Echo

  A grin grows on Lachlan’s face, and he nods to the empty seat next to me in a gesture to join, and I give him a small, inviting smile.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” he says when he approaches and sits down.

  “Wanted to do a little shopping before I head back home,” I lie, and my stomach knots at the pathetic deceit.

  “You’re going back to the States?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow.”

  “Short trip,” he remarks.

  “I suppose.”

  He takes a sip of his whiskey and sets the tumbler down when he asks, “Any plans on returning?”

  “Doubtful,” I reply and take another drink.

  I turn to look at Lachlan watching me intently. He’s a stately man in his trousers, button down, and tailored sports coat. His hair is lightly gelled and styled to perfection with a dignified part.

  His eyes continue to linger on me with a soft expression.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” I peacefully ask.

  He takes a moment, and then responds, “You seem down.”

  “Just worn out. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

  “You left abruptly the other evening after your run-in with Declan,” he states. “Perhaps that has something to do with your lack of sleep?”

  “Nosey,” I accuse with a playful smile.

  “Just observant.”

  “Is that all?”

  “You want more?” he lightly chuckles.

  “You flirting with me?”

  “You’re what? Twenty-some odd years younger than me?”

  I nod.

  “A man like me would be foolish not to flirt with a woman such as you.”

  “Such as me? And what’s that? What am I?”

  He takes another sip of his whiskey and then leans in a little closer to me, answering, “Exquisite, my dear.”

  His flirting isn’t meaningful, but more of humorous banter, so I know he doesn’t think it rude of me when I begin to laugh.

  We both take another sip through our smiles, and he breaks his mock flirtation when he says, “Seriously though, is everything okay? It looked like you and Declan were having a much too dire conversation for a party.”

  “Just hashing out some unsettled business, that’s all. Do you always make it a habit to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong?” I tease.

  “Always,” he boasts, and we both laugh again.

  “Well, at least you’re honest about it.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  I nod.

  “What brought you here to Scotland?”

  I look up at his face, and I don’t see any ulterior motives in our exchange other than a man who genuinely wants an honest conversation, so I answer, “Him.”

  “Him?”

  “I came to see Declan. I hadn’t spoken to him since he left Chicago, and I guess . . . I guess I just wanted to see him.”

  “Lovers?”

  “Again . . . nosey.”

  He smirks at my jab.

  “Does he have many of those?” I ask.

  “Would you feel jealous if I told you yes?”

  Straightening my neck, I state, “I don’t get jealous.”

  “You’re a wicked woman, Elizabeth.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “In my experience, women who don’t get jealous do so because they’d rather get even,” he says and then winks.

  “Is that what you think of me? That I’m a woman of revenge?” I question in jest, but secretly, I want to know how he truly perceives me.

  “You know what my mum always told me?”

  “What’s that?” I laugh.

  “She told me that while the rest of the species are descended from apes, redheads are descended from cats.”

  “So, I’m a cat?”

  “A minx,” he notes.

  I shake my head, saying, “You neglected to answer my question.”

  “You mean Declan?”

  “Mmm hmm,” I hum as I take another drink.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I’ve known Declan for a very long time. He will always have a woman on his arm at events, but it’s all a show, strictly business. I’ve only known him to have a couple long-term relationships, but none he was too serious about. I think they were more of convenience than actual love. Declan’s a well-guarded man.”

  Hearing this makes my guilt build heavier, knowing that what he gave me was most likely the first time he had given that to anyone. His love, his heart, his moments of sweet softness. Having this information makes the destruction feel even more malicious.

  “He’s a shrewd man in business,” Lachlan continues. “I can only assume that filters into his personal relationships as well, but perhaps you might have better insight into my assumptions.”

  “You want me to open up and divulge my personal knowledge of Declan?”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No,” I state matter-of-factly, and when he gives me a sly look, I murmur in an honest moment, “I hurt myself.”

  I refuse to reveal that I also hurt him. I don’t want to diminish anyone’s perceptions of the powerful, andric man they all know him to be.

  “So you were lovers?”

  “I hate that word.”

  “Why?”

  Turning to face Lachlan, I lean to the side, resting my elbow on the bar top when I say, “It’s shallow. That word insinuates a base, sexual relationship rather than intimacy.”

  “Has anyone ever told you you’re gray?”

  “You’re wanting black and white? As if that even exists. There is no black and white, right or wrong, yes or no.”

  His eyebrows raise in curiosity, and to lighten the now heavy mood, I tease, “Oh, come on, Lachlan. Surely a man of your age has come to recognize the world for what it is.”

  “A man of my age?”

  “Yes,” I respond, smiling, and then laugh as I add, “Old.”

  “Old? Didn’t your mother ever tell you to respect your elders?”

  “I never had a mother.” I catch myself as the words fall so easily and without thinking. I immediately press my lips together and turn in my seat so I’m not directly facing him anymore.

  He doesn’t make any comment, and the silence is unsettling as we sit here. When I do finally turn my head to look at him, there’s a hint of pity on his face. It irks me, but I remain polite because let’s face it, besides the elderly lady I’m staying with, this is the first real conversation I’ve had in a while.

  “If you’re feeling sorry for me, don’t.”

  He surprises me with his unguarded bluntness when he asks, “What happened to her?”

  “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

  “What do I have to lose? You’re leaving Scotland; we’ll never see each other again.”

  “Okay, then,” I respond as I turn in my seat to face him dead on, and take him up on his offer. What the hell do I care? He’s right. After today, I’ll never see him again. “I don’t know what happened to her. I have no memories of her, so I assume her to be dead. It was always just me and my father.”

  “You never asked?”

  “My father died before I could,” I answer directly.

  “Have you tried finding her?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “What’s the point?” I say with a shrug of my shoulders.

  “Aren’t you curious about where you come from? What if she’s not dead like you assume? What if she’s been looking for you?”

  And when he asks that last question, I start to wonder—hypothetically—if the woman did exist, she wouldn’t have had a chance finding me. I was a runaway. An invisible child. And then I was Nina Vanderwal. How would she have ever found me when I’ve made it impossible?

  All I have of my mom is an old photo of her. For a while, I used to think about her a lot, wondering what she was like, if she was anything like me.

  “It’s nev
er too late, you know?” Lachlan says, and I let his words float in my head.

  I’ve lost everything, but what if . . . what if I haven’t? What if there’s a chance that I have something left in this life? Is it worth trying to find? Is it worth believing in hope when that dream has failed me countless times? Can I take another disappointment?

  Questions.

  I have hundreds of them.

  Looking back to Lachlan, I want to protect myself, but I’m so lonely. Lonely and in need of comfort, in need of a reason to go on. Because as I stand now, I’m beginning to seriously wonder why I’m still here—moving, breathing, living.

  “Why do you care?” I ask the man who shouldn’t because I’m not worthy of it.

  “There’s something about you,” he says with all seriousness.

  “But you don’t know anything about me.”

  “Doesn’t mean that I don’t want to,” he admits before adding, “All friendships have to start somewhere. Let me help you.”

  But I’ve never had friends. I stuck to myself in school while everyone else picked on me. Pike was my only friend, not just from childhood, but also as adults. And let’s face it, the so-called friends I had when I married Bennett were just for show.

  So I accept his offer, and with reluctance about what I’m agreeing to, I give a small nod.

  “Okay then.”

  I’VE BEEN PACKING ever since I got back from Edinburgh. Now that all my belongings are ready to go back to the States, I sit on the floor beside the bed I’ve been sleeping in for the past few weeks since I arrived here at Isla’s. My mind begins to drift back to the conversation I had with Lachlan earlier today. It was weird. A mention of my mother is something that never happens. It’s a part of my life that rarely creeps to the surface. But it’s there now, and I’m not quite sure how it happened.

  There were times in my childhood when I would miss her. But what I was missing wasn’t real; it was simply a creation of my imagination. I’ve never known what it was to have a mom. More than anything, it’s always been my dad that I ache for and miss wholeheartedly. But when Lachlan offered to help find my mother, I agreed. I don’t know why. My acceptance of his offer came without much thought at all. Maybe I’m just so lonely that I’m willing to grasp on to anything at the moment.

  Warmth slips down my neck, extinguishing my train of thought, and when I bring my hand to the front of me, it’s bloody with dark flesh under my nails. It’s then I realize I’ve been mindlessly picking at the scab that still remains from Declan. It’s grown in size. I reach back and begin to dig my nail into the soft, gummy exposed flesh, and a searing pain slices my scalp.

  And finally, my mind is depleted of all thoughts as I go numb.

  My eyes fall shut, and I drop my head forward, letting it hang. Fingers that work nimbly find an unpicked edge of a scab, and I grip it between my fingers. A moment passes before I swiftly yank, pulling the scab off along with new, uninfected flesh, enlarging the wound even more. Exhaling a lungful of air, my core tingles in delighted release when I feel a new onslaught of warm, thick blood oozing down the delicate skin of my neck.

  Exultation is stolen in an instant when the door to my room opens, and I see Declan’s horrified face.

  Am I dreaming?

  He’s frozen for a moment before stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. I don’t move as I look up, stunned.

  “Christ, what happened?” he gasps, but he isn’t looking at me directly.

  I follow his focus as my eyes land on my crimson soaked hand that rests on my lap. His legs disappear from my periphery while my vision blurs on my weapon, and then it’s gone. Covered in a warm, wet towel.

  Touch.

  Declan’s hand works deftly as he dabs gently, cleaning the blood.

  Touch.

  My heart’s beat reacts, delicate pumps soothe my tormented chest into a lull of lucidity.

  Touch.

  No longer a hateful, punishing touch; just a touch.

  Lifting my eyes to his face that’s pinched in puzzlement, he flips my hand palm-up and then over again.

  “Where’s the blood coming from?”

  I don’t speak, and when he catches my eyes with his, his voice is fervent, “Nina, where’s the blood coming from?”

  Don’t call me that.

  Ache splinters when he calls me Nina, tightening my throat in a menagerie of emotions. A collision so unmanageable, my body doesn’t know how to react, so it remains numb and silent as Declan begins to move his hands over me, pulling up the sleeves to my sweater, trying to find the source of the blood.

  Lowering my head, I lose myself in skin-to-skin contact, and when his hand finds the back of my head, I go limp, falling into his lap. I lie on the floor, like a baby, with my head on his knees and silently blink out tears. I don’t know if they’re happy or sad tears. All I know is that they are tears that welcome my answered prayer of solace.

  His fingers are tender as they move to nurse me. I rest in a ball, curled at his mercy. His pants dampen beneath my cheek, salting the wool fabric.

  If wishes were granted, this would be mine. I wanted to remain in his lap forever. To never lose that feeling because he was everything in that moment. Gentle and loving. Lying there, I felt like a child. Like a little girl being taken care of by her father. And although he wasn’t my father, somehow he carried pieces of that man inside of him. It wasn’t something he was even aware of, but I was. I saw it and felt it every time I was in the presence of Declan. He held it all: lover, protector, fighter. He was the ultimate fairytale, and I would have done anything to make him my fairytale.

  “What have you done to yourself?” his voice murmurs above me. “Sit up.”

  He helps me from his lap, and we sit face to face when he instructs, “Lift your arms,” and when I do, he slips the sweater off of me.

  Blood stains the back of the top, and he continues to clean me up before spotting my luggage and pulling out a clean shirt that he then puts on me.

  Letting go of a deep breath, he sits in front of me while I remain by the side of the bed. Some of my blood colors his knuckles as I watch him drag his hand back through his thick hair. I observe the details of his movements, the way his chest rises and falls with each deep breath he takes, the way a lock of his hair falls over his forehead in dishevelment, the lines of torment that crease his face, the dark lashes that outline and brighten his green eyes that are pinned to mine.

  With my trembling hand, I reach up and lightly touch his face with the tips of my fingers. He doesn’t flinch or move when I do this, something I thought I’d never be able to do again. And then I mutter my first words on a hushed breath drenched thick in heartbreak, “I thought you were dead.”

  His throat flexes when he takes a hard swallow. “I know you did,” he responds, voice strained.

  “Your father . . . ” I start, struggling to keep my words alive. “He told me . . . ”

  “It was a lie.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t want you looking for me.”

  Truths are blades. But I deserve every cut that comes my way.

  “Your head looks really bad,” he notes. “Why? Why are you doing this to yourself?”

  I reach back to touch his gift that burns in my flesh, and I’m embarrassed when I answer him with honesty, because I refuse to hide myself from him anymore.

  “I didn’t want to let it go?”

  “It’s grotesque, Nina.”

  “Please. Don’t . . . don’t call me that.”

  He drops his head, saying, “I want to hurt you.”

  “I know.”

  “My hands itch with the need to rip you apart. I crave it,” he confesses and then shifts his eyes back to mine. They’re dark and bitter, dilated in vehemence.

  “I deserve it.”

  “You do,” he agrees.

  Pulling my knees to my chest, I wrap my arms around them, hugging myself.

  “Why are you here?”

/>   “I needed to know something . . . ” His head drops again, and the utter agony in his voice when he continues wrecks me. “The baby . . . ”

  A broken whimper forces its way out of me.

  “Was it even mine?”

  The last thing I want to do is hurt Declan more than what I already have. I want to lie, tell him yes, tell him he was the only one I was sleeping with, convince him of my love.

  But I can’t.

  I don’t want to hurt him with the truth, but I also don’t want to comfort him with lies.

  “I need to know,” he urges.

  His eyes shine bright with tears I know threaten him, and I cowardly shake my head.

  He takes a push back, widening the gap between us, and leans his head against the dresser.

  “Why?”

  “I wanted it to be,” I tell him as I begin to cry from what was stolen from me.

  “So it was Bennett’s baby?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Confusion strikes his face. “What does that mean?”

  God, I hate this. Hate that I keep deepening the wound. Tears soak my cheeks as I stall.

  “What do you mean you don’t know?” he presses.

  “Because . . . b-because . . . ”

  “Say it.”

  “There was someone else.”

  My words ignite a fire within him. His neck is tense, reddening in anger. With elbows on knees and white-knuckled fists clenching hair, I know he’s about to blow.

  “It’s not what you’re thinking, Declan,” I say in my attempt to explain the fucked up relationship Pike and I had.

  “Besides me and Bennett, you were fucking someone else?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then it’s exactly what I’m thinking!” he seethes.

  “No. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t . . . ” God, how the hell do I begin to explain this? “He was . . . This is going to sound crazy, I know, but it isn’t.”

  “I fucking hate you.”