Chuckling, I stretched and then shook out my hands as the men approached.
“You look like brother Maxim,” one said in heavily accented English.
I shrugged, ready to get this over with.
His face morphed into a scowl. “I do not like brother Maxim,” he muttered, just before swinging his brass-knuckled hand at my face.
I ducked, then landed a punch that destroyed the straight line of his nose.
Two things were uppermost in my mind as they came at me:
I was definitely beating the fuck out of Maxim Sergeyevich Sidorov.
And the one promise I held on to most…
Theory, I’m coming.
(The present:Saturday, June 7)
The warm caress of an early summer breeze danced across my skin as I slowly made my way toward my front door.I looked down at my hand, entwined with a strong, brown one, and then at the profile of the man who held it.
I’d had a date.
And not only that; I’d had areally gooddate. One where I’d refused to hold back, where I let myself be open to talking, to laughing, to being complimented, to being admired.
All those things might not seem like they were hard when you were twenty-nine, attractive, and accomplished.
But oh, my God, trust me, they were.
They were after the first man you’d really trusted yourself had turned violently, viciously against you. When he’d hurt you so badly that anyone doubted you’d recover.
And if that weren’t bad enough, imagine allowing yourself to be lured and lulled and what you thought was healed after that man. Imagine another man whose very heart and breath synced with yours the first time you met, who held you and whispered to you and said he loved you and promised you all your dreams. Imagine that you fell so completely, so deeply, so quickly for that man that you allowed yourself to hope again after you’d convinced yourself that hope was truly a four-letter-word and not the good kind. Imagine giving yourself to that man and having him swear he was giving himself to you and then he just disappeared.
Yep, disappeared. A hasty goodbye, then a year of silence in which your heart and your mind broke again. A year during which you’d cornered his best friend for answers.
Well, one answer in particular.
Eight months ago, I’d made Montréal Hamilton face me. He was my cousin’s man and…that liar’s best friend.
“Is he alive?” I’d asked, voice and body trembling.
He’d looked so guilty, like he wanted to save my feelings, but there was no saving me at that point.
“Don’t lie to me. I just want to know… is he alive?”
He’d sighed, closed his eyes for a long moment before looking at me and mumbling, “Yes.”
“And if I asked you to tell him that I needed him, would he come?” I whispered, already knowing the answer.
“He… can’t,” Real had said.
“Why?”
The demand in my voice was clear. I was falling apart and he couldn’t? He was a grown ass man who could do anything he wanted. What the fuck did that answer even mean?
“Theory… I can’t tell you,” Real replied, regret all over him.
I nodded once, a soft laugh escaping me. “Right,” I said.
