“Youbastard!” she screamed. “My daddy is dead!”
I opened the door to go, but she held on even tighter. Elliott, Mitch, and Nick were in the hallway, standing around with a bunch of other people loitering outside of the dorm rooms, drinking from red plastic cups.
“I know you're some big-shot baseball player, or swimmer. Offered every scholarship under the sun. Always calling the shots, getting all of the girls, the best at everything you do. But what good will it do if you don't have compassion? Nothing! You're just another asshole with a beautiful face and body, but empty, empty, empty on the inside!” She used her pointer finger to stab me in the back, accusingly. “Bastards like you always get what’s coming to them! And when you do, you crywaa waa, why me? Watch, whensomething tragic happens toyou, or maybeyourdaughter, you’ll think about this moment and know why! I’m someone’s baby! And you’re treating me like a dirtywhorewho isn’t worthy of your precious time! Though I was worth something when you were screwing me! You’ve probably never even been on a date! Women are nothing but another outlet to you! Something to use!”
I turned on her so fast that she took a step back, her eyes not so sure anymore. She crossed her arms, trying to cover herself. Her worry was wasted. I had had enough of her already.
“Your name,” I said.
She sniffed, tears starting to streak down her cheeks. “J-Jessica K-Kirk.”
“Jessica Kirk,” I said. “I never pay for pleasure, which means I never buy whores, I don’t have to, and I never stick around—I made this clear before. And I gave you just as much as you gave me—a fuck for a fuck. Actually, since you’re keeping score, you came three times to my one. A word to the wise though—be wary of who you invite into your room next time. Not all of us are so nice.”
I shut the door then with a soft click, her cries and curses loud enough to reach me from the outside. The hat came flying out a second later. I picked it up, dusting it off, and stuck it on my head backwards. I nodded to Elliott, Mitch, and Nick, ready to get the fuck out. Jessica Kirk was right. The place was haunted with old ghosts.
Mitch put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re a magnet to the ones with daddy issues.” He shook his head. “You big motherfucker. Once they’re over the shock of you, you make them feel safe.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Daddy issues.” Then we left.
Journal Entry
Scarlett
Rarely do I dream of symbolic things. My subconscious usually brings me the normal dreams—the ones where you are close to hitting rock bottom, only to snap awake. Or it’s the one that I have often had since I was a girl. I can seemedancing, but I'm on the outside looking in, free of self.
So when a dream lingers in memory, and I can relive it with my eyes closed, I find the book that belongs to us, The Beautiful Years, a collaboration of our life, and write it down.
I've flipped to the middle because I'm not ready for you to find it yet.
I can’t say how symbolic this dream is, or really what it stands for, only that I wake up feeling cold and alone, as if I’ve been stripped to the bone, and I fear going back to sleep because the dream might start over.
It begins wonderful enough. We’re making love in our room at the villa. The door to the terrace is open, and I can feel a slight breeze slipping in, a softer caress than your own.
My back is on the bed, I’m entirely open to you, and you are above me, inside of me. Sometimes it is rough and demanding, other times it is gentle and romantic. Our pace is the only detail of the dream that changes. I even feel the orb of sweat that drips from your brow, that comes to land with a soft drop against my breast, on forever repeat.
You come to me, fill me, and I can feel the warmth blossom, spread in my womb like ardor to a never-dying dream.
I can smell your desire and feel the contentment in your bones. Between us, my stomach starts to swell, the tightening a pleasurable line somehow connecting me to you, and the roundness a sensation that causes me to smile up at you with a sense of wonder that I can’t completely comprehend. I long to say, “I feel like a ripe piece of fruit, like a plump fig,” but the words refuse to come. The moment seems too perfect to disturb with useless words. But then the smile turns into a frown, because the golden light behind you breaks. It breaks around your back, and I find myself lost in the shadows, under you, without light, stuck in a cold reality. An everlasting winter is what it is.
I beg you to move then, to release the light, because I need it, we need it, but you can’t seem to understand my language and I can’t find the strength to move away from you—
I had to put the journal away for a moment. You came in to see me—you had fallen asleep in the bedroom—and said you were dreaming, but you refused to tell me what you had dreamed of.
I’m not sure what I’m more afraid of, my husband. Is it your lack of words or the drowning sea of mine?
Chapter One
Brando
The weatherman had predicted snow. It hadn’t snowed in Natchitoches since December 11, 1995, the day Scarlett and I had connected.
I looked back down at the note in my hands:
“Mio angelo,
The weatherman predicted snow. Don’t forget to button up—it’ll be cold. Remember for the both of us, since I can’t be there beside you…My heart is better.
No unnecessary chances, Fausti.
