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Besides a funeral.
I walk back over to the great room, re-straightening the same pillows and blankets I did an hour ago. This is maddening. Maybe I should text him. I’ll text him at six. He’ll officially be an hour late without calling at that point.
Reaching for the remote, I decide to turn on the television to try to distract myself. I flip through the channels mindlessly. I have no idea what I’m looking for. I’m not even paying attention to what’s on the screen before I hit the button for the next channel.
My nerves have gone from excitement to anxiety. How could he be this late without calling? He made me a priority all day with those thoughtful deliveries. I put the remote control down, the news playing in the background as I reach for my phone. Screw it. Even if it isn’t a solid hour, he’s late enough that he shouldn’t be offended that I’m messaging.
5:47 p.m. | Jillian
Hey, we still on for tonight?
I watch the forecaster mention the heatwave across the US, my leg bouncing like a dog getting a belly rub. I look out the sliding glass doors. It’s still sunny. Not a cloud in the sky. I guess he could still have had an accident, clear skies or not. I groan, the thought of that making my stomach do a backflip. But the Luca I know would’ve found a way to call.
Walking over to the kitchen, I decide to put on a pot of tea. That usually relaxes me. As I put the tea kettle on the stove and turn on the heat, it hits me. Did I get things confused? Was I supposed to meet him somewhere? But that’s impossible. He’snever shared where he lives, and he certainly didn’t let on where we were having dinner.
“Breaking news.”
My eyes trail mindlessly from the tea pot to the television screen. The local news anchor is now on the screen as the red ticker tape displays beneath him. I nearly tune him out as I prepare to make my tea, as most of these breaking news stories are usually some local government official who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“We interrupt this national news broadcast to bring you breaking news out of Hanover, Virginia. Luke Barrett, the owner of Custom Metal Works, was arrested in one of the largest drug trafficking crimes this area has seen. More specifically, he’s charged with possession with intent to distribute international heroin, methamphetamine, cocaine, and fentanyl.”
My mug falls to the floor, the flying shards of comical coffee cup seem to ricochet off of the ground around me in slow motion.
“Sources tell us Federal officers raided the Custom Metal Works warehouse after an anonymous tip that large quantities of illegal drugs had been transported to their location.” The camera abruptly pans to an agent who’s giving a press conference.
“This is a major victory for the hard-working men and women of the FBI, who tirelessly pursue drug trafficking organizations that smuggle illicit narcotics into the United States. It’s believed the Hanover business was established as a front for the Messina crime organization out of Italy. This syndicate has been on our radar for a long time. While their organization is primarily based near Sicily, the extent of their illegal endeavor is wide. At this time, it’s believed that their criminal activity in the United States is limited to drugsmuggling. Yet, our office is on high alert for any possible sex trafficking or the transfer of arms.”
The room starts to spin. I think I’m going to throw up. There’s no way this is real. I didn’t eat enough today. My sugar must be low, and I’m in hypoglycemic shock. That’s what this is. I’m living a nightmare.
But as I carefully make my way through the broken remains of ceramic on the floor, I flop down onto the couch just as a shot of Luca being led out of the warehouse in handcuffs comes into view. “Oh god,” I cry out before my hand flies to my mouth. There’s no questioning it now. It’s abundantly clear what he’s been hiding, even through the unshed tears blurring my sight.
This is really happening.
He keeps his head down as if trying to hide from the camera, but there’s no doubt it’s him. Wearing jeans and a white tank top, his arms are restrained behind his back, the ink I’ve grown to love on full display for all to see.
Reaching for the remote again, I rewind and start the segment over. I’m not sure what it is I’m looking for. Anything to explain this all away. As the shock begins to wane, an overwhelming feeling of nausea roils within my belly, and I make a mad dash for the bathroom.
Hovering over the commode, I dry heave without any relief. I move to the sink and splash cold water on my face. The face I painstakingly applied the perfect makeup,so I wouldn’t look like I was wearing any makeup. Just one of many steps I took today, hoping Luca would fall for me, like I’d fallen for him. It’s with this thought I break out into a cold sweat and return to the commode, emptying everything I’ve digested in the last twenty-four hours. Tears stream down my face. This has to be a mistake. It just has to.
Once the retching subsides, I rinse my mouth and take a cool washcloth with me as I return to the couch. I hit playand rewatch the breaking news reel. Back and forth, I view and rewind, view and rewind, in some self-imposed mental torture. Why didn’t I run when all the secrecy was evident? Why didn’t I question when things didn’t add up?
My body quickly becomes rigid, alarmed at my carelessness when I consider the fact, I’ve allowed him to watch my children. I cry out in anguish when I realize each of them has been alone with him. My hands drop to my stomach, trying to soothe the return of queasiness at the revelation. What if they’d been caught in the crossfire? Shot over a drug deal gone wrong. He’d said his sister had been kidnapped. What the fuck was I thinking, letting this man anywhere near my children?
What the hell is wrong with you, Jillian?
As I’m about to turn the television off, I notice something odd on the screen and pause once more, walking closer. There’s a small table visible just as Luca walks off screen. Why are my eyes drawn to this? What difference could this make in the grand scheme of things?
Yet as the familiar pattern entices me further, I peer closer at one of the chairs. It looks like a folded white blanket of some sort with a wrapped gift sitting beneath it. A gift wrapped similarly to the ones my children gave me earlier. My happy, open, loving children, who put this man on a pedestal.
I mindlessly walk to the front door where I last saw my jubilant kids, wondering how my life has suddenly turned upside down. It was only a few hours ago we were all brimming with excitement. Turning toward the mirror he created for me, I stand frozen, stunned. Peering inside feels like art come to life. I’m Alice through the looking glass. The innocence of falling in love I’d felt mere hours ago has been replaced with the horror that is my life. The tears have slowed to a trickle as I look at the gullible girl reflected back at me.
I stand here in this virtual twilight zone for what feels like an eternity. Hoping something will make me realize, like Alice, this is all a ridiculous dream. But as life imitates art, I put my family in danger in my quest for more. I want to crawl inside and pretend it was all a dream. Pretend I never met this man.
My shock gradually turns to rage. That I’d taken a chance, only for it to blow up in my face.Again. And not just mine, but my children’s faces. How do I prevent those happy kids who ran out of here this morning from being destroyed again? Those sweet, innocent kids who trusted as I did.
Reaching into the umbrella stand, I wrap my hand around Caleb’s wooden baseball bat and bring it to my side. Turning to face the mirror I’d praised Luca for creating, I now wonder what lies beneath. Are there drugs hidden away inside the metal frame?
“What did you bring into my house? Into my life? Into all of our lives?” I scream as I swing the bat, striking the center of the mirror with full force. The glass splinters at the impact, several larger pieces falling at my feet.
