Chapter 16

Chapter

Sixteen

I relive that explosion in my nightmares.

Night after night, I feel the detonation. See the flames flickering hungrily.

He had a lot of enemies , You tell me, in an attempt to explain it.

It means nothing to me.

Caleb is dead. I do not weep, after that moment in the car. I don't know how. I think I have cried all the tears I possess. For you, Caleb, I do not mourn. I relive your death, over and over and over.

And I relive every moment we ever spent together. All the moments I spent naked, waiting, coming, being taken, being owned, being used. Every moment where you looked at me in that inscrutable way you had, giving nothing of your thoughts away. How you would fasten your pants: left leg first, always, then the right. A slight hop to tug them into place. Button-down next, fingers nimbly fitting each button into place. Tucking the tail of the shirt into the pants. Zip, fasten, buckle the belt. It took less than a minute, all total.

And then you'd be gone.

And I'd be alone.

Until the next time you showed up. At midnight, or between clients. Hands possessing me, as if my will had nothing to do with anything, as if my desires meant nothing. Stripping me, positioning me. On my hands and knees, or face to the window, as you were so fond of. On my knees, for a swift moment of oral pleasure, at my expense of my abused gag reflex.

Day after day, night after night. I was your sexual possession. You rarely spoke to me, except to order me to my knees, or to strip, or to go to my room and wait, or to tell me about the next client. We never just... talked. You appeared, commanded my body, and left.

And my body obeyed . That's what mystifies me, even still. That I always obeyed. That my body responded to your commands, that I seemed to have no will where you were concerned. As if you possessed some secret method to control me, to elicit responses from me.

Am I mourning?

Perhaps I am.

I don't know.

I know nothing.

Did you tell me the truth, that day in the empty building? Four years, three months, and nineteen days? Or six months? How old am I? Are the memories I've regained real? I remember sitting in the museum, in front of the Madame X , and then going with you to see Starry Night . I remember it. I feel it. The floor under the wheels of my wheelchair. The lights, dim, spotlights bathing each piece of art, islands of beauty in oceans of darkness. I remember you behind me, hands on the handles, pushing slowly. Pointing out pieces you know, telling me their names, carrying on a one-way conversation. Turning left, and then right, going down long hallways, and then finally coming to a stop at the Starry Night . I remember this. It is real to me.

But it isn't possible. The Madame X and Starry Night are at different museums.

My memory is a lie.

Humans can invent memories from whole cloth. We can convince ourselves a lie is truth, and truth is lie.

So then, in the absence of memory, what do I believe?

In the presence of contradiction, what is truth? You told me yourself, Caleb, that you lied. So then how do I know anything you told me, ever, is true?

Am I even Isabel de la Vega? If you can create Caleb Indigo from scratch, could you have created Isabel?

What if I am just some victim you saw, and wanted, and took? What if nothing I think I remember is true?

Your name is Madame X. I'm Caleb. I saved you from a bad man.

I own your past. I own your soul.

You are mine.

I am on the terrace. Hands on the grit of the ledge, staring out at the night, at the city as it breathes and lives and moves, reliving you, doubting you, doubting myself. Doubting everything. Doubting my name, my past, my memory.

Nothing is real.

Nothing is true.

Then, oh, then I feel You.

You lean on the ledge beside me, except You lean backward, ass to ledge. Cup Your hands around Your mouth, flick a flame into life. Smoke curls, billows. You inhale.

You've left me alone, for the most part. For days. I've been ruminating and stewing and floundering for days. Lost in memory, lost in thought.

"Enough, Is. He's not worth this." You speak the last sentence around a mouthful of smoke.

"I'm doubting everything, Logan."

You tuck the cigarette into the corner of Your mouth, pull me to You. Cheek to chest, heartbeat under my ear. "Hear that?"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"Your heart."

"Exactly. My heart."

"And what is it doing?"

"Logan, I don't—"

"What is my heart doing, Is?"

"Beating."

"Why?"

"Why?" I wrinkle my nose in confusion, twist my head to look up at You. "What do you mean, why?"

"Why is my heart beating, Isabel?"

"Um, so you—"

"For you." An inhalation, cheeks hollowing, spewing a gray stream. "My heart beats for you."

"And mine for you, but—"

"What's your name? Your full name."

"Isabel Maria de la Vega Navarro." I let out a shaky breath. "But he lied about so much, Logan. I don't know what to believe anymore."

"Believe that I love you. Believe that I love this"—You put your hand under my shirt, to the little bump—"this life, growing inside you. I love you for everything that you are. I fell in love with Madame X. I fell even more in love with Isabel Maria de la Vega Navarro. I fall in love with you every single day. That week in Spain, do you remember it?"

"Of course! I'll never forget it as long as I live. It was the best week of my life."

"Did it matter what lies Caleb told you, while we were in Spain? Did it matter what the truth was or wasn't?"

"No." I whisper this, a tiny, heavy nugget of truth.

"No, it didn't." You toss Your cigarette out into the street. "And when you wake up next to me, do you think of him?"

"No."

"What do you think about?"

I blush. "You. Us. Making love to you."

"Does it matter, then, what the truth is or isn't?"

"No."

"No. It doesn't. You are Isabel. That's the truth. You chose to be Isabel, to become Isabel. You chose to love me. You chose to let me love you. Now you have to choose to let go of the past. The past doesn't define you. Our pasts shape us, Isabel. They influence us. Our pasts are part of us. Our pasts can inform our future. But our pasts are not who we are. You aren't Madame X anymore. Maybe Caleb lied about how you met, how old you were, how long you were in the coma, who he was, all of that. Maybe what he told you was the truth, maybe it wasn't. There's no way to know. He's dead, Isabel, and he was the only one who knew the truth. And you know something else? Even if he were still alive, I don't think we'd ever know the whole truth about you, and him, and whatever else."

You tip my chin up with a fingertip. "And here's the thing, Is: It doesn't matter. None of that matters. Not anymore. Because you and me, honey, what we have is a beautiful future together." You kiss my lips; I taste smoke, but it's You, and I don't mind. "It's unwritten. We can make our future whatever we want. But to do that, you have to let go of Caleb, let go of Jakob, let go of Madame X."

I just breathe. I breathe in Your scent. Press my palms to Your chest, flutter them up to Your throat, feel Your lips, the stubble on Your jaw, bury my fingers into Your hair. I breathe You.

Kiss You.

Taste You.

And in that kiss, in that taste of my lips on Yours,

I kiss,

I taste,

I breathe in the future.

With You.