7
Bailey
I sit there, his jacket draped around my shoulders, his eyes searching mine for some kind of reaction, and try to make sense of what he’s just said to me.
He was a criminal. Is a criminal?
I have no idea what he has been trying to communicate to me. I’m so confused. He left – he left because his father wanted him back to run some criminal empire? It seems almost too wild to be true. But, as he looks at me, waiting for a response, I know that it’s the truth.
"You run his cartel?" I ask, finally. I don’t know what to say. This is the last thing that I had expected him to come out with. Somehow worse than everything I had been imagining.
He shakes his head. “No. I ran it. Past tense. I worked under him for a long time," he explains. "I – I did some bad things, Bailey. And I know that you might not believe me, but trust me, I would never make something like this up–"
"I know that," I mutter. He knows how strong my sense of morality is, and he would never make up something so awful to try and get out of trouble.
"Why are you here?" I ask finally. I need to know. What brought him back here, after all this time? He has no reason to be here with me again, especially not if he is bringing the chaos of his life in Boulder down here.
"Because I’m done with that life now," he confesses. "And I knew that I wouldn’t be able to look you in the eye again until I knew that life was behind me for good. Now, it is."
"Why?” I demand. "Why should I believe you?”
He looks away from me. His face is briefly clouded with pain, and I can almost guess what is about to come out of his mouth before he says it.
"My father," he mutters. "He...he died."
I catch my breath.
"I’m so sorry," I murmur, and I reach out to touch his hand. As soon as our fingers skim past one another, I feel the heat begin to rise between us again, and I draw my hand back at once.
No, can’t let that happen. Too dangerous. Too likely to cloud my judgement.
"So am I," he mutters. "It wasn’t that long ago. Last year. And I was all poised to step up and take over everything. Everyone expected me to, but then, when the time came, I knew that I just couldn’t do it."
"Why not?"
"Because I had seen the level of destruction that the cartel had caused across the state," he replies, shaking his head. "And I didn’t want that on my head. I didn’t have a choice when my father was alive, but with him gone, I knew that I had to take responsibility for myself. And that responsibility meant dispersing the cartel. Putting that life behind me."
"And that’s why you’re here again?" I ask. The air is so still around us I feel as though I could breathe too loudly and disturb it. He nods.
"I’m done with it," he replies. "And so – I thought it was only fair to come back and give you an explanation as to why I left in the first place."
My heart pounds in my chest. What has he done in his life that made this seem like the best choice to him? Leaving behind the legacy his father made for him was all that he could think of? I want to ask him, but I doubt that I want to know the answer.
I must have sat there in silence for a moment too long, because he turns to me again, tilts his head to the side.
"What about you?" he wonders aloud. "What have you gotten up to?”
It’s almost like he’s asking about what happened in the last week, not in the last ten years. It’s strange – even after all this time, I feel a familiarity with him, a closeness that runs deeper than merely seeing each other. I shared something with him that I could never share with anyone else, wouldn’t have wanted to even if I could, and being in his presence again is starting to remind me of that.
"I went to college," I reply. "I had that scholarship so I left Sweetheart. I didn’t want to come back, not really, not after what – not after what happened with us."
"Where are you in the world now?”
"Denver," I tell him. "Working at an art gallery. I do the bookings and deal with the artists. Nothing too fancy, but it gives me the freedom to do what I want. In my free time I paint."
"I bet you’ve made some beautiful paintings,” he says. “Though I doubt you ever show them to anyone.”
I feel the ghost of a smile pass over my face. He still knows me. Better than maybe anyone ever has. After he left, I was so scared that I was going to be hurt that same way again that I closed myself off from people, shut myself down to the thought of letting anyone get too close. Now I am here again, I can feel that depth of connection between us. I don’t want to let it go.