Stolen Life (Beauty in the Stolen 2)

“Both.” The memories are sweet, those of my parents and I eating macadamia nuts while adventurous boys dive from the lower chutes into the churning water to impress me. “My parents brought me here to show me the Zimbabwe ruins. Legend says it was the dwelling of the Queen of Sheba, and the mystery fascinated me to no end. It was my sixteenth birthday gift. We didn’t stay here though. We stayed in one of the cheaper B&Bs, but we had high tea here.”

He listens intently, his attention not focused on his phone or what he’s going to say next, but on every word I care to share. He drinks it up like a thirsty person, and when I stop talking he waits quietly for more.

“Not long after that, the drought started and lasted for more than two years,” I continue. “That holiday is my last good memory of our family together. Times were tough after that. By the time I was finished with high school, we’d lost the farm.”

He reaches under the table and takes my hand. “Is that why you didn’t go to university?”

“Yep. We didn’t have the money, and my grades weren’t good enough to get a loan, let alone a bursary, so I started working at the bank.”

He hooks his pinky over mine. “Did you enjoy your job?”

“Not really, but it paid the rent. I meant to save to go to college and study something less expensive but practical like for a beautician or secretary, but with the medical bills, I kept on running out of money, always a little bit into the red until all the little bits rolled together. Six years down the line, I could hardly afford my rent.”

“What about your parents? Where did they go after giving up the farm?”

I sigh at the memory. “They moved in with my mom’s sister and her family in Brits. My aunt had a small plot. My dad tried to keep busy by taking care of the vegetable garden and helping my aunt oversee the building of their new house on the property while my mom took over the cooking to make up for living there for free. My aunt is a difficult person though, and I knew they weren’t happy.”

I don’t know why I’m telling him this, only that he’s a good listener and easy to talk to. “They died in a car accident on their way to visit me in Rustenburg. A truck driver lost control and pushed them off the road.”

His words are sincere without sounding pitiful. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. They were great people, good parents. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss them.”

His smile turns a little sadder. “You deserved good parents. I’m happy you had them.”

“What about yours? Are they still alive?”

He turns his face toward the window. From the short hesitation, it’s obvious he doesn’t like to talk about it, but he tells me, “My father died of TB, and my mother died of flu the year after.”

“I’m sorry too.”

“The sad thing is,” he looks back at me, “I’m not.”

I’m not sure what to say to that, but the waiter arrives with our food, saving me from an appropriate reply.

Ian asks for a slice of lemon for my water. I’m no longer surprised he paid attention to how I was drinking it at the casino.

Being starved, I attack my food the moment he lets go of my hand under the table. As he promised, the gnocchi is delicious. We eat in silence, and when the waiter clears our plates, he takes something from his pocket and slides it over the table.

My phone.

I stare at the phone for a couple of beats, scared he’ll snatch it away if I try to take it like in those horrible jokes people make.

“It’s yours,” he says. “Take it.”

Still uncertain, I pick up the phone and unlock the screen.

“I want you to be able to get ahold of me if you need me.”

I stare at him. “You trust me?”

“I wouldn’t call it trust yet. That’s why the only number you can dial for the moment is mine.”

My mind trips over for the moment and gets stuck on mine. Just like that, the afternoon goes from amiable to disagreeable. I’m angry all over again, too angry to be grateful for the small concession of having my phone with one dialable number.

I tighten my fingers around the casing and say in a bitchy tone, “Why bother at all?”

He narrows his eyes. “You didn’t listen to me. One, I said I want you to be able to call me whenever you need, and two, I said for the moment. If you prove yourself trustworthy, I’ll extend your calling rights.”

I stand. “I’m not a goddamn child.”

The other diners turn their heads to look at us.

In a blink, Ian is on his feet and in my space. “Then don’t make me treat you like one.”