I then notice a doorway just off the kitchen and decide to snoop.
I slip off my heels and tiptoe over.
What’s this? It’s obviously his office, but there are ten different computer screens displaying everything from the news to stock prices. A cold cup of coffee sits on the long desk in front of the screens, and there are free weights sitting on a mat in the middle of the room.
Genie command central. I turn back toward the kitchen when I notice something familiar sitting on a little table in the corner.
Broken Man. It’s my piece.
“I suppose I did tell you to make yourself at home,” says Marus from the doorway.
“I was just looking around.” He’s now in a black T-shirt and gray shorts. He has very nice legs. Muscular and lean. He must run a lot.
“I don’t mind if you look around. I want you to trust me. It’s better if you see how everything works.”
His demeanor’s shifted again. Defense shields are down. It’s weird, but his struggle to let me in gives me comfort. He doesn’t enjoy exposing himself, which means he doesn’t do this for anyone.
“So what is all this stuff?” I point to the computers.
“I run things here.”
“There are a lot of screens,” I point out.
“I track markets all around the world. I do a lot of trading after hours.”
“When do you sleep?” I ask.
“I don’t.”
“That might have something to do with those headaches,” I point out.
“Or the headaches are what keep me up.”
Awful. Poor guy. “I wish I could do something to help.”
“Maybe you already have.”
I stare expectantly.
“I find your presence soothing,” he elaborates.
“But you were starting to get a headache earlier, right?”
“You noticed.”
I nod.
“They’re less painful when I’m around you.”
I’d feel flattered, but that’s like saying my presence makes life less sucky rather than awesome. There’s a difference.
“Any idea why?” I ask.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Maybe your beauty distracts me.”
A very nice answer, but I’m sure he sees gorgeous women all the time. Either way, I’m going to get to the bottom of all this—why or how he’s forgotten who he really is. And once I do, well, I’m not sure. Maybe he needs someone by his side to confront his demons. Maybe this is who he’ll be for the rest of his life. I don’t know, but without a doubt, this man is damaged. And incredible. He’s managed to turn his fucked-up head into something amazing.
“Did you read the story behind this?” I point to the glass art piece that has eerie similarities to Mason’s death, or disappearance, or whatever you call it. I do write-ups for all of my pieces. I like people to know what inspired them and what they mean to me.
“It’s about a dream you had,” he replies, casually leaning his tall body against the doorframe, “about a man who finds hope at the edge of a frozen lake.”
“So what made you buy it?”
“It spoke to me. What made you create it? I’m sure it’s not the only dream you’ve ever had.”
“I don’t actually know. I had a dream about a broken man, next to a frozen lake, who wanted me to put him back together. It stuck in my head.” I don’t mention the news article because (A) I’m not one hundred percent sure it was about him, and (B) if it was, I don’t know if I should bring up his “death.” He doesn’t seem open to discussing his past. At all.
His expression serious, he crosses his arms over his broad chest, making his biceps flex. “And is that how you see me, Ginnie? Something you need to put back together?”
“I’m not sure.”
He drops his arms and steps in close. “Well, then, let me make it easy for you. I don’t want to be fixed. I do not need to be fixed. And if you can’t accept that, then you’re missing the big picture.”
“Of?”
“Of your wish, Ginnie. I’m what you really wished for, correct? You wanted me. So now you have it. But I am what you see, and you can either accept what you’ve found or not.”
My heart squeezes tightly in my chest. He’s right. I did wish for him, even if I never wrote it down. In my heart, I wanted him. Not the money, not a horse ranch, but him. So now he’s offering it, but he doesn’t want to be solved or put back together. He wants me to accept him as is.
What amazes me most is that he knew what I was thinking. It’s just like his sister said. He can see right through people.
“So what’s it going to be, Ginnie?”
I blink and look away at the glass mosaic, thinking carefully. I want to say yes. I really do. But how can I ignore the fact that he died and came back as this other person? He supposedly has no recollection of who he once was, yet everything seems to revolve around paying penance for the sins of Mason McMillan. Even the headaches sound like a self-inflicted form of purgatory. I can’t say I’m okay with it or that it doesn’t worry me.