I furrow my brow. “What do you mean? When?”
“I didn’t want to think that something had happened to him; it had been so long. And then Wyn came home...” She smiles as she bats another tear away.
My gut sinks at what I think she’s telling me, knowing what kind of man my father was, and now just hearing about all of this between them.
“I expected him to show up when I texted this time. And he didn’t. The man I loved for most of my life told me he would try to find my granddaughter.” Taking a pause, she searches my eyes. “She came home. And then, you showed up in his place.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Wyn
I’m not evensure where I’m going. I just know I need air.Oxygen. Symbol is ‘O’ number eight on the periodic table.I need to breathe.
In through my nose, out through—Not so fast. In through my nose—Oh god, I feel dizzy.Do not pass out.Sixteen steps down the side of the house. Keep counting.
I recognized that man.
There are seventy-eight steps from here to the front of the bar. Someone’s shoulder knocks mine. Oh, fuck.
“Hey!”
Too many people are in line out front of the bar. Thirty-one to the edge of the parking lot.
“Isn’t that Professor Crowne? Dr. Crowne!”
Breathe.Someone shouts from behind me, but I tune it out.I know him. I knew him.Fifty-six to the other side of the footbridge.Breathe. You’re almost there.
I shove past Gail and Gina, and one of them calls after me. One foot in front of the other—the sound of water rushing, muffled voices. When I cross the threshold, I expect relief, but when I try sucking in a deeper breath, my chest won’t let me.
“Isn’t our new friend absolutely the most clever one yet, Professor? Aside from you, of course.”
No.
“Wyn,” Julian’s voice calls from behind me. It sounds different, likehisvoice.I knew him.Please don’t let all of this have been a dream. My palms scrape along splintered wood.
I know why Julian seemed familiar. I know because he reminded me of his father. I can still hear his voice:Wyn, run!
“Look at me,”Julian says as he approaches, nearly out of breath from running after me. He doesn’t sound angry, if anything, the softness and concern in his tone makes me feel even more horrible.
“Julian,” I rush out.How am I supposed to tell him any of this?
His hands frame my face, moving me so I’ll look at him. “Look at me, baby. Come on, breathe for me.” He blows out a breath for me to mimic. I look at him for a second, but I close my eyes. This is too much.
I can’t slow it down. I can only take in small puffs. My lungs won’t allow it. It’s too much.I knew him.
“You gotta slow it down for me, c’mon,” he coaxes. Leaning into me, up against my ear, he says, “You’re going to need to slow down. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. If you pass out, I’llbe right here. Take your time. Breathe for me.” His arms wrap around me, and I let him. “Jesus, you’re shaking.”
He runs his hands up and down my back. Up and down the tattoos I’ve gotten, the pretty to offset the ugliness. “I’ve got you. Just breathe for me,” he says softly just as he lifts me in his arms.
Breathe.
“I haven’t told you about my favorite piece of jewelry, have I? Well, maybe my second favorite now,” he says, his voice measured and calm as we move.
I suck in another breath and can hear the familiar sound of moving water from the river across from my house. This time, it feels like I can get more in. I blow out, pursing my lips and trying to close them to inhale through my nose. My hair is stuck to my neck from sweat, but my whole body trembles from the inside out. The tighter he holds me, the better it feels.
“It was this pendant necklace I had designed for a client, a dainty gold chain and a pendant that had the most beautiful emerald. It had an eight-prong setting. The piece was very art deco. Think Gatsby, roaring twenties, distinct,” he says, out of breath.
My face is wet, my chest hurts, but I know he’s carried me across the footbridge and to my house. Without asking for keys or the code to my front door, he brings us around to the side and through the back. “I ended up finding it at an auction almost ten years after I designed and sold it. It was from an art installation I’d done in Los Angeles. Anyway, I knew I’d figure out a way to get my hands on that stone again. Maybe for another piece, or keep it. I don’t know. I didn’t have a plan for it, just that I wanted it back. I couldn’t forget that thing, and for a long time I thought, that’s just what art is—a piece of yourself you leave for someone else. I always looked at it that way, but this was different. I’d made so many pieces after that one, and I couldn’t tell you a single special thing about them.”
