Lili Germain - Four Score

The wrong idea? My heart breaks as I realize he’s talking about sex. He didn’t get undressed because he didn’t want me to worry that he wanted sex. Of course, that never even entered my mind. But I think of the last time he saw me, the last time he really saw me before I died, and I have to wonder how many times he’s played that horrid afternoon through his mind over the past six years.

Of course he’d be afraid to touch me. Of course.

My eyes sting, and I remember I’ve still got these stupid blue contact lenses stuck to my eyeballs, probably coated in dust and debris. I’m lucky I don’t have chunks of shrapnel lodged in my eyes. I rinse my fingers under the water and slide a finger over each eye, pinching the thin blue plastic discs away, and flicking them down the drain. He knows who I am, after all. There’s no point hiding it.

He’s been watching me intently, and once I’ve tossed the contact lenses on the floor, he places a gentle hand on my chin.

“Look at me,” he says quietly, and I do. I gaze up at him, my eyes watering, wondering what he sees. What he feels. The moment feels surreal. The steam from the shower, the stark white of the tiles. It makes me think momentarily that I must be a dead girl.

“There you are,” he says. “Are you really here? Are you real?”

“I think so,” I rasp, closing my fingers around his tattooed bicep.

“Your face,” he says. “What happened to it?”

It’s so different I can’t even begin to explain.

“It’s gone,” I reply thickly. “It was the only way I could fool him.”

He studies my face, running his fingertips along my altered cheekbones, my thinner nose, my untouched lips, before coming back to my eyes, the same as they ever were.

“Juliette,” he whispers.

The way he says my name, it hurts. An avalanche of sadness and relief bursts forth from me, and I sob brokenly. He pulls me closer to him, and we stand there in the shower, a tableau of sorrow and regret, as the water washes pieces of plaster and dust from our skin.

If only washing away our sins was so easy.

The shower comes to an end all too quickly with a burst of cold water, reminding us that the hot water has run out. Slowly, moving like we are wading through quicksand, we towel ourselves off and leave the bathroom. Jase peels a layer of wet clothing off and replaces it with dry versions of the same, then brings me a pair of gray sweat pants and a dark blue T-shirt. He leaves the room and I unstick my wet underwear from my chest and hips, changing into the fresh clothes.

It’s a starkly contrasted mood to the last time I was here, only a few days ago, when he thought I was either an undercover cop or at least screwing one. Elliot. I need to contact him. He’ll be sick out of his mind with worry.

I’m worrying, too. Is Elliot safe? Jase said he was looking into him. He knew Elliot used to be a cop. He knew more about Elliot than about me just a few days ago.

Until that phone call, he had no idea. I wonder who he was speaking to in the parking lot when he figured me out. Wonder what they said to him.

What was the giveaway? How was I exposed? Questions I need to ask Jase, but not yet.

I’m still deathly afraid of the answers.

Tentatively, I leave the safety and dim light of his bedroom for the living room, and beyond that, the kitchen. I smell rich tomato sauce and follow my nose, my stomach suddenly screaming for food. Elliot. Right. I scan the living room, spotting my handbag on the end arm of the sofa.

I move hesitantly, sticking to the walls and the edges of rooms. I’m no longer the one with any power, and the feeling of being so vulnerable and exposed sits uneasily on my skin. I still have that response inside me that says flee, and I quash it down uneasily as though it’s bile rushing up my throat.

I search through the bag hastily. No phone. Damn. Maybe Jase took it. Maybe it’s in the car. I’ve memorized Elliot’s cell number, so I’ve just got to find a landline in this place and get word to him that I’m safe.

“Looking for this?”

I whirl around to see Jase standing in the kitchen doorway, holding my cell phone in one hand and its battery in the other. Great.

“I just killed it,” he says, studying the battery. “Is that going to be a problem?”

I know what he’s asking me. He’s asking me if anyone would be tracking me with the GPS.

I shake my head. Elliot never said anything about tracking my phone. Still, an uneasy feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. He gave me the phone in the first place. For all I know, he’s had a tail on me since the moment he handed over the bright pink iPhone at the warehouse.

“Good,” Jase replies, pocketing the two items and disappearing back into the kitchen.

He’s pulling a plate of lasagna out of the microwave as I tiptoe into the kitchen, my eyes looking downward. He points to the small round table that sits between the breakfast bar and the doors that lead to the balcony.

“Sit.”

His tone is gentle but firm, and I take the seat he’s pulled out for me, scooting closer to the table as he lays the plate in front of me.

He sits across from me, watching expectantly.

“Eat first,” he says, pointing at the plate. “Talk later.”

He waits patiently as I dip my fork tentatively into the sheets of meat-filled pasta and cheese, tasting the first food I’ve eaten in God knows how long. Suddenly I’m shoveling it in as fast as I can, trying to maintain some appearance of decorum but failing miserably. When the plate is clean I let my fork fall on the bare porcelain with a clatter.

Jase is looking at me again with that kind of look that says I don’t know what to do with you.

“Let’s go out to the balcony,” I say, the first real sentence I’ve uttered since he crash-tackled me in the parking lot a few hours ago.

He shrugs, gesturing for me to lead the way. I push my chair back with a squeak and stand, making my way over to the door. I am exhausted, and it takes several goes before I successfully pull the door open.

“You should really lock your doors,” I say softly. “You never know who you’ll find in here.”

He follows me outside and sits across from me, the only noise the rush of the waves crashing below us.

He looks determined as he holds my gaze with those eyes that destroy me every time I see them.

“Start from the beginning,” he says. “Tell me everything.”

It’s not a question. It’s an order.

The fear of him knowing my deepest, darkest sins is outweighed only by the relief I crave: the relief that we will no longer have a wall of secrets and lies separating us.

For once, I don’t hesitate.

I tell him everything.

I tell him everything that’s happened, from the moment Elliot stole me away from the hospital where Gypsy Brothers were converging to kill me, right up until the moment the bombs went off. I leave out the finer details about Dornan and Elliot, because I can’t bear to upset Jase any more than I already have. Besides, he knows. He’s seen. Willfully having a sexual relationship with Dornan was always going to be the death of any hope between Jase and me.

As I speak, my voice is steady. I don’t cry. I sum everything up very matter-of-factly, as if I’m speaking about somebody else entirely. A stranger.

That poor girl.

When I’m finished, I clear my throat and stand. “I need to call Elliot,” I say to him. “He’ll be going out of his mind with worry.”

Jase’s hand shoots out, surprising me as he clamps his fingers around my arm and drags me back down.

“No,” he says. “We’re not finished yet.”

I sit and stare at the floor. “We’ll never be finished,” I whisper. “Not until he’s dead.”

He scoots his chair closer, his hand clamping around the back of my neck as I watch him try to fight the dueling emotions of rage and affection written clearly over his face. At first the gesture seems almost violent, possessive, but his hand is warm and loose. I lean into his touch, a small reprieve against the fall breeze that chills me as it blows straight in from the ocean.

“You remember last time we were here? Six years ago?”

I nod, enjoying the feeling of his fingers as they rub up and down my neck. A flash of the past comes to me then—Jase and I sitting inside on the couch, holding sweat-slicked hands tightly together as my father and Jase’s surrogate stepmother laid out a plan of escape from the Gypsy Brothers and every awful thing they stood for.

“They didn’t get out,” Jase says solemnly. I let out a quick breath, almost like a sigh but with more force, more emotion.

“I know,” I reply, my eyes suddenly swimming again.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You probably hoped they got away the same way you did.”

I shrug. “I guess a little part of me always hoped. But I know inside. They didn’t make it.” That last sentence a whisper that I can’t even hear.

“Were you there when he died?” I ask.

Jase’s face fills with sorrow. He lets go of my neck and takes my hand, squeezing it.

“Yes.”

I swallow thickly, closing my eyes as relived horrors dance across my darkened eyelids.

“Did he suffer?”

Another squeeze. He pauses a fraction too long. “No.”

“You’re not a very good liar,” I say brokenly, opening my eyes to look at him.

He sags visibly in his chair, eyes to the floor, shoulders hunched.