A Million Different Ways (Horn Duet 1)

A sharp, stabbing sensation in my stomach made me grimace and hunch over. I suddenly felt nauseous, though nothing short of death could have stopped me from opening and reading the last one.

‘What ever I did for you to leave me, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Please give me a chance to fix it. I’m begging you. I’ll do anything to have you back. Anything. I love you. I’m nothing without you.’

I wiped the tears off my face but it was useless, there were plenty more where those came from. The boy working on his laptop next to me kept glancing over with a mixed expression. I could tell he wanted to say something, and felt awkward. My fingers were numb as I typed. ‘I will love you forever. Don’t ever forget. You promised.’ I hit the send button. It was a dangerous move but I couldn’t tolerate him thinking he did anything wrong. I just couldn’t allow that.

* * *

“I had to beg, but I got you a ride to Milan.”

I exhaled a deep sigh of relief at her words. My eyes roamed the lobby. A group of Irish students stood in line, waiting to be checked in. They were laughing about something. Their carefree expressions sparked a bud of resentment that made me ashamed of myself.

“Tonight at 10 p.m., meet them in front of L’Usine on Place des Volontaires. They will be in a silver 3 series BMW.”

“Who are they?”

“Sergio and Etienne. They work for Yuri. You can’t miss Sergio, he has a pink mohawk.”

“Is it safe, Em?”

“As safe as it can be. Call me when you get to Milan. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

At exactly ten, I watched the silver BMW drive up. I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, dug my hands in the pockets, and walked towards the car. I had timed it perfectly. The last thing I wanted to do was stand around waiting on a street corner in the middle of the night. I was nervous about leaving so late, but I was in no position to make demands.

The passenger side window rolled down and techno music, pumping loudly, hit me like a blast of hot air. A boy, no older than eighteen and sporting a pink mohawk, bobbed his head to the music. He turned it down and treated me to a thorough inspection.

“You must be Sergio,” I stated.

“Che figa,” Sergio announced, a crass Italian slang word for ‘beautiful’.

The driver bent over Sergio to get a better look, and raked me head to toe with bloodshot eyes. “I’m Etienne, get in.”

Etienne was older, around early thirties. He was extremely thin with a crooked nose and pale blonde hair. As soon as I shut the door, he drove off swiftly and rounded a corner without taking his foot off the gas peddle, the torque sending my body slamming into the door. Then he shifted gears roughly, jarring my teeth loose. I buckled my seat belt, double checking that it was securely fastened, and gazed out the window. The lights from restaurants and street lamps turned into a smear as we sped away.

“If the border police asks, you’re my sister, understood?” Etienne stated in a hard tone. I met his gaze in the rear view mirror and nodded once. “Do you speak French?”

“Parfaitement,” I answered.

“That should make things easier.”

“Maybe it would be easier if you didn’t speed and bring unnecessary attention to us.” I couldn’t help it. I was hungry, irritable, and pregnant.

His heavy eyelids lowered over dark eyes. “I make this trip on a weekly basis. I would appreciate it if you would leave the driving to me. As a matter of fact, leave everything to me and keep your mouth shut,” he cautioned, his voice descending into a growl.

“Vera.”

“What?”

“My name is Vera,” I repeated.

“That means truth in Italian. Well, Vera, keep your fucking truth to yourself until we get to Milan.”

I turned my eyes towards the passing scenery. With every stoplight we passed, every building behind us, Geneva faded away from me. Once a shining city upon a hill––now a reminder of broken dreams.

“Can you turn the music up?” I asked Sergio. He granted my request and started bobbing his head to the discordant sound of punk rock. The music gave me a headache, but anything was better than the sound of my thoughts.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Motherfuckers. Pezzi di merda, cazzo. Putain!!” Etienne shouted while he pounded the steering wheel with the heel of his hand.

I grimaced. “You’ve managed to include them all…in every language imaginable outside of Sorani.”

“What?!”

“You’re cursing. Sorani is a dialect of Kurdish.” His shifty eyes connected with mine in the rearview mirror. Nothing––just a vacant expression. “Never mind,” I added, and turned to stare out the window.

A Christmas tree of taillights snaked across the Mars black night. The line of cars waiting to be inspected by Swiss border patrol stretched for miles. The heavy thump of Sergio’s leg nervously beating against the floor of the car kept pace with the sound blasting from the speakers; I dare not call it music.