When Marielle stirred again, it took her a moment to realize where she was. It was getting dark, so her entire room was bathed in shadows and gray tones. She must have slept for about four hours if it was already nearing evening.
Sitting up slowly, she unbraided her hair. Since it had been wet when she’d braided it, it was now wavy and voluminous, so she took a moment to comb through it with her fingers and then stretch.
Where was Vincent? Had he left already? Memories washed over her body from the delicious kiss she’d received before she’d fallen asleep, and she felt herself blush as she brushed her mouth with her fingertips.
Then she saw a suitcase near the door, one that she knew she hadn’t put there, nor did she own. Right: Vincent was here, and he was leaving soon.
This thought got her moving down her hall to the living room, where the smell of something savory caught her attention. Rounding into her kitchen, she saw him from behind standing at the stove. He turned, sans glasses, gazing at her with adoration. The look caused her to quake inside.
Her wavy hair spilling over her shoulders, she leaned against the doorway and smiled at him, remembering the delectable feeling of his mouth against hers and the hardness of his body as he had tried to force her as close as she could possibly be without actually passing through him.
The fact that she couldn’t pass through him made her weary. Why, oh why could she only do that with Austin? She had to admit, it was affecting her mind, her spirit, and her feelings for him. And part of her knew that if it was doing that to her, then Austin must be utterly dying inside over it.
She shook these thoughts from her head and gave Vincent a salacious smile. He returned it. The scent of butter and herbs hit her nostrils as he gently sloshed a pan around, and her green eyes lit up with eagerness. “You didn’t!” she exclaimed.
He threw a towel over his left shoulder. “I’m not a cook like you, Marielle, but I can do dinner,” he said pleasantly, and with that, he pulled out a bottle of some fancy wine from behind him and gestured to the table. Her gaze hadn’t made it there yet, so she hadn’t noticed that it was set with plates, wine glasses, and a single candle in the middle. There was a large bowl of lettuce with some tomatoes, green beans, eggs, cucumbers, and a few other things to the side. She thought this was interesting: it was a classic French Chopped Salad, but the traditional shallots, fingerling potatoes, and olives—all of which she hated—were not present. A demi-loaf of sliced French bread shared the plate with softened butter.
Vincent went to the light and flicked it off. Then he lit the candle and filled their glasses with wine. A soft glow emanated from the flame, making the golden wine twinkle like canary diamonds as its haloed light danced around the darkened room. The gold in Vincent’s tattoos glistened like water when the sun hits it as it descends over the horizon.
With her hand to her heart, Marielle wandered to a chair and sat down. He plated a filet of fish and served her some salad from the glass bowl in the middle of the table. Then he sat down, lifted his wine toward her, and said, “To you.”
She bit her lip, feeling a strong sense of déjà vu swirl around her head, only this was real, and tonight he would not try to hurt or kill her.
He sat back, squared his shoulders, and looked over at her. “Are you okay, Masin?” he asked, and the seriousness of his tone told her that he was talking about their encounter with Hazal.
Suddenly, she was filled with memories of the night before—the molestation, the fear of seeing Austin kill Vincent, the way Hazal had looked almost sorrowful after he had torn her shirt.
“I…” For some reason, Marielle didn’t feel like she could talk to him about it. “Why was he alone?”
“He needed something from me. I tried, but Cory took him first.”
“What did he need?” she pressed, sipping the wine.
Vincent sat back against the chair and stared at the space between them distantly for a moment. “My forgiveness.”
This was a lie, and yet it was also somehow true, and because of that, Marielle didn’t know how to feel about it. “Who was he to you?”
“A friend,” he whispered sadly. Then he let out a deep breath that sounded like he’d been holding it in for a while. “My best friend.”
Marielle reached over and touched the back of his hand. “So, I guess the question is… Are you okay?”
Vincent swallowed hard and drank the rest of the wine. “I’ll be fine.” The way his statement came out let her know he wasn’t going to talk about it anymore.
After dinner, they moved into the living room and talked over stale coffee, which Marielle had made earlier before the most epic kiss she’d ever experienced in her life. Eventually, Vincent stood and went to the space behind her flat screen television where several pictures rested on the wall. One was of Marielle, about sixteen, holding a soccer ball between her fingers. She was dressed in a classic green soccer uniform, grinning at something just outside the camera’s view, and the wind had caught her sweaty hair and blown a few strands across her face.
The next was a family photo. She was maybe three, in a bubblegum-pink dress. Marielle had often joked with her mother that that was probably the last time she’d ever worn that shade of pink willingly. She was sitting on her mother’s lap, and her father was holding her mother around the shoulders. Her mother had been blonde at the time, with a petite figure, high cheekbones, and full lips, like Marielle. Her father had been ten years her mother’s senior, and was already mostly gray in this photo. However, he bore a similar look and facial structure to Marielle’s and a single silver hoop in his left ear. When he had been younger, his hair had been black. He looked genuinely happy to be with his little family.
“How much do you know about them?” Marielle ventured, guessing that she had told him about her parents in the other dimension at some point.
He smiled wistfully and sipped from his mug. “From what I can recall, they were already gone when I met you,” he answered. Then he paused. “But I remember that they owned their own restaurant.”
Her eyes fell downcast. “And you know how they died?”
“Fire.”
Both were silent for a moment. Marielle didn’t often talk about that difficult time in her life. Her parents had been caught in a grease fire accident at their restaurant just under eight years ago, and she had been distraught for several months before life started to feel like it was worth living again.
Unlike many of the people at Valorant, who were often abandoned, abused, alone, orphaned, and a slew of other things, Marielle had had a uniquely good relationship with her parents. She had been an only child, although she had never really known why. Once, she had overheard her mother discussing fertility problems with a family friend, although they hadn’t said if it was her mother or father who was infertile. Marielle had been too young to understand at the time, but later she always wondered if that was the reason she didn’t have a sibling.
Vincent sat down next to her again after glancing over the other photos, including one of her in a dark-brown dress with a prom date and a photo of Marielle in college with a golden retriever she had owned.
“Tell me about the dog.” He gestured to the photo with his mug.
“Uh, that was Gracie,” she began, then paused to take a sip. “A local shelter was going to euthanize her. She was already seven and no one wanted her, so I went and picked her up about an hour before they put her down.” She smiled and shrugged. “We were good walking buddies for about six years.”
“Yeah, I remember that you like to walk,” he said under his breath.
She cocked her head at him, waiting for him to expound on that. He didn’t. “Now I have Felix,” she said, gesturing to the grooming lump of black fur on the piano bench.
Vincent chuckled. “He was Sabine’s,” he said matter-of-factly. She nodded and hummed her response. He drank. “And the prom date? Who was that?”
She thought for a moment, then laughed. “Oh, that’s Scott. We had theater together. He was gay and didn’t have a date, so I went with him. We had fun.” Shrugging, she turned to him and grinned jokingly. “No sex, though.”
He chortled in response. There was a brief silence.
“Tell me more about the tattoos, how they work, and what you experience as a result.”
He let out a long, exasperated sigh as he removed his glasses and rubbed his closed eyes with his fingertips. “Masin, I won’t do this to you.”
“How well do you know me in the other dimension?” she asked, tilting her head forward at him.
Vincent shook his head and replaced his glasses. “Pretty well,” he said dismissively.
“Then you know I’m not going to let this go, right?” she pressed.
He stood with a growl and went to the kitchen, where she heard him rinse the cup and put it into the sink. Then he came back to the doorway and leaned there, cleaning his glasses with the hem of his shirt. Frustration etched his brow as he put them back on and looked her over.
After a moment, his features softened, and he tried unsuccessfully to quell a smile. “How can I stay mad at you, Masin?” he breathed.
“You know I won’t let this go,” she said again.
He nodded. “This is a form of self-inflicted torture. It is in the profile.”
She thought about this for a moment. He was right. Although the personality of a heavily bullied person didn’t exist in his profile, things of this nature, like self-harm, torture, and self-decoration, did.
“This”—he tapped his left arm—”will never leave you alone again. There will always be a tickle or tingle until you draw the items out—which, admittedly, I can do at night, or when I’m still… But when I leave them out for too long, my body has a difficult time accepting them back in. It was hard enough the first time.”
His eyes wandered to the wall, which he stared at as if creating a memory on a blank canvas. “I made it so that the guns and other items always return to me after six hours, regardless of whether I remove them on my own or someone else forces me to do it. They also automatically come back if I get too far away.” Vincent swallowed. “That’s how it works best.”
He approached her, lifted a finger, and traced it along her left cheekbone. “In my wildest dreams, I couldn’t ruin your loveliness and the beauty of your skin with such a thing,” he breathed. “Please don’t ask me to do it again.”
She tucked her knees under her and stretched up toward him. “Je veux que tu me fasses ça, Vincent.”
“Do not use French against me,” he ordered, suddenly so deeply serious that she was almost afraid. For a moment, part of her wanted him to wrap his gloved hand around her neck and gently squeeze—not to hurt her, but something about the idea of him showing her that he could hurt her was thrilling.
She shrank a little as he bent down to her, putting his hands on the back of the couch and leaning into her face, his expression calmer now. What was he waiting for? Was he daring her?
He was. Accepted.
“I want you to do this to me, Vincent,” she repeated, steeling herself.
He tilted his head back and raised a challenging eyebrow. The tension between them tightened like a guitar string being tuned: just a little more, and it would snap. She prayed he’d throw her straight to the couch and come after her with passion. Instead, he merely looked at her, his eyes steady and focused.
“I”—she sat back up—”want”—she placed her hands on his chest, leaning against him—”you”—she let the sentence hang there for a moment, knowing he’d be happy if she stopped there—”to”—she brushed her lips against his—”do this to me, Vincent,” she whispered against his mouth.
His gaze met hers, and after a moment of intense staring, he let out a ragged breath. “Stop trying to break me, Masin,” he said through clenched teeth. “It won’t work.” She didn’t know which part that he was referring to, the seduction or the tattoos.
“I don’t want them on my face, but what about my back and arms?” she asked. He only glared at her, their eyes locked in silent battle. She saw his arms tightening, his skin growing taut.
Yes, Vincent… Pick me up, rush me to the bedroom, throw me on the bed, and show me who’s in charge. She kissed him gently on the mouth and pulled back, looking into his eyes impishly.
A grin spread across his handsome face that said, “I know exactly what you’re doing. It won’t work.” He moistened his lips and took hold of her hips, pulling her against him. Her heart danced in her chest; her knees weakened with a rush of pure pleasure which resulted in a bodily gasp shooting downward. He smiled against her mouth and enunciated “No” clearly and firmly. That was all he said, glancing down at the rising and falling of her chest. Then he claimed her mouth for his, pushing his tongue between her lips. He only did this for a moment, and then he let her go.
She fell back against the couch, shaking with need, wanting to beg him, plead for him to punish her for pressing him. But he was looking at his watch, which was emanating a faint beep.
He sighed. “Masin, I have to go.”
“Is that Chamber?” He nodded once. She blew some hair out of her eyes. “Tell him I say hi.”
Vincent narrowed his eyes at her. She had a feeling he knew she was trying to get a rise out of him. “I will,” he replied, readjusting his watch and rebuttoning the cuff of his sleeve. His strong arms showed the gold swirls from his tattoos. He combed over his hair a few times with his fingertips. A small lock fell away from the rest, which made her want to touch it. He lifted his hands. “How do I look?”
“Delicious,” she purred.
He smirked. Then he leaned down one last time, gently taking her chin between his index finger and his thumb. “Delicious… was your mouth, Masin,” he breathed, kissing her one last time. Then he put his forehead to hers briefly and murmured, “I’ll be in there again, I promise.”
She flushed, and felt herself grow weak. He’d be in there? Oh, boy. She curled onto the couch in internal panic—a good panic, but panic all the same.
He went to her bedroom, retrieved his suitcase, and walked to the front door. “I’ll be back before Friday night,” he said, then turned to her with a soft smile. “I promise.”
The door shut, and she was alone.
Frustrated and uncertain of what to do now, she went to the kitchen to rinse her coffee cup and feed Felix. Then she trailed back into the living room to catch some late night T.V. until she was tired enough to sleep—which, given that she’d slept until about five o’clock, she didn’t see happening any time super soon.
Around 6:15, her cellphone buzzed. She picked it up, looking at the ID screen. Great… the whole problem.
“Hey, Austin,” she said.
“What are you doing this evening?”
She felt deflated as she gazed longingly at the door where Vincent had left. “I have no engagements at this particular time.”
“I kind of need a favor, maybe?”
She sat up straighter on the couch. “What’s up?”
“Work called.” In the background, she could hear something that sounded like steam. If she had to guess, she’d say he was ironing. An image of him shirtless at an ironing board in his home stuck momentarily in her head. “There’s a man going to the opera tonight.” She narrowed her eyes. “I’m supposed to observe him… and since a man going to the opera alone looks suspicious, I was told to bring a date.” Pause. “You see my dilemma here.”
Marielle fell back against the couch. “And you’re asking me?”
“Of course,” he said. “I already have two tickets; the second person is kind of a must.” There was a sizzle. Yup, definitely ironing.
“Take Barbara,” she teased.
She could hear him stop ironing and pictured him squaring his shoulders. “Ha ha. Hilarious.”
“Why not?” she asked, trying to stifle a laugh.
“Will you go with me, yes or no?”
His slightly annoyed tone made her giggle. She looked over at Felix. He was out like a light. “You’re no help,” she groaned under her breath.
“What?”
“Oh, I was talking to the cat,” she replied, reaching over and half-waking him with a light bump between his ears. He lifted his little head, eyes closed and smiling, then rested it again.
“Give him a hug for me.”
She smiled softly at this. “Okay, so let me get this straight… the United States government is sending you to the opera to observe a man because—”
“I’m just supposed to read him. You can help in that particular way. We’re trying to figure out… Nope, you know what, I can’t tell you.” He chuckled. “Just come with me.” Marielle sighed. “You can dress up pretty for me. It’s a must,” he taunted, his voice laden with that “Please wear red” tone edging just below the surface.
She twisted her fingers nervously. “You know, after the other night…” Her voice trailed off.
“Forget about the other night.”
Something about his tone made her shiver with excitement. He said that so straightforwardly that if she had been looking at him, she would have expected to see black and white swirls in his eyes. There was no hint of irony, no responsibility for what he’d done, no conversation to be had. It was a done deal. Forget…
For heaven’s sake, Vincent had been so right. Why couldn’t she say no to Austin? She had nothing on her agenda for tomorrow at work, so she could spend most of the day regretting her decision. Sighing heavily, she thought, Welp, I guess I’m dating both of them in a weird way because I can’t actually be with Austin.
“What are we seeing?”
***
When Marielle opened her closet a few minutes later to look through her dresses, she let out a small yelp. She couldn’t have predicted or remembered it, but almost all of the outfits she would—or could—wear to such an event were… red.
Still, she had a problem: most of them were not formal enough. One of the only other dresses she owned was hiding somewhere toward the back of her closet. It was a sweater dress she’d worn once to a Halloween party where her “sexy witch” costume had gone over nicely with Morgan, who had been her love interest at the time. She didn’t know why she had kept it. It had the kind of neckline that would have made Elvira ashamed, long sleeves, thin fabric that was just shy of being see-through, and a skirt that missed the bottom of her butt by an inch. So while there were other dresses in her closet that weren’t red, none of them were appropriate for the theater. It seemed that her options were “Tell Austin that I want him,” or “Tell Austin that I definitely want him.”
There was also the dress she intended to wear Friday night to the announcement, but she didn’t want to risk ruining it. She lay back on the bed for a moment, laughing maniacally. How was she getting out of this?
Marielle got up and started pawing through what was left in her closet. She found a black frock she’d worn to a funeral, but a quick try-on resulted in her groaning and tossing it in the garbage—forget actually wearing it anywhere. She loved black, but that particular dress was from the pit. She pushed another few dresses aside: too summery, too wintery, not right for theater. She growled and flopped onto the bed again.
This was Austin… He wanted to see her in something that would drive him absolutely nuts inside and play havoc on both his mind and body. She was at war with whether she wanted to give that to him or not.
She picked up her cellphone and dialed his number. He answered almost immediately. “Okay, what are you going to wear?” she asked.
“I was thinking about this little red number that I have.”
“Ha… ha,” she mocked.
He chuckled. “I’m wearing black slacks, a burgundy shirt, black tie, black vest,” he said. Her heart stuttered at the idea of seeing him in this. Gosh, he was handsome.
“Okay,” she said, going back to her closet and looking through it once more, a little slower.
“What’s the issue?”
“Well…” She looked over all the red and sighed. “I don’t really have anything to wear.”
He chuckled knowingly. “Mari-elle,” he said in a fatherly tone, and that “you’ve been naughty” implication behind it made the hairs on her arms stand up. “It’s all red, isn’t it?”
She clenched her teeth together. “Anyways,” she sighed, “none of it is really appropriate for theater.” She moved another piece and looked it over. Too flouncy, and there was pink in it. Ew. She brushed several more aside. So… much… stinking… red…
“I could tell you what I want you to wear,” he suggested.
“I know what you want me to wear.” Nothing at all, right, Austin?
He surprised her. “Wear something black.” She paused and moved the phone to the other ear, cocking her head as she looked over another dress. “Something simple. We’ll match fine.”
She pulled the one she was holding out of the closet. “Hold on,” she said quietly, putting the phone on speaker and setting it on her bed. She quickly threw her clothes off and slipped into the halter dress she’d found. Then she pulled her hair back, looking herself over in the mirror. The collar was high enough to cover anything too enticing, and the back was open only enough to be beautiful. The rest was long and lovely. “I found one,” she said. “It is black.”
“Good. Accessorize with some color,” he hinted. Then he said goodbye and hung up.
Marielle looked over her shoulder at the phone, then turned back to the mirror when she realized he’d gone. The dress was more pretty than sexy, which she wanted, but deep down, she knew it wouldn’t matter either way. He’d be thinking about taking it off of her all night long.
She had a wicked thought, then. “Accessorize with some color,” he’d said, but he hadn’t specified which accessories… If she wore something red underneath, he’d have absolutely no clue, and she could squirm in her seat all night long with that secret. She shook her head, chuckling at herself. No. Too wicked.
Marielle did her makeup on the lighter side, dabbing the apples of her cheeks with rouge and using a dark mauve for her lipstick. Then she put on large, dangly silver earrings with rhinestones. She definitely looked more lovely than enticing, but when he knocked on the door later and she opened it, a large part of her wished she’d worn the red underwear after all.
Sometimes, when she saw Austin, she was struck with the memory of the moment they’d met. He was, without question, one of the most attractive people, let alone men, she’d ever seen in her life. She would call him flawless in appearance, but that was almost going too far. That earring in his ear was tempting to finger, and goodness, had he put some eyeliner on? He had… and it was doing amazing things for the color of his eyes, deepening their haunting gaze.
Her heart hitched a little. He practically dripped “debonair,” although his eyes told her he thought the same about her. Well, that she was beyond gorgeous, anyway, and no attempt at “not being sexy” was going to work on him. Even if she had been wearing a paper sack, he’d have thought she was one of the most perfect things he’d ever seen, and sadly, she knew her eyes were telling him the same thing.
He wanted to say this…but he didn’t need to. She didn’t either. The ten shades of red her thoughts had painted on her face told him everything he needed to know. He drank her in with his gaze, his left eyebrow raised slightly. All he said was “Parfait” in a nearly inaudible whisper. She tucked her lips in self-consciously as she tried to hide a smile that would not die.
Austin stepped cautiously toward her. “We should talk for a moment,” he said, lifting a hand. She looked down, understanding what was coming. “Are you okay?” His tone was genuine and full of compassion. “I don’t know what he—Hazal—did to you when he made you see my face,” he continued, his tone turning ashamed and apologetic as if he’d been the one who had held her against the stairwell wall, gripped her throat, and torn her shirt. She looked away, trying to evade his gaze. “But I’m shaken up over it, so I assume you’re far worse, and I—”
Marielle raised a hand, forcing him to stop, then finally met his eyes and offered him a wan smile. “I’ll be honest with you. I was frightened when it happened—terrified, really.” She took in a deep gulp of air and looked away. “Whatever he was trying to do… and Vincent is not being super forthcoming about that… Whatever Hazal was trying to do, he didn’t want to hurt me. I don’t know why, but…”
“Maybe you’re friends in the other dimension?”
“I would assume so. But I will say this much.” She took a step toward him, and for a moment, he froze. Her advance was odd, almost as if she was trying to prove to him that they were okay, but it also came off like she might be about to wrap her arms around him and press her mouth to his. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I don’t want to relive it or dwell on it. What I want is to forget. Tonight will help me do that.” Marielle forced a smile, even though she could see a flicker of disappointment in his gaze, perhaps that she hadn’t continued the action he had hoped for.
“Come on,” he said, offering her his arm in a playful gesture.
She took it, and he led her to the car, then drove her to the opera house to see Madame Butterfly. It was in Italian. Marielle didn’t speak Italian; Austin did. It was also about Japan. Marielle found this exhilarating; the idea of something being in one language, but about a different country and culture interested her.
At the opera house, red carpets paved their way, along with marble floors, golden partitions, and interesting sculptures. The foyer was thronged with bodies, thick perfume and cologne, and the glitter of diamonds left and right. There were easily a dozen women who walked by in skimpy dresses, all of them younger and more voluptuous than Marielle, and clearly eager to spend the night with someone like Austin. She couldn’t help but notice that he gave them only a cursory glance here and there, never letting his eyes linger or wander for too long. She had his attention.
He slipped a glass into her hand. It was a cocktail, something he knew she’d like. He sipped his own drink as they both stared at a silver sculpture that looked like large metal drops trying to break free from other metal drops. There was a humanoid shape in the middle somewhere, but it was hard to distinguish. The material was reflective like a mirror, and both could see distorted images of themselves looking back at them in several parts.
“What do you think it means?” Austin asked, standing near her left side. She smelled like roses; he loved it, and breathed in more deeply each time he caught the scent. She would never tell him, but she was doing the same. He smelled like that frosty forest she loved… perfect.
She took a sip of the cocktail in her hand and tasted pineapple. It delighted her, and made her a little heady. “It’s about trying to escape something you’re already becoming anyways. There is no escape. The liquid is embracing the figure at the center, drowning him… and he holds onto it, trying to claw his way out but also embracing it right back.”
He looked it over, tilting his head. “Yeah,” he agreed.
Her gaze showed compassion as she understood that he saw himself in this. He turned to her, and their eyes searched each other. Had this been another situation—had he been Vincent—this would have been the perfect time for a kiss.
His eyes darted toward the front doors of the opera house as someone entered—a man with white hair. “Is that your target?” she asked.
Austin took a drink. He couldn’t answer, but she knew it was. They both studied the man for a moment.
“We can’t stare. More once we’re inside.” Austin turned back to the sculpture for one last glance and sipped the last of his drink before setting the glass down on the tray of a busser collecting them. Marielle did the same, and the doors to the theater opened.
Austin put his hand on the small of her back and escorted her to their seats. She felt the need in his fingertips, the small twitch that said, “I need more than this. Please give me more than this.”
When they were seated, his knee bounced a little, the next confirmation that he probably hadn’t had his fix in a few hours, and that being with her was internal agony. She reached over and touched the side of his knee lightly with the back of her fingertips. He realized what he was doing and stopped, giving her a questioning look.
“How long are you going on here?” she whispered.
He checked the watch on his right wrist. “About seven hours.”
She slipped her hand into his with a squeeze, telling him she was proud of him for making it that long. “I’m here,” she said with a smile.
He returned it and opened his mouth to say something, but before he had a chance to speak, the maestro walked out. They both looked up as the chandeliers dimmed.
Marielle squeezed his hand again and let go. She could feel the tug of his fingertips, begging her not to leave him. She had to, but she glanced at him from the corner of her left eye and smiled again. I’m still here, Austin.
Austin’s “target” was two rows ahead of them, and from this perspective, they had a good view of him. He was with an older woman, presumably his wife. He wore a tuxedo, while his companion was in a long, champagne-colored dress. Its gold threading twinkled a little whenever she moved.
The orchestra entered the pit, and the music began. Austin leaned close to Marielle and translated specific parts of the opera for her when he felt it was appropriate. She understood some of what was occurring based on the singers’ actions and the emotions pouring out through their silver-toned voices, but she was still a bit lost on exactly what it all meant.
“He’s trying to convince him not to marry her,” Austin whispered near her left ear.
For his part, even as he translated, he was studying the flawless line of her jaw and the way it traced up to her lovely ear where her silver earring dangled, presenting the perfect spot for a kiss. He wouldn’t do it, but he wanted to so badly. He spotted the smallest freckle and smiled. Does Vincent notice you so closely? He took every whiff of her rose-scented perfume deep into his lungs, praying that some of it would cling to him later when he was alone.
A parade of geishas walked onstage; a little one moved forward. “He’s asking her if the climb was tiring. She replies, ‘Not as hard as the hours of waiting…’” Austin gazed at her longingly, but he made an effort to keep his eyes on the man he was meant to be observing between translations.
Marielle watched in awe as the story unfolded, and Austin smiled at her several times as her internal little girl came out. His little boy showed himself as well. “Let’s run away together, just you and me. I’ll make a big box fort and we’ll hide in it, and nothing will get us… not even older me,” his eyes said.
She had no idea how she could read all of that, but she would have sworn that was what he was telling her. She bit her bottom lip, and his gaze was drawn there. She turned back to the play before he got any ideas.
As the opera went on, Marielle found herself enthralled when Butterfly was left alone… surprised to learn that she had borne a son… horrified when she found out that Pinkerton had a wife in America… and distraught when Butterfly took a knife to her breast and plunged it into her heart. The back of her hand went to her mouth in distress as silent tears rolled down her face. She was shocked to find Austin’s eyes watering as well. Their gazes met for a moment.
-Yes, Marielle, I do feel deeply about things other than my addictions.
The lights went down, and everyone burst into applause. Then the lights rose again to house lighting. Marielle couldn’t stop the onslaught of tears even as she stood, clapping and whistling for the actors as they each came out to take their bows.
Austin saw the moisture on her cheeks and drew her into a hug, holding her for a moment. “I know,” he whispered. “I know.” And he did; he knew…
When she was alone later, after the drive home and the questions about what Austin had observed about his target, she slipped out of her dress, wiped off her makeup, crawled into bed, and cried, clutching her pillow against her body. Felix sniffed at her and eventually settled at her side. Her heart was swelling for Austin, and she didn’t understand why. She felt like she was looking at a thousand puzzle pieces, and instinctively she knew how they all fit together to make a clear image. She was simply uncertain where to begin, and what the image actually was.
Things were just too damn complicated.