If you’re going to waste your life and spend all my money, you could at least have the decency to let us know you’re okay. If I don’t hear from you, I’m hiring a private investigator, and he will bring you home.
Sincerely,
Richard N. Summers
That was my dad. Good ole Richard N. Summers. Gotta love being treated like an employee by your own father. I almost hit reply. I had so many things I wanted to say to him, “I’m alive, douche-bag” being just the first.
But I believed him when he said he’d hire a private investigator. We’d gotten in the habit of paying in cash because they hadn’t really taken cards in Cinque Terre. I don’t think I’d used my card since Florence. He’d have a hell of a time finding us. His patience had run out, and if I told him where I was now, the odds were he’d have someone here tomorrow to drag me home.
Or I could keep going, and maybe it would take him another week or two to find me. I’d stopped using my card to pay for things after that last e-mail in Prague. I only withdrew cash from an ATM when we were leaving a city and moving on. So, other than the occasional ATM transaction, he wouldn’t have much to go on.
Tomorrow, I told myself. I’d take care of it tomorrow. I didn’t want him dragging me home, but I was also tired of running. If I had learned anything on this trip, it was that running from something didn’t mean it stopped chasing you. And I was tired of living life with all my problems nipping at my heels.
Today, I would talk to Hunt and find out where this was going. And then depending on how that went, I’d e-mail my father tomorrow. Either to tell him I was coming home . . . or to tell him something, anything that would let me hang on to this paradise a little longer.
“You ready?” Hunt asked over my shoulder. “What are you reading?”
I closed the window and logged off the computer.
“Just an e-mail from my father. Still trying to control me even with an entire ocean between us.”
He frowned, and I linked my arm with his. “It’s fine. I’m done letting him interfere with my life.”
It took several long moments for his eyes to clear, but then he smiled at me.
I asked, “Did you find a place for us to stay?”
“I did. It’s kind of a trek from here, so we should get whatever we need for our stay now so we don’t have to come back to the city center unless we want to. But the good news is it’s not far from a harbor where you and I have a reservation for a boat tour around the island.”
“Sounds perfect.”
We gathered our things, did a bit of shopping (including a new swimsuit for me), and found a taxi to take us to the bed-and-breakfast where we were staying.
I closed myself in the bathroom to change into my bathing suit, a simple black bikini top to go with the old black bottoms that I hadn’t lost in Cinque Terre.
I looked in the mirror, trying to gather my courage. Instead, I marveled at the way I had changed in the last few weeks.
In that bathroom in Heidelberg, I’d looked in the mirror and been disgusted with myself. I had looked sad and small and pathetic and ragged. Now . . . I looked happy. I mean, sure, I was tired from all the traveling and lugging my backpack around. My brow was lined with sweat from the non-air-conditioned taxi that had brought us here. And I was wearing just a dash of mascara, and nothing more. I had definitely looked prettier. But happier? Never.
That was all the pep talk I needed.
I pulled on another sundress, opened the bathroom door, and located Jackson sitting on the bed. I took a running leap, and threw myself at him.
His reflexes were too fast for me to surprise him, so instead he caught me, and rolled me underneath him.
I laughed, and he looked at me with such tenderness in his eyes. He propped himself up on one elbow, and ran his fingers through my hair splayed across a pillow.
“Someone is happy,” he said.
I nodded, and pulled him down for a kiss. I wrapped my legs around his waist, and he lowered himself down on top of me.
I hummed into his kiss and said, “It appears someone else is happy, too.”
27
We were five minutes late for our boat reservation. Totally worth it.
We rented a boat and hired a man named Gianni to captain it for us. Gianni was a plump, older man with a near-permanent frown and white eyebrows so bushy they looked more like a patch of whiskers. But even his grouchy, broken English couldn’t ruin this moment.
Gianni set off in silence, leaving Hunt and me toward the back of the boat just to enjoy the ride.
We rode straight out of the harbor first, the small inlet filled with boats disappearing quickly behind us. Then when we were far enough out that we could only see a few boats like ours out on the water, he turned and began circling the island.
I leaned back against the seat cushions and placed my feet in Hunt’s lap with a quick smile. His returned smile was devastatingly handsome. He glanced at an oblivious Gianni, and lifted up my foot, placing a sensuous kiss on the inside of my ankle the same way he’d done the night we first slept together. A shiver snaked down my spine, coiling low in my belly.
After a while, we settled into a comfortable silence. The boat’s motor was too loud to allow for much conversation anyway. So, I leaned back against the cushions to watch the land rise and fall around us, and Hunt pulled out his notebook, scratching away at another sketch.
Once we’d seen a good portion of the island at a distance, Gianni brought us close to the land again, this time a section devoid of a harbor and seaside buildings. He began to slow. The water below us was a vivid turquoise, but as we came into shallower water, we could see straight through to the fish and coral that lined the ocean bottom.
There were numerous other boats ahead of us gathered around one outcropping of rock. Gianni slowed to a stop and lowered a tiny rowboat into the water off the edge of our larger boat.
Gesturing toward an opening in the rock, he said, “Grotta Azzurra.” I took a wild guess, and assumed that Azzurra was related to the word azure.
“Blue?” I asked.
“Sì, Blue Grotto.”
He motioned for Hunt and me to climb down the ladder on the side of the boat, and into the canoe/small boat/thingamajig. Jackson went first, and I followed, and then Gianni came down last. It was a seriously small boat. I was a little worried about how it was going to handle the three of us. But I wasn’t going to argue with Gianni’s very serious eyebrows.
He pointed toward the mouth of the cave again, and said, “Grotto.”
I moved closer to Hunt to make a little room, and he pulled me into the V of his legs.
Gianni rowed us toward the grotto, where we waited in line as other small boats like ours entered and exited the cave. We had to duck our heads just to fit under the overhanging rock, but as soon as we got inside, I knew how it got its name.
The waters inside the dark cave glowed a florescent blue. At first, I thought it was just a reflection from the light coming from the mouth of the cave, but the light seemed to be shining up from underneath the water. I dipped a hand under the surface, and it too glowed blue.
“Wow.” My voice echoed around the cave, bouncing back at us from craggy walls.
Then our surly guide began to sing, and my jaw dropped in shock.
His voice was low and rich as he sang a song in Italian, slow and mesmerizing. The sound echoed around us, filling the chamber, and making my breath catch in my throat.
Jackson’s arm tightened around my waist and he rested his lips against my shoulder.
Too quickly, Gianni was maneuvering the boat around and we were heading back for the bright light of the opening. I wanted to slow time down, to freeze us in this moment for just a few seconds longer.
I turned my head and met Jackson’s eyes. They looked almost blue in the cave, and my heart beat at a frenzied pace. Before I could change my mind, I said, “I’m falling for you.”
His eyes searched mine, and I felt like I was
falling still, waiting for him to answer. My ears rang like I was plunging toward the earth, and my eyes watered like the wind was flying directly into my face. And I waited. And waited. His expression, unreadable.
He opened his mouth, and my heart leapt in my chest.
Then Gianni said, “Duck.”
Hunt’s large hand cradled my head, and he pulled us both down as the boat glided underneath the rock. My heart was splintering, cracking and peeling every second he stayed silent.
But I shouldn’t have worried.
The very second we were past the overhang, he pulled me up and pressed his lips to mine in the perfect, scorching kiss.
He didn’t say anything. Just melted me with his mouth and pierced me with his eyes, and I supposed I would have to settle for that. He was an action-over-words kind of man, and I liked him that way.
After that, Gianni led us to a private inlet. He tied the boat to an outcrop of rock, gestured for us to jump out, and then pulled his hat down over his face for a nap.
Jackson and I took advantage of the privacy, and with the help of a not-too pointy rock face, we managed to achieve what hadn’t been possible out in the deep water at Cinque Terre.
When we returned to our room that night, our skin was several shades darker, my hair smelled of salt, and we’d managed to get salt and sand in a few inconvenient places.
We both needed a good shower.
“You go first. It’s going to take me forever to get everything out of my hair.” “I could help.” As appealing as that sounded, I knew where it would lead, and I was honestly too tired to even think about sex standing up, let alone perform it. “Thanks, Casanova, but let’s just get clean first. You can get me dirty again later.”
“Looking forward to it already.”
I laughed, and turned to throw my things at the foot of the bed. They hit the floor, and then an arm swooped around my waist, spinning and dipping me backward.
He kissed me slowly, the scruff on his chin tickling my skin. I was constantly amazed at how every kiss with him felt different, felt new. I hoped it would always feel that way.
He stood me up and gave me one more quick kiss.
He said, “I’ve not been this happy in a long time. Ever. Maybe.”
“Me too.”
He whistled as he retreated to the shower, and a smile burst open on my mouth, impossible to contain. I closed my eyes, and stretched out my arms like I’d just finished the only race that mattered.
God, he was perfect.
Well, except for the mess factor, but I could live with that. He’d dumped his things by the door, and I began moving them to the desk.
I could see his phone in the open outside pocket of his backpack, and in a small moment of curiosity and desperation, I picked it up.
I unlocked it. Not to search it, not really. Just to see.
My stomach sank.
Twenty-nine voice-mail messages.
Twenty-nine.
My finger hovered over the screen, and I wanted to listen. Just a quick check, just to make sure they were really nothing to worry about. I touched my finger to the screen, but then immediately pulled it back.
I wasn’t going to be that way. Jackson had been so good about respecting my privacy as we got closer. He hadn’t pushed even though it had been obvious from the very beginning that that went against his nature. He’d done so much for me, more than I could put into words.
I wouldn’t betray him like that. I couldn’t.
I returned the phone as I caught sight of his sketchbook. Somehow the impulse to know what he drew in there was even stronger than the one that wanted to listen to the phone calls.
I told myself I was just going to pick it up, but when I did, a few loose sheets of paper drifted to the floor. I scrabbled to pick them up. I picked up a few sheets, sliding them back into the book. When I turned the last one over, I froze.
For a few seconds, I thought it was the drawing that I’d gotten from that little boy in Budapest. It was the same fountain. I recognized the man at the top, proud and bare like he’d risen up right out of the sea. The same thoughtful women sat below him, their shoulders hunched, their bodies smoothly sculpted.
The drawing was different, though. Darker. Whereas the boy had drawn the world as he saw it, trying to capture the reality of the curves and the physicality of nature, this drawing seemed . . . sad. The shadows melted into each other, throwing the statues into sharp relief. This drawing gave words to the stone women, frozen forever in time, unable to do anything but exist. The boy had only begun to sketch me into the picture, so that I was almost a ghost, little more than a smile, blonde curls, and a flowing dress.
I was a ghost in this drawing, too. Not because I wasn’t fully realized, but because I was. I sat on that bench, both stiff and somehow wilted at the same time, and I watched the world around me with longing buried beneath detachment, covered over with a paper-thin smile that was little more than a smudge on the page.
I looked to the bathroom, where Jackson was currently just on the other side of a door. Maybe I hadn’t imagined him that day. There’d been a glimpse, just the briefest sight of a head that might have been his, but I’d written it off as wishful thinking.
But if he had this, if he drew this, he had to have been there.
I stopped worrying about getting the chair wet, and I stopped worrying about privacy as I took a seat to scan through the rest.
I’d thought I might find comfort in his sketches. He’d seen right through me with his sketch of Budapest. He’d seen that I was hurting when I was only just coming to terms with it. I wanted to see what he saw now. He was so confident that I could beat the darkness in me. Maybe he saw something I didn’t.
I flipped open the sketchbook, full of hope and fear, wishing that somewhere in those pictures I would find my next foothold, a hand to pull me up.
Instead, they sent me tumbling over the edge.
28
Your turn, sweetheart.”
I couldn’t look at him. I was barely holding it together, and I knew if I looked at him, I was going to fall to pieces. I just wanted to rewind time, take back a few more precious seconds of happiness. I would have cherished them more if I’d known they were coming to an end. But that’s life, I guess. We’re always a half a second late and one word short of what we really need.
“Kelsey? You okay?”
Jackson walked toward me. He reached out, skin to skin, and I moved so fast that my chair toppled over.
“Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare.”
His expression crumpled like a discarded ball of paper, and it looked so authentic, so real that my heart jerked.
I threw my gaze up to the ceiling so that I wouldn’t have to see, so that I wouldn’t get fooled again.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Did I do something?”
There weren’t words for the horror I felt, so I grabbed the sketchbook off the seat of the stool next to me, and slapped the picture of the fountain in Budapest onto the bar.
“That was the day after we met.”
I covered it with a second picture of me sleeping on the train from Budapest to Prague. My face was soft, angelic even, but still sad.
“A few days later.”
“I—” He opened his mouth, maybe to make an excuse, but I cut him off with another sketch.
“And that’s me in front of the monastery in Kiev. Now, I’m not great with time and dates, but that’s roughly a month ago. A month.”
“Kelsey, I can—”
I slammed down another page, and I felt the force echo up through my elbow to my chest.
“And here’s Bucharest. I’m not in this first one, but, oh, look, there I am.” I laid a second and a third. “And I sure as hell don’t remember seeing you at that club in Belgrade, but I guess you were. You captured the light perfectly on that one, by the way.”
I went to lay down more sketches, angry and fighting with tears, but my hands shook. Like leaves, the pa
pers drifted to the ground. Places I’d seen. Cities I’d visited. The last month of my life sketched out in black and white.
“Kelsey—”
“Just explain something to me, Hunt. Is it a game? Or are you a stalker? Are all those missed calls your parole officer? I called you a serial killer that first night or, well, the first night for me. I’d been kidding, but maybe I’d known something was off even then.”
“I swear it wasn’t like that, Kelsey. I know it looks bad, but it was never my intention to—”
“To what? Follow me across a continent? Worm your way into my life? Into my bed? God, but you were fucking patient, weren’t you? If you’d slept with me that first night, I would have left and been on my way. But no . . . that wasn’t enough.”
He gripped my shoulders, and for the first time, fear coiled around my anger because I had no idea what he was capable of. Even now, I had no idea what he wanted from me.
“It’s not a game. I meant every moment, and I can explain all of this if you’ll just give me a chance.”
A vibration buzzed on the desk, and I snatched Hunt’s phone from where I’d set it down.
I held it up to him. “Or I could find out the truth for myself?”
He threw out a hand as I pressed answer, but I ducked, pulling back a few feet. I stood near the door of the bar and pressed the phone to my ear.
I saw Hunt’s expression first—devastated and defeated. Then I heard a familiar voice through speaker.
“It’s about damn time, Hunt. Tell me what the hell my daughter is doing or you’re fired.”
The phone slipped from my hand, and time seemed to move into slow motion as it dropped. My heart fell at the same speed, long enough that it could have passed through galaxies before it hit the floor. The phone at least made a satisfying crack when it landed, but the crash of my heart was nothing more than a dull, hollow thud.
“Not just a stalker. A paid stalker.”
I guess it wasn’t me he wanted something from after all.
It’s a quiet thing when your heart breaks. I thought it would be loud, louder even than the air rushing around us when we’d dove off that bridge. I thought it would drown everything else out.