Unfortunately, I knew we’d have to talk about what he did for a living. I’d have to come to terms with it and hope he wasn't out there at night gunning people down. I didn't want to ask him to change for me, but I couldn't justify murder, even for the love of my life.
Scariest of all, I’d have to tell him what really happened the night of the accident, and my given name. He deserved to know who he was marrying, even if I didn't truly know myself.
At the end of the evening, I texted Noah to see how he was doing. I wanted to spend the night together, but he and Benitohad a dinner meeting that he said might run long. One day soon, I would be getting ready for bed in our house, and he’d come to me when he was done with work. It was the type of future that was meant for someone else, yet somehow, I’d gotten lucky enough to have it set right in front of me.
Since he was still involved with whatever was so important, he told me he loved me and said we’d talk tomorrow. With the night surrounding me, I lay down and got comfortable.
Once I closed my eyes, the nightmare started the same as always: the interior of the car; the dark road beyond. My parents’ laughter, and the way I talked nonstop about rainbow sprinkles and pirouettes. As she always did, my mom turned to smile at me, but then everything changed.
Normally, that was the moment bullet holes opened up the windshield, and my mother screamed my name. We spun out, rolled four times, and the car came to a rest on its side, busted and smoking. I crawled out through the broken sunroof, slicing open my abdomen.
I tried to pull them out, tried to fix what was unfixable.
But in this dream, my mother turned to smile at me, and the driver turned his head, too. For the first time, I saw his features fully, and recognition hit me like a sucker punch.
Not my father, but the smiling man in the picture on top of Noah’s file box, with the blond hair and hazel eyes that ran in the Franco family. It wasn't my mother I resembled, but my father. I was positive the man in the picture wasn't Carmine, especially since it appeared to be current, but that was very close to what my father would look like if he were still alive.
Abruptly sitting up in bed, my heart hammering in my chest, I wiped sweat off my brow and tried to figure out what to do. Fumbling for my phone, I called Noah while my entire body trembled.
“Sailor? I thought you were going to bed.”
Between harsh, panting breaths, I managed to say, “I need you here.”
“What happened? Are you hurt?”
“Please,” was all I could say. “Please come.”
He didn't hang up when I could no longer speak, but kept talking to me over the different noises in the background. He excused himself from the other men, and then I heard his car door slam a minute later.
“Sailor?” he kept repeating. “Are you okay?”
Was I okay? Would I ever be okay again?
“I’m sorry,” I managed to sob before my fingers went completely numb and I dropped the phone.
Not long after, I heard the front door open and the security alarm do its thing, followed by a handful of beeps as Noah reset it. He found me still in bed, my arms wrapped around my knees as I rocked back and forth.
“What the fuck happened?” Sitting beside me, he put his arms around me, and I sank into his warmth. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” My brain was still jumbled in the odd space between the accident and present time. “It’s my dad.”
“What about him?”
“You had a picture a little while ago of two men standing beside each other.”
I felt him stiffen. “What do you know about that?”
“I'm not sure. But my nightmare was different this time, and if I can help you with whatever that was about, then I want to.”
Pulling back, I wiped at my face and studied his eyes. They weren't the typical calm, unguarded ones I'd grown used to, but wary and slightly closed off.
“But I'm afraid,” I whispered. “I'm terrified that what I'm about to tell you will ruin our relationship.”
He closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead, and then reopened them. “That's not possible.”
Yeah, you say that now. “In my memories, I can picture my mother effortlessly. I take after her: eyes, nose, hair.” I took a deep breath. “But I can never picture my father's face. He's either somewhere behind me, or I can only see the back of his head.”
“Sailor, I fail to see—”
