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I hang onto every word like a lifeline, while the strength of the whiskey latches onto me, threatening to pull me back under.
“J’allais bien.” I was doing fine.
Liar.
He lifts me, unfastening my bra, and pulls it away.
“Putain. Putain.” Fuck. Fuck. “Tu es en train de partir. Ça n’arrivera plus.” You’re leaving. This isn’t happening again.
Thick fingers trail up the sides of my breast as a low moan escapes me. His fingers still when I open my eyes. His are brimming with anger, lust, and resentment. I gaze back at my reflection in his flames.
“T’aimer m’a rendu malade et je ne veux plus jamais guérir.” Loving you made me sick, and I don’t ever want to get well.
I let sleep take me.
I wake to the sound of howling wind outside my window. I lift from unrestful sleep to see two Advil on my nightstand along with a bottled water. I down it all, the split in my head enough to have me contemplating spending the day in bed. Pulling on my robe, I opt for fresh air, moving onto my balcony through the French doors. I take in the early morning, the blanketing clouds gathering in the horizon and drifting closer. The chill in the air has me shivering where I stand when awareness pricks, and I glance over the railing and spot Tobias on one of the loungers next to the covered pool. He’s still in last night’s suit and a black wool trench coat. Reclined back, a lit cigarette pinched between his fingers, with his eyes closed.
He never left.
Despite the chorus of drums in my head, I dress quickly into warm clothes and make my way out onto the deck. I approach quietly and take a seat in the lounger next to him and drink him in. He’s thirty-six now, and at the time we were together, I thought we were ageless. Time didn’t exist then, and time has done nothing but compliment his bone structure, his build, his unparalleled beauty. It’s then I recall his words from last night, his touch, the subtle but possessive strokes of his fingers, his heavily veiled affection for me as he undressed me from my soiled clothes.
I simply gaze at him, knowing he’s aware I’m there. He pulls on his cigarette and lifts to sit, his eyes opening but focused on the textured cement beneath his feet.
“My first clear memory is of a red coat,” he says softly. “It had black toggle buttons. It was hanging next to the door when my mother snatched it off the hook and wrapped me in it, fastening the buttons one by one. I could tell she was terrified.”
“N’aie pas peur, petit. Nous partons. Dis au revoir et ne regarde pas en arrière. Nous partons à l’aventure.” Don’t be afraid, little one. We’re leaving. Say goodbye, and don’t look back. We’re going on an adventure.
“But she was scared. And when the doorbell rang and she answered it, a man I’d never seen smiled down at me.”
“Beau? Dominic’s father?”
He nods, flicking ash off his cigarette.
“He said he was taking us to America, and we were going to be happy there. He gathered us and the few belongings my mother packed into his car, and we left. That’s all I remember about fleeing France. Being in that coat, my mother’s fear, the red-headed stranger, and boarding my first plane.”
He runs a hand down his shadowed jaw.
“And we were happy here, mostly. But my mother missed France horribly when we got to America. She didn’t contact anyone. It was the price of fleeing from my father. Back then, he had a lot of connections and it was too risky. Over the years, I would catch her crying while sorting through old pictures, mourning her family. Her mother especially. But she loved Beau King, and it was easy to see. And he was good to me, strict but good. He saved us. She would tell me constantly that he saved us. And I believed her. The only memory I had of my real father was that day I told you about.”
“Saint-Jean-de-Luz.”
Another nod as he puffs on his cigarette.
Snow begins a lazy drift from the clouds above, and I sit idle, too afraid to break the spell.
“Not long after, her belly grew, and then one day, they brought Dominic home.” His smile is faint, but it’s there. “At first, I despised him. I didn’t want to share my mother’s attention.” He gives me a sheepish grin. “So, I put him in a Tangelo orange box and took him out to the garbage. I put a can of his formula and bottle in there with him so he wouldn’t starve.”
“Oh my God,” I can’t help my laugh, and he chuckles with me.
“When she realized what I’d done. Well, it’s the maddest I’ve ever seen her. I was spanked raw, but she never told Papa.”
He shakes his head, his smile lingering. “The next day, my mother insisted I hold him. She set me up in her rocking chair and placed him in my arms.”
He looks over to me, but he’s a million miles away. “He was mine. From that minute on. He was mine.”
I nod, a hot tear sliding down my cheek.
“Our English was pretty bad the first few years. We struggled quite a bit, and we were not at all prepared for the culture shock. I think Mom considered America the Wild West at the time. She was paranoid, and rarely let me play outside. She and Papa would have fights about it, and she would always win
