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I can’t speak, and for a while, we stand like that; me sobbing into his chest, neither speaking. He holds me, kisses my hair every now and again, hushing me as I cry all over him. The feel of his arms around me soon becomes a comfort, and my tears subside. I know he will have lots of questions, but I can’t even bring myself to voice anything. Before I meet his eyes, I say quietly, “I can’t talk about it.”
“He swore you to secrecy then.” He huffs his lip, curling with disdain.
Shaking my head, I sigh.“No, I physically can’t bring myself to talk about him,” I admit on a weak sigh.
“You fell in love with him,”Oscar states softly.
“Don’t,” I sniff. “I thought I could survive him.”
“What happened to a month?” My friend questions cautiously.
“The L word happened,” I scoff. I’ve survived this lie for so long, this industry, my own father’s death, and yet I can’t survive that man. Wiping my eyes, I look to find soft, sad eyes watching me, and shrugging, I hook my arm through his. “Tell me about Anita,” I deflect. It’s always been my go-to tactic. I’d rather deal with Oscar’s issues than get into my own.
“Z, my desperate mother can wait. I’m worried. I’ve never seen you like this. Ever.” He pulls me in for another hug, and I go, dragging in a deep lungful of air. I breathe in his aftershave, trying to dispel the one scent I’ve become so used to recently: the one I want to replace and dissolve from my memory. I want to burn our nights to ashes, erode conversations, and replace each second with Callan into a new memory. I want to crawl into my psyche and tear him from my mind and banish him from that space. I feel violent with the need to remove any trace of him from my life, but I’m equally exhausted by heartache.
“I can’t, Oscar.” As much as I want to rid Callan from my mind, I don't want to share him, either. It may not have been anything to him, but it was something special to me. “You know you should have told me you were staying here.” He’s my friend, and I love that he sees my home as a sanctuary, but it’s still my home.
“I was going to when we met up, but Callan arrived.” Oscar pecks my forehead. “Honestly, I’ve been worried about whatever you and he have going on. I wanted to be here in case you came home.” He gives me a sympathetic hug. “I’m glad that I was.”
“Let's slob out and eat shit,” he declares, steering me into the lounge. Kicking my feet free of my shoes, I scramble onto the sofa, pull the blanket over myself, and plump my pillow. “I’m raiding your cupboards, be back in a sec.” Oscar rushes off, and a moment later, I hear doors open and shut, cutlery and tableware hitting the surfaces. It’s a good twenty minutes before he emerges again, carrying a big tray. He places it on the coffee table, and I glance at the contents. Any small child would be in additive heaven. Fruit sorbet, mountain-high with sprinkles and chocolate, and a hot chocolate topped with cream and marshmallows. My lip wobbles and Oscar leans in to peck my cheek. He slips below the blanket at the other end, our legs twine together, and his foot gives my foot a gentle squeeze.
“It’s true, we will need to work out like Olympic athletes after all this, but it will be worth it, I promise you,” he assures.The TV gets put on to some comedy show, and Oscar digs in, and we hardly speak, but only because I can’t bring myself to talk. He eats until he feels sick. Me? I’m already too sick to my stomach with heartache to eat anything more than two mouthfuls, plus, I ate at Callan’s. Oscar is swirling little patterns on the top of my foot, and, for some reason, I’m overwhelmed with pain again. One deep sigh turns to a sniffle, then a hiccup before I’m sobbing silently into the blanket. The sofa shifts and Oscar is beside me, holding me tightly. I don't know how much time has passed, but I slowly slip off into an emotionally spent sleep.
I wake slowly and reluctantly, something innate telling me I would rather be sleeping. It takes a few moments for the last twenty-four hours to filter back in, each second of yesterday dripping painfully back into place. I twist, pressing my face into the cushion, inhaling through the need to cry again. I don’t want to. I allowed myself an evening to break down, but today is a new day, and I can’t let my feelings overwhelm me, so I don't. I get up and sit on the edge of the sofa, sucking in a deep and confident, controlling breath. I can do this. I’ve done it before. I can switch it off just like I did with my father. I can simply shut it down, close off my emotions. I should focus on what’s ahead, more importantly, focus on dealing with the Yovenko’s. They will come now, and I need to be in the right state of mind to deal with it. There must be a way out of this, something I’m missing, anything. I’ve had years to come forward about my father’s murder, and my silence all this time should be proof enough their disgusting secret is safe with me. However, they still view me as a threat. Why? Pushing up from the sofa, I walk out into the hall and find Oscar and Stalin talking quietly in the kitchen. “What’s going on?”
“Returning this.” Stalin holds up one of my weekend cases. I guess Callan wasn’t as bothered as he made out.
I duck my head, not wanting to show my pain. “Just going to grab a shower,” I tell them when Oscar pushes to stand. He nods and eyes the bigger guy, who scowls at me. I rush upstairs and jump in the shower, washing the previous day down the drain. I’m glad to see it go. My face felt so tight, but now I feel fresh-faced and calmer. I dry off and keep my towel wrapped around my hair as I pull on a pair of jeans and a plain white tee. I keep my face free of makeup and spritz my hair with salt spray, allowing it to dry naturally. I refuse to allow anyone to witness my weakness anymore, but more so myself. I am stronger than this. I head downstairs, a smile fixed in place. Both men are still in the kitchen and look me over cautiously.
“Thanks, Stalin, for dropping this back.” All my things are in two holdalls on the kitchen side.
“Of course. Oscar, can you give Zara and me a minute?”
My friend grumbles, but I give him a reassuring smile. I don't want to show my hand too soon, so I allow Stalin the room to talk as I make myself a drink. I hold a cup up in an offer, but he shakes his head.
“You leaving isn't just that simple. We’re aware of movement from the Russians. Things are already in motion, Zara. We’re all involved, despite your sudden refusal to accept help. Your lack of participation makes things complicated.”
“I’m sorry for that,” I say genuinely. I hold Stalin’s stare, conveying how sincere I am. I know by leaving Callan, I have placed a bigger target on my head and dragged them into this mess with me. However, something tells me they know how to remove themselves from the equation—why else agree to help me if not?
“I believe you, but whether you want to walk this line or not, they’re coming. Callan is involved. You cannot simply request the help of someone of his nature and then cut and run when things become difficult,” Stalin bites out through gritted teeth. His voice is soft, his tone angry. He looks over my shoulder, ensuring we are still alone. “Callan has compromised himself for you.” Stalin’s voice is fierce.
“How is he?” I ask, stirring my teabag. I don't look up—don't allow myself to hear the response.
“Would it shock you if I told you he is at Skyn trying to fix your mess?” His knuckles whiten as he clenches his fists. Hearing where he is has my guts twisting into knots. I stop what I’m doing and turn to look at Stalin properly. His anger is vibrating around my house like a damn ping-pong ball.
“Honestly, no. My agent is releasing a statement ensuring my and Callan’s meet is purely professional. I will go ahead with the party for Oscar to keep up appearances. That way, Callan is kept out of this.” Or, at the very least, it can be swept over as a mere coincidence, and the Russians will think little more of Callan and his henchmen.
“You’re painfully naïve, Miss Reid.” His mocking tone makes my jaw grate. I possibly am, for as much as I have lived in the limelight, I am very much sheltered in some ways, and it shows to him and his friends. Nevertheless, I will try to smooth any fallout I can. Try to keep Callan out of the mess surrounding me.
“I didn’t want this, any of this,” snapping, I slam my spoon down and thrust my hands on my hips, “I regret ever agreeing to anything with Callan, and I’m sorry. I will never make it known of his involvement even if those sick bastards threaten me.” I vow fiercely. “You may be loyal to him and not agree with my actions, but I’m just as loyal. If not more—I love him.” My fist is in a tight ball, and I slam it down on the side. “Surely, allowing him to continue would have only caused more complications. It would have resulted in him being left to deal with the complete fallout. I could never expect that of him, of you even. This is my mess, my fight, and I won't let that man take the fall,” I hiss through my teeth.
“You really do love him,” Stalin states. Scoffing, I pick up my cup and look around to find him shaking his head at my stupidity. You and me both, I think. I’ve catapulted this situation from one extreme to another and landed us all in the shit.
“He’s a stubborn bastard, and he won’t let this lie, no matter what you say or do,” Stalin advises me. He picks up a pair of sunglasses I hadn't noticed on the side and puts them on. “Take care, Zara,” he mutters and walks down my hall, exiting through the front door. As soon as it clicks shut, Oscar comes back towards me, scowling.
“What the hell is going on?” he huffs and mutters, thoroughly put out that he isn’t being involved in any of this.
“Honestly, Oscar, nothing. Things got a bit heated when I decided to leave Callan’s. Stalin was just reminding me of my place.”
