Page 56 of Last Destination

Fuck.

“Nik, do you want to grab a shower?” I started up the stairs, anticipating a real washroom with plumbing and toiletries and towels. My body was begging to take the stairs two at a time, but I patiently awaited his response.

He looked up at me through the slats of the stairs across the room. “You go ahead, mate. I’ll jump in when you’re done.” He returned his attention to the blue glass bottle shaped like an iceberg and ignored me altogether.

My shoulders dropped as I watched my boyfriend — could I call him that? — lose his battle of wills and unscrew the top. I couldn’t save this man from himself. He would have to make that choice on his own.

I found the white marble bathroom and stripped down so quickly I almost tripped out of my khaki pants. The feel of the hot water on my skin three minutes later was the most blissful sensation in the world. I lathered my skin six times with the little bottles of shampoo left on the tiled shower bench, and carefully rinsed away each layer of dirt and grime before lathering up again. The lavender vanilla scent would have given me a headache in weeks past, but now it could have been the aroma of the ancient Greek gods with how much I scrubbed it into all the layers of my skin. The hot water had run out by the time I was done.

I stepped onto heated floors, dried my skin with the softest towel I’d ever felt, letting the relief of life’s simplest pleasures wash over me in a wave so powerful, I fell to my knees and sobbed.

When every bit of hydration in my body had been expelled, I rose, feeling every second of our jungle escape in my body.

A white terrycloth robe hung on the back of the door, and I slipped it over my clean skin. I’d lost weight — maybe fifteen pounds with the way the cloth draped over my frame — and the face that grimaced back in the mirror shocked me. Sunken cheeks, pointy chin, eyes glazed with the haunted scars of a man who had survived by the skin of his teeth.

Bright red welts covered half of my body, evidence of the brash mosquitoes who snacked on us during all hours of the day. My chest scabs were yellowed, raised lumps of puffy healing flesh, and the ribs below them were a Jackson Pollock painting of mottled bruising, faded to yellowish-brown from the crash.

I was a smash-and-dash special in human form. I could have been on a humanitarian aid commercial.

I couldn’t do anything about any of it. My body would heal in time and my mind would heal with some expensive therapy and a lifetime commitment to avoiding air travel, but I needed food — a whole transport truck full of it. My stomach growled with a vengeance, wholeheartedly agreeing. Hopefully, Jamie had left some for the rest of us.

I made my way down to the foyer where I’d left my bag and took out my electronics, plugging them into the kitchen island outlet to charge while I rummaged for a snack. Everything in this home was stark, a contrast to the vivid greens and blues of the jungle, and almost startling to process.

Settling for something small to start, knowing better than to shock my system, I grabbed a strawberry yogurt and popped the top, grimacing at its contents — much soupier than I remembered. I searched for a spoon in one of the hundred drawers, then stirred the watery pink concoction as I stared out through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows to where Nikki lounged on a pool deck chair, the iceberg bottle still tightly gripped in one hand.

With a sigh, I picked up my phone and punched in my password. The flashing light of a voicemail notification froze the blood in my veins on the spot.

My father. My father had called me back. With trembling fingers, I pressed play on the voicemail.

“Nae saekki.” My father’s familiar soft tenor came through the line, pressing play on the waterfall of tears I’d been holding onto. “It is a miracle to hear your voice. Please call me back as soon as possible. There is much to discuss, but first, you need to come home. Saranghaeyo.”

Fuck. The tears came in a torrent, cleaning my face all over again with my relief, my pain, and my shame. I love you too, Appa.

Yogurt abandoned, I pressed redial on the call, desperate to hear my father’s voice in real time. It was late afternoon, two hours ahead of LA. Would he answer?

The tinny ring echoed through the line six times, and my heart sank back down to the bottom of my stomach. Before I could end the call, a click resounded against my ear.

“Ambrose?” Hwan Park’s voice was frantic, like he’d just finished a marathon before answering the phone. “Ambrose, is that you?”

“Appa.” The word clung to my throat as it thickened with so much emotion, I couldn’t say it all. “I’m okay, Appa. We made it.”

For the first time since my mother’s funeral, I heard my father’s wracking sobs. “Uri aduel,” he gasped. Our son.

“I will send a private plane for you. You must get home at once.”

“No! No, Appa.” I amended quickly, wary of disrespecting my father even after a life-changing crisis. “I won’t be getting on a plane. But I can book a ship. I’m going to need some medical attention anyway. I’m not hurt,” I hurried to add, leaving that statement in very loose terms, “but I’m dehydrated and will need to rest and eat a few full meals before I consider traveling anywhere.”

Silence came through the line, and for a minute, I thought I’d lost him. “Understood, aduel. I will give you a week and take care of all the details. Ships leave Panama daily. We will get you home. In the meantime, I will work on getting your accounts reinstated.”

That … was a giant relief. Did he know that most of those assets were only good on paper and I’d almost sunk the company? Did that matter anymore? Whether he anticipated my question or not, he answered it in the next breath.

“You have a place here, aduel. Your deal with Ravi was a good one. The board abstained from a decision since they pronounced you...” His voice faltered. “None of that matters now,” he said, voice returning stronger. “You will come back to everything you’ve earned. It will be like the accident never happened.”

Like the accident never happened. Like Marley, Nikki, and Madman had never happened. Like I hadn’t lived through a terrifying trauma. Like Diaz hadn’t tried to kill us. Like I hadn’t come face-to-face with two of the world’s deadliest predators and lived to tell the tale. Like I hadn’t been willing to kill or be killed. Like two people hadn’t helped keep me alive and stolen small pieces of my heart.

“Thank you for your generosity, Appa. I’ll let you know when to expect me.”

Madman came into the kitchen, wearing a matching terrycloth robe, and leaned against the door. He smelled of the same sweet lavender-vanilla combo. “I have to go, but I’ll call you soon. Saranghaeyo.”