Page 22 of Captured By the Convict

Have those flames died out?

Am I an idiot for trying to keep her?

Am I a fool for thinking she still wants me, that she ever really wanted me?

“Damn it,” I growl, rubbing my smooth-shaved jaw which feels naked after a decade of having a beard. But all my prison mugshots show me with a beard, and my new identity requires me to look clean-cut and respectable, so I’m just going to have to live with it until I’m sure my case file has been closed with a DECEASED stamp across the top. “Damn it, Xavier. Youshouldn’t be here. She doesn’t want you back. See how fucking happy she is right now.”

My heart thunders in my chest when I gaze across the street and see Connie smile at the workers putting up the new sign on her refurnished, redecorated, rebuilt cookie store. It’s been so long since I was close to her that I’m scared shitless she’s had too much time to realize she’s too good for me. I’d stayed away the first week, getting rid of Patrick’s car, then digging out my secret cash-box from where I’d buried it a city park, beneath an ancient oak tree that I was pretty sure wasn’t going to be bulldozed by the city because the environmentalists would chain themselves to it.

Cash in hand, I bought a couple of burner phones with Internet access, then went underground, barely leaving the sketchy motel in Southie where the clerks don’t ask for names and don’t remember faces. After a week of checking the news and seeing nothing about a prison-break and nothing more about the fire other than the couple of articles that first day, I’d relaxed a bit. I was right about the Warden wanting to cover his own ass for his crooked prison guards. News of my escape had never made it to the press, and since I’d “died” just a few hours after my escape, the Warden clearly got the whole thing hushed up and tucked away with a report confirming my demise, end of story.

But was it the end of Connie's and my story too?

The question burned inside me after that first week passed and I realized I was free, that nobody was actively looking for me, that I had my money, could buy a new identity from one of the crooked identity-thieves who do high-tech stuff that makes it so that a cop can swipe your new driver’s license and it’ll come up clean and green, fresh like the spring, new like the sunrise.

Except every sunrise found me awake and anxious, wondering if the cops or marshals were watching Connie’s store,waiting for my escaped ass to show up, walk right into the trap I’d laid for myself. I’d bought a cheap used car on my new identity, began to drive past Connie’s store when there was enough traffic that nobody would notice. There was no sign of anyone watching the place, and so after another week I decided it was safe to contact her.

Except now I’m sitting here parked in the lot across the street, slumped down in my seat like a stalker, scared out of my mind like this is the biggest moment of my life, the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done.

Because it’s the moment of truth.

The moment I find out if fate is real, if destiny is a thing, if meant-to-be isn’t just make believe.

How else can I possibly expect her to say yes?

Now I look down at the perfect diamond ring that I purchased clean and new from a real jewelry store, not some pawn shop—one of which probably has Patrick’s diamond ring for sale after Connie said she’d slip it in a box of salvaged items from her store and donate it to a charity shelter. My big hands tremble as I stare at the new ring, my fingers thick and clumsy as they shake from a fear I’ve never felt in my life.

But it’s not the kind of fear that’s dark with dread.

It’s the kind of fear that comes when you’re at the brink of change that’s so monumental that your entire body is shuddering with anticipation, burning with excitement, desperate with delight.

I’d just about psyched myself up to get out of the car and walk across the street like a normal man, a free man, a man about to be the happiest fucker on the planet. But then Connie had come out of the store to meet those workers with the new sign, and so I’d stayed put in my seat, my heart hammering when I saw the excitement on her rosy red cheeks, watched her direct theworkers with poise and confidence, like she knew exactly what she wanted, knew exactly who she was.

“Mine,” I whisper now, the word bubbling out of me like a gushing spring that breaks through rock and stone, driven by an unstoppable force. “That’s who she is. She’s mine. Fuckingmine!”

Now the surge of possessive fire ignites a sudden confidence, burning away all those thoughts of logic and common sense, all those feeble doubts that I only spent a few hours with her three weeks ago, that it can’t possibly be real, can’t possibly be true, can’t possibly be love.

But it is love, I decide as I get out of my car and stride across the street, not giving a damn about the cars honking and screeching around me, like love has made me invincible, made me confident that fate won’t kill me before I cross this final threshold and seize what’s mine.

Yeah, it has to be love, because the sign is there, clear like a billboard.

“How the Cookie Crumbles,” I say loudly as I get across the street alive and Connie almost dies on her feet when she sees me reading out her new store-sign with a horrible Irish lilt. “Kind of a mouthful, but I like it, baby. Reminds me of something. Like maybe I’ve heard it before.”

“Ohmygod!” Connie gasps and almost falls down, she’s so surprised and happy. But the workers are just leaving after putting up the new sign, and she’s professional enough to thank them and tip them and only after they get into their van and leave does she throw herself into my arms and collapse against my body with shuddering sobs of joy.

“You bastard!” she sobs into my chest as I hug her so tight I’m afraid she’ll break, kiss her so hard I’m afraid she’ll drown, love her so hard I’m afraid we’ll both spontaneously combust. “You asshole! I thought you weren’t coming back at all. I thoughtyou’d come to your senses and just disappeared. I thought Mama was right, that maybe—”

My kiss smothers her mouth to stop the words. Then I pull back and glance up at the sign, shrug, and kiss her again. Finally I peel her off me, taking her hand and leading her into her store, which still isn’t quite ready to open. I close the glass front door, lock it tight, draw the shades down, then turn to her with that desperate excitement bubbling up again as I go down on one knee.

“Xavier, what are you . . .” Connie starts to say before stopping when she sees the diamond ring that’s perfect like she is. “Is that . . . real?”

I glance up at her beaming face, my heart already telling me her answer. “It is real,” I say with a wicked gleam in my dancing-happy eyes. “But it’s one of these new synthetic diamonds that doesn’t come from mines where they torture puppies.”

Connie blinks, then closes one eye and frowns. “Why would a diamond mine torture puppies?”

“To make the orphans work harder,” I whisper wickedly from down on one knee as Connie covers her mouth to stop herself from laughing at my dark humor. “Will you marry me, Connie O’Connor?”

Connie’s hands stay covering her mouth, but this time it’s to stifle a squeal. She blinks about a hundred times, nods about a thousand times, holds out her hand so I can put the ring on, claim her good and proper, just like her Mama would have wanted. “Yes, Xavier,” she whispers, her face blushing with rosy delight. “Yes, Xavier. Of course I’ll marry you.”

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