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An odd sense of déjà vu washes over me, reminding me of a time not so long ago when I questioned Salvatore’s motives. Now, it’s as if history is repeating itself, weaving a web of mysteries and uncertainties that entangle me in ways I never imagined.
Nine
In my twenty-fouryears of life, the thought of having a child never once crossed my mind. From the very first moment I comprehended the mechanics of how my parents had created my little brother, I made a firm decision—motherhood wasn’t in my playbook. It simply wasn’t the path I envisioned for myself. My dreams were aligned with college adventures, soaking in the essence of life, and setting out to explore the farthest corners of the world.
It’s funny how dreams can unravel in an instant. That grand vision, the one I had held onto so tightly, was soon engulfed in flames, reduced to mere ashes.
My parents struggled with infertility. Biologically, Milo and I only share a mother. However, biology doesn’t mean much when it comes to a chosen family. My mom had me really young, only twenty. She expected nothing from my dad, so he left us. When she met and fell in love with the man I consider my father, I never felt as though I lacked a parental figure. Sam was the father I loved.
Doctors told him he’d never have kids. He legally adopted me when I was only four, and they were content with just me. So when my parents sat me down at fifteen, telling me that our family would grow, I was ecstatic for them.
I never resented my little brother, not even on the day he was born and I got to see my mom push him out, which is probably why I don’t want kids. There are some things an impressionable teen shouldn’t see. The moment his blue eyes blinked up at me and his little face squished up, I knew I’d do anything in the world for him.
When our parents died two short years later, as I sat on the cusp of adulthood, a small part of me resented them for leaving me.
How would I raise the son they wanted more than anything in this world? How would I ever raise him with all the love they gave me? Surely I’d fail.
The following morning, when the snow settled and Milo woke up, I knew I’d do everything I could for him.
Watching his chest rise and fall from the doorway of his room, I am reminded of that promise I made myself all those years ago—a promise that I fought tooth and nail to uphold. From that snowy morning to their funeral, then to us moving here.
I don’t regret a single step.
Until now.
I stand in the doorway to his room, watching him breathe as his face relaxes and his eyes roll as he dreams. I regret my curiosity over Sal’s murder. I regret taking a shift that put us in danger.
Albert yawns from the foot of his bed, letting out the smallest squeak. His blue eyes shine eerily from the hallway light as he blinks at me.
I won’t move Milo to a new town again.
With the utmost caution, I leave a deliberate crack in Milo’s door. Creeping downstairs, I navigate the familiar path, circumventing the creaking stairs until my feet encounter the cool ground of the lower level. Sleep beckons, and I’ve been awake longer than one reasonably should, the hours having slipped beyond my reckoning.
The kitchen is bathed in the gentle luminescence of strategically placed LED night-lights. I verify the backdoor’s security, ensuring its lock is steadfast, then proceed farther. Neon green numbers from various appliances hint at a late hour, urging me to surrender to sleep.
As I walk through the kitchen, I check the chain to the basement and unlock it, then relock it before moving on.
One more door.
The front door is cool to the touch when I finally check the locks there. Then and only then do I make my way back up to my bedroom and walk inside.
Our petite row home boasts two bedrooms, identically sized. Directly ahead is my full-sized bed, its centerpiece a meticulously crafted headboard. The rectangular wood tiles I assembled, sanded, and stained form a chevron pattern that gleams in the night-light’s glow. It’s a singular indulgence, a testament to my insistence on a bit of extravagance.
Cocooned within cream bamboo sheets and under a sage green down comforter, I would usually find sleep within seconds. Not tonight. My thoughts churn, a ceaseless vortex revolving around Sal. Each time I close my eyes, I see his cold, lifeless gaze, but that’s not what gnaws at me.
No, it’s my response that haunts me.
Heshot him right in front of me. No hesitation. No tremble in his hand. Although the silencer was quieter than I expected, the ringing of the gun still echoes in my head. None of that bothers me, though, and that alone makes me queasy.
I should have screamed, but I didn’t. I watched that man murder my boss, and I barely blinked. It isn’t a thought that I wanted to dissect. I didn’t even want to think about it, yet my mind keeps whispering that my reaction isn’t normal.
Chalking it up to shock, I roll over, nuzzle my cheek against my cool pillow, and exhale slowly while clenching my eyes closed.
It’s curiosity. That’s all. Nothing more.
Just curiosity.
Besides, perhaps I reacted the way I should have, and I’m overanalyzing it. Screams and cries happen in the movies and don’t necessarily occur in real life. There is no telling how a person will react until they are staring down the barrel of a gun. I’ll ask the therapist Desmond set us up with that very question. I have an appointment on Friday afternoon.
