavity search when Lily called earlier in the morning. I had to drop them by her office, on my way to take the boys to school, before the days’ patients started showing up.

While the car warmed up, the boys were getting loaded inside. I made sure Caleb was settled, then tried to text Lily to let her know we were leaving, but my cell battery’s was nearly dead. I flipped the phone shut and rolled down the driveway. Noah, text your Aunt—let her know we’re on our way.

The parking garage beneath the office building wasn’t open to the public yet, but Lily called the guard and told him I was coming. I drove in, looking for a spot near the central bank of elevators—the set closest to her office on the third floor, which was two floors beneath Dr. Lena’s office. I’d never met with her at her professional office. We always met over on the other side of town, at my church.

After hopping out of the car, I called to Noah, but he continued bobbing his head to the beat of whatever song he was listening to. I waved my arms, hoping the movement would grab his attention. It did; he looked my way and took out an ear bud.

I am going to give Aunt Lily her keys. I will be right back. I shook them in my hand for him to see. Glancing in the backseat; I saw Caleb had fallen back to sleep. Please wake up your brother and tell him to eat his breakfast. Help him open his juice, too, please. I don’t want him squirting it all over the car. He nodded. A verbal response would be nice.

Okay, I will. His tone whispered irritation. Happy?

Yes, thank you. My eyes shrunk as I turned away. I could not wait until he has his own kids. Wait, yes I could.

The elevator opened immediately; I walked inside. Right before the doors closed, I noticed a man with a beard sitting inside a black SUV in the parking garage. He leaned his head against the seats’ headrest, like he was trying to catch up on sleep. Briefly, I wondered why he was there. Probably for the same reason my boys were—waiting on someone inside.

The doors opened to the third floor. Lily’s office was two left turns away. I pulled out my phone and checked the time, pleasantly surprised. Maybe the kids wouldn’t be late for school.

Reaching the glass doors to her office suite, I knocked lightly. Lily’s head, with her hair twisted back into a loose bun, bobbed up from behind the partition. She jumped up once she saw it was me, holding her keys to the file room.

Where are the boys? She asked, surprised.

In the car.

Why? She was digging into the pocket of her gray scrub top.

Caleb was sleeping—what are you doing? My eyes grew wide as she dumped a fist full of Halloween candy into my purse.

Give this to them, from me.

They’ll love you forever. I tucked my phone into my pocket to play with my belt loops.

Are you okay?

I’m breathing. I responded without thinking, and realized how it sounded. I’m fine. The kids are going to be late if I don’t get out of here, though.

Quick question: how would you feel about buying Noah a car for his birthday?

What?

He’s going to be sixteen—

No way.

But he’ll have his license when he’s done with that class and I want—

I can’t talk about this now . . . I’m late.

She nodded and thanked me.

I practically ran back to the elevator and slammed the button. If I hit too much traffic, the kids would be late. As my stress level rose, I reminded myself to not worry about things I couldn’t change and checked my phone for the time. The wallpaper popped up, distracting me. It was a picture of Sol and me at Pier 39 in San Francisco. I forced myself to avoid looking at his face—it would hurt too much—and drug my gaze to the numbers in the corner of the screen.

Stepping into what I assumed was an empty elevator, I bumped into something. A tall man dressed in black from head to toe. He was really good looking.

The thought surprised me because I couldn’t remember the last time I actually longed for a man. Looking at his face didn’t hurt, so I let myself stare. His hair and clothes were a mess, but he wore the chaos well. He was very clean and his skin looked soft. His features held an essence of Jim Morrison in his strong jaw line; maybe a little James Dean, too, in his hair and the way he arched his long torso. It wasn’t a slump—more of a stance. One hand was set across his stomach as he stared at me in disbelief. I realized my shoulder was still poking his chest and stepped aside, into the elevator.

Sorry. I flopped the phone into my purse and made myself look away.

That’s perfectly alright, he said, in a distinct English accent. Going down?

P2, I glanced at the buttons. Mine was already lit.

Well, there you go. He crossed his arms, bringing one hand to his eyebrow where the thumb and index finger pinched at the flesh.

Something about him was familiar. I knew I didn’t know him, but there was a sense, a veiled awareness that I was missing something. Have we met before? You look familiar.

He stared. Yeah, I work in the building . . . uh, Repairs department.

Sol worked in construction and I’d been on-site enough to recognize the common solidity a man acquired with the labor, the sturdiness it brought. This guy seemed too . . . genteel for such work. His hands were too clean. No scars or calluses. I also used to buy Sol’s clothes. This man’s sport coat looked tailored and the rumpled shirt underneath bore a designer insignia that screamed expensive. His jeans, worn a little too tight and a little too low, looked like they cost around seven hundred dollars. Finally, my eyes fell upon his shoes. They were worn-looking but also expensive. Not that it was any of my business.

I wiped the skepticism away and turn my attention to the numbers over the door. The needle stopped on the P that marked my level. I stepped forward and waited.

And kept waiting.

Why isn’t it opening?

Give it a second, he soothed.

His inflections rang sweet in the quiet space, calling my attention to his lips. Not too thin, not too