And that’s me.
It doesn’t always feel real.
But when he touches me, kisses me, it feels achingly real.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
“Just how handsome you look,” I tell him.
He smirks. “You don’t have to compliment me, Aida. Compliments are for women.”
“Wow, sexist,” I giggle.
He glances at me. Behind him, the rolling hills of the countryside flit by, a light rain falling and the clouds throwing a gray filter over the world.
“The last thing a man should give a damn about is how he looks,” Arturo says. “Be presentable. Look professional. But don’t spend hours on end in front of the mirror, styling your hair, changing your clothes. It’s pathetic.”
“Oh, so what you’re saying is that you’re effortlessly irresistible, huh?”
He looks at me with his trademark smirk. “Yeah, sure, something like that.”
We both laugh together, the sound filling the car, his laughter like music to me.
Our daughter sits at the piano wreathed in shadows, her features, her clothes, her everything never settling. I can’t see the color of her hair or the shape of her face. But I can feel the love swelling inside of me as she plays, her fingers dancing over the keys, the music swelling around us. Arturo wraps his arms around me and presses himself close to my back, his hands resting on my belly, swollen and almost ready to give him another child.
“I love you,” he whispers in my ear. “I love you, I love you—wake up, Aida. Wake up.”
I blink, rising to consciousness even as I try to claw onto the dream.
I want the music. I want his love.
Love.
The word bounces around in my mind.
The certainty of it smashes into me.
But I won’t say it, not first.
I can’t risk it.
I open my eyes to find Arturo leaning over me, the world brighter than when I drifted off. The clouds have cleared and subtle sunbeams arch down on us.
I sit up and look around, seeing that we’re parked on the edge of the docks. A warehouse sits in front of us, a large square brick building with a large service delivery entrance, but the huge doors are closed now.
Instead, a small person sized door is open at the side.
A man stands at the entrance, his hand near his hip as if getting ready to draw a weapon.
It takes me a second to recognize him.
Snaps.
The man who was driving me the day they kidnapped me, with his twice-broken nose and his flat face.
“I guess it’s time, then,” I murmur.
Arturo nods.
“Let me take the lead in there,” I say. “He’ll be more open to talking with me. I’ll ask him about the murders, the war. I’ll ask if he knows anything about the government agency. And then after that …”
I swallow.
Perhaps absurdly, telling Dad about me and his old friend fills me with the most terror of all of this. It doesn’t make sense. I’m about to learn if my dad is a killer, and yet my nerves become swollen and fit for bursting inside of me when I think about uttering the words.
“I lost my virginity to your onetime best friend, Dad. We’re going to start a family together. We belong together.”
Will he laugh or cry or rage or kill?
Arturo nods. “I’ll let you take the lead,” he says. “But if I notice any of them making a move I don’t like, I’m getting you out of there. There’s no damn way I’m going to let them take you from me.”
“Okay, that’s fair,” I say.
I climb from the car. Arturo does the same and walks around it, standing close to me, but not taking my hand or wrapping his arm around me. We discussed this before coming.
Until we’ve told Dad, we’re not going to let it slip how close we’ve become.
We walk toward the warehouse, Arturo’s men – at least ten of them – trailing behind us.
Snaps’ stands straighter as we approach, his expression tight and cold as his eyes move over Arturo and then the assembled men. But they soften a little when his gaze settles on me.
He turns to Arturo.
“It was smart not to hurt her,” he snaps.
Arturo grimaces and opens his mouth. I can tell he’s about to unleash a tirade on this man that could possibly break out into violence. I can read him, and I can see that he doesn’t like the implication that he’d ever hurt me.
I break the no-touching rule and quickly lay a placating hand on his arm.
“It’s okay,” I tell him.
I turn back to Snaps, whose eyes have narrowed, watching the short exchange perceptively.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask. “We need to talk with him.”
“We,” Snaps repeats. “Can’t say I like the sound of that, Aida.”
“Just tell me where he is,” I say firmly.
Snaps steps aside and gestures at the door. “After you.”
I make to step forward, but Arturo quickly darts ahead of me, moving with a swiftness that will never stop surprising me for a man his size.