Page 65 of Last Destination

A squat villager — an old woman with wiry hair and kind eyes who owned a flower shop — smiled at me as I passed her on the cobblestone boulevard. It was my fifth walk since we’d arrived a few days ago, but I did not know how to respond before. Today, I lifted my lips upward, the strange stretch uncomfortably tugging my cheeks. She cocked her head in mild confusion when I passed. Perhaps I didn’t smile right. Blending in was the key to my future. I would have to practice.

The street reminded me of the idyllic landscapes I’d only witnessed on the rare occasions we’d been allowed to watch old movies in the prison recreation area. I passed clean, whitewashed buildings with well-maintained brickwork and large windows covered in colorful posters advertising their wares.

A paper poster stapled to a post caught my eye as I passed. It spoke of a small ecotourism business looking for a new owner. I stripped it from the post and tucked it into my pocket. The peace of the island, its quiet nature and unassuming joy. I could find a home here, even alone. I would explore all of my options soon, once my companions had determined their own futures.

Halting, I turned on the spot and my gaze landed back on the flower shop, its window display loaded with tropical flowers of all colors. Maddox Torres would not waste time convincing a prisoner to join Clube de Morte. But Salvadore Ramirez … The new, free version of me also had free choice. I could show what my new gang meant to me.

I had done everything to protect them in the jungle. Words inside my head flowed freely. Words into the open air for others to hear were not as easy. How would I demonstrate their value when protection was no longer necessary?

Did my captain like flowers? Uncertainty was not a feeling I gave energy to, but it sat inside my skin now with uncomfortable electricity. Flowers were the chosen gift of a suitor, a boyfriend. It was a label I’d never been called, even from her lips. It seemed too simple, too trivial, for two people who’d endured a test of wills at each other’s side.

Since we’d found safety, she’d laid beside me a few evenings, snuggling into my embrace as we both fell asleep, and gifted me sweet kisses when her smile was bright, but she had yet to re-invite me to her bed.

Frowning, I left the idea at the flower stand and crossed the street, entering the chilled grocery.

The small shop, filled floor to ceiling with an abundance of options, was my greatest luxury. For decades, food provided fuel, the rare candy I paid a heavy price for was the only food worthy of tasting. I’d taken home a new treat every day since arriving to this island, but never thought to bring a favor home to my companions.

I circled the shop, the false cold air forcing every hair on my body to stand on end. What treat would my ángel enjoy? Nikki had coaxed her to eat a meal or two each day, and she’d regained her missing pieces with each bite. Seeing her cheeks refill pleased me, but she still required more to get her back to our first meeting, when she’d shouted at Diaz for shooting a gun in the plane.

The memory tugged at my lips and the recesses of my heart. Love had never been shown to me. I had no reference point other than novels with their fabricated tales. Perhaps I did not love her then, but I loved her now.

A small sign for a “build-your-own” charcuterie sat on top of the deli glass. An aspect of society I did not enjoy — too many signs, too many ads for items we could see without the need of large arrows — but this one might be useful.

Marley’s enthusiastic smile rose to the surface when Nikki fed her a grilled cheese sandwich yesterday — an admittedly simple, yet delicious meal. Perhaps she would like un-grilled cheese?

My brows furrowed as I stared at the options. Smoke gouda, Havarti, Manchego, Roquefort … How did one know which cheese to buy?

I would have to buy them all.

The deli employee sliced and wrapped each cheese carefully in brown paper, handing me the bag with a wide smile. I attempted another one in return, stretching my cheeks wider than my previous try, and her brows creased into a frown. My lips fell back into their normal closed line. Smiling at strangers was more of a challenge than I’d anticipated.

A small cellophane bag of lollipops sat beside the register. I added three to my order, then promptly pulled one from the package and popped it into my mouth. I would not be expected to offer social niceties with my mouth closed. The strawberry candy exploded with sweetness on my tongue, and I relished the glassy texture. My new favorite.

The village bustled around me on my walk home. My appearance received a few casual glances. A man of my size would never blend into crowds, but I would get used to curious stares.

The brick cottage came into view, its white paint and blue shutters charming and inviting. I had read books with such houses, had worked on properties with similar styles. Never had I imagined I would sleep in one, or one day own one. Freedom was not the permission to be wild and reckless. I had done plenty in prison. My freedom would be pleasant domestication, a life I never thought I’d lead.

My steps faltered when I walked through the small alcove sheltering the front door. I had not knocked on my last ventures, but I considered it now.

Was I a guest? A visitor? Clube de Morte was my chosen family as I entered my new life. Did they consider me the same?

My legs stood frozen before my mind forced one foot forward through the threshold.

This was a house, a stone building for shelter.

They were my home.

Other than the risperidone dose flowing through my blood and calming the nightmare that was my brain chemistry, I hadn’t needed anything else to keep me afloat this week, and the feeling of living, breathing, and just being was an immense relief. After two weeks of semi-coherent hell in the jungle and two months of recovery, the mundanity of eating breakfast at a kitchen table was ridiculously pleasant.

The men I could live that life alongside sat around the table with me, quietly eating their own breakfasts. Madman had taken to sugary cereals, polishing off a solid box a day, along with a full pot of coffee by noon. His appetite out of the jungle was enormous, but he’d lived a life of limitations for two decades, so I couldn’t blame him. Nikki opted for hard-boiled eggs, toast, and tea. I munched on a plain bagel with plain cream cheese, the simplicity of the chewy bread and tangy spread my new favorite indulgence.

It was funny what we considered indulgences after weeks with no luxuries at all. Madman’s enthusiasm over pillows alone was a reminder how fortunate we were.

I nearly choked when he'd offered me a brown paper bag filled with eight varieties of cheese last night. It had to have been at least a hundred dollars’ worth.

“For you,” he’d said, shoving the bag into my hands like it was on fire. “I am not good with gifts, but cheese seemed … right.”

My heart twinged at his unsure expression, his normally unreadable face almost childlike with vulnerability. My sweet Madman — always looking out for me, even at the grocery store.