Chapter 3

Chapter

Three

Y ou roll off me, slide off the bed with slow, languid, lithe movements. Stand up, move to the doorway. You are silhouetted. Thick thighs. Taut calves. Round, iron-hard buttocks. Back a rippling field of muscle. Broad shoulders, brawny biceps cut from living marble as if by Michelangelo's very hand. You clutch the doorpost, sagging for a moment as if weak. Turn your head slightly, almost but not quite looking at me. Face in profile.

I think you are about to speak. You even open your mouth, but then... you straighten. Iron turns your spine rigid. Shoulders go back. Head up.

And you turn away from me. Vanish.

I hear my door open, close. Hear the elevator.

And I am left to wonder: What just happened?

Who was that in my bed, making love to me? That was not Caleb. But it wasn't Jakob, either. It was some chimera of the two. And now he is gone. That was a man I would have... the thought pierces me... a man I could have fallen in love with. I wanted to know the source of his pain. I wanted to heal him. Protect him. Comfort him. Hold him close and know his secrets so I can tell him I love him for them, in spite of them, beyond them.

But he is gone.

Shoved back down into the depths of your unfathomable soul. Locked away behind the iron mask you wear.

A thought occurs to me:

I just had sex with Caleb. Again.

I fell under his sorcery. Again.

But it was different , a part of me argues—

He faced you; he did it naked; he held your eyes the whole time;

it meant something—

Everything inside me crumples, and collapses.

Suddenly, I am sobbing.

Who am I?

What kind of woman am I that I could make love to the man who has so continually lied to me about who I am?

That man. God, that man.

You.

You hide me from me. You lie to me. You obfuscate. You refuse to answer. You run away rather than just tell me the truth. Why? Why? What horrible secret lies in our shared past that you are so afraid of me knowing?

And how can I allow you to take my body and use it at your desire? How can I allow you to fuck me again and again and again, knowing nothing will ever change?

You killed Logan.

Logan.

God, Logan. How could I face him now? Even if he were alive, how could I face him? How could I go to him and tell him that I allowed you to fuck me yet again, after what Logan and I shared?

Was that fucking, between you and me, Caleb?

No; it was something else. I don't know what. Something raw and ragged and desperate.

Wrong.

Yet... it was more real and honest than any other moment I've ever spent in your presence.

But Logan. Logan. I fall into renewed sobs at the thought of him—

I don't fall easy, Isabel. But when I do, I fall hard and fast.

There's no going back for me now—

I can hear his voice, almost. I can see the light in his indigo eyes as he gazes at me. The brilliance of his easy smile.

And I hear my own words, my promise to him— You are my path, Logan.

I am a horrible, weak, despicable person.

I have no path. Only a road paved with sins and scars and pain and mistakes.

But yet, I do not give in.

I cannot.

Will not.

Some internal compulsion has me leaving the bed. Washing you from my body. Tying my damp hair into a knot at my nape, and dressing in the clothes I began the day with, an expensive dress, the sleeves ripped off, neckline torn open to reveal a little too much cleavage.

Slip my feet into a pair of heels.

I do not know what is driving me.

But I am leaving the building. Ignoring the eyes as I push through the revolving door and out onto the street. The voices wash over me, the rush of cars, the horns, the groan of engines. But I am not brought to my knees by panic.

I see a car idling at the curb a few dozen yards away, window open. A white car with lights on top; NYPD. I lean into to the open passenger window.

"Excuse me, sir. Can you tell me where the nearest hospital is?"

The man within, the police officer, is older, portly, graying. "St. Vincent. Eighth and Thirty-fourth." Gruffly, impolite.

"Thank you, officer." I turn away, start walking.

"Hey!" The officer's voice calls out. I glance back, and he's pointing from the window in the opposite direction. "You're goin' the wrong way, sweetheart."

I find my way to St. Vincent. The woman behind the reception counter is young, Hispanic, in scrubs.

"I'm looking for someone who might be a patient here. Logan Ryder."

The woman says nothing, just taps at a keyboard, eyes flicking across the screen. "Nope. Sorry."

"Anyone with a gunshot wound admitted last night?"

Tap-tap-tap-tap . . . "Nope. Sorry."

I think back, and realize he wouldn't be here. This is the closest hospital to me, not to where we were when Logan was shot.

When YOU shot Logan.

We were... where did Logan say he was taking me? I wasn't paying attention to the streets while he drove.

Brooklyn.

"What is the name of the hospital in Brooklyn?" I ask.

The woman frowns at me. "There's, like, a dozen. Mount Sinai Brooklyn. New York Methodist. SUNY Downstate. A bunch."

"How do I get there?"

She shrugs. "Go to Brooklyn?"

"But if I'm looking for someone, but don't know which hospital—"

"Then you'll have to ask at each one till you find him. NEXT!"

I wander out of the hospital, feeling hope bleeding away. How do I get to Brooklyn? How do I find out which hospital he's in? How do I even know he's still alive?

He is.

I can just... feel it. He is. He has to be.

I ask someone which way to Brooklyn, and get a response in a language I don't understand. Ask again, get a thumb jerk in what I hope is the correct direction.

I walk that direction until my feet ache. I don't know how long. Until I see water in the distance.

And then a black SUV glides to a halt beside me. A tinted window rolls down. Thomas.

Impassive black face, dark eyes staring. A slow blink. "Get in."

I hesitate.

"He is alive. I will take you. Get in." A voice like thunder in the distance. Like rich, thick syrup. Like the bottom of a well. Thickly accented English.

"Thomas, why would you—"

"You want to see him?"

I breathe my answer. "Yes."

"Then get in."

I get in. Miles in silence, and then I have to know.

"This isn't the first time you've helped me when I know you shouldn't be. Why?"

A shrug of a heavy shoulder. "I do not know. Sometimes, there are things a man must do. He knows. And he does them. Perhaps I have known your soul, in another time."

I have no idea what that means. It doesn't matter. Thomas is an utter enigma. Frightening. The largest man I have ever seen in my life, skin so black it is shadow made flesh. A mountain of silence and darkness. Eyes that see everything and give away nothing. A sense of tightly coiled violence. But yet again Thomas has helped me, in what seems to be direct violation of what you would want.

Thomas drives me unerringly to a hospital far, far from your world, from the enclave of wealthy Manhattan. Slides to a stop under the portico. Glances at me. "He is here."

"Thank you, Thomas."

A shrug. "Go. And Indigo... he will come to you again. You know this. Yes?"

I nod. I do know it. I feel it. "Yes. I know."

"Good. Do not forget it."

I exit the SUV, close the door behind me. Watch as Thomas drives away, slow, careful, unobtrusive. For the second time now, Thomas has been my deus ex machina. I do not know what to make of it, of the man. Why Thomas, so utterly unlike Len, your other henchman, continues to help me. Len is a known quantity; vicious, violent, and utterly loyal to you. Unapologetically a killer. Thomas, however, is different.

I push aside thoughts of Thomas and Len, and of you. The receptionist at this hospital—I do not know which, have once again failed to pay attention to where I have been taken—is an elderly white woman with tired, apathetic eyes.

"May I help you?"

"I'm looking for a man whom believe is a patient here. Logan Ryder?"

Tap-tap-tap-tap... taptaptap... tap. "Yes. Room five thirteen." Slides a large green sticker toward me, tosses a ballpoint pen on top. "Print your name on the visitor's badge and stick it somewhere visible."

I write my name: Isabel de la Vega. Affix the sticker to my chest near my shoulder. Take the elevators up to the fifth floor. The hallways are wide and harshly lit with fluorescent bulbs. My heels click loudly on the floor. The smell of disinfectant and illness assaults my nostrils. Count the rooms, 503 on my left, 504 on my right... turn a corner, 511... 512... 513. The door is closed. The ward is hushed. An orderly or nurse pushes a cart past me, one caster wobbling and squealing. A doctor, then. Tall, male, Indian, slender, stethoscope thumping at his chest, flipping through a chart and barely paying attention to where he is going.

I do not want to go in. I do not want to see Logan wounded. Perhaps dying. Unconscious. Unable to remember me. Fading away, thin and frail and pale. Wrapped up in bandages like a mummy.

Panic flutters in my throat, in my belly. I blink, and choke back a ragged panting gasp. Blink again, and I feel dizzy. Disoriented. I have to lean against the door frame, rest my head against the wood of the door. Close my eyes.

Darkness.

Warmth.

Pain.

A steady beeping. Snoring. My eyes open, flutter. Haze, blurriness. Disorientation. Open my eyes again. They will not quite open all the way. Won't focus properly. My skull feels thick, stuffed with cotton. I can see enough to know I am in a hospital. But where? Why? What happened? I hear the snoring again. Scan the room as best as I am able. There. In the corner. A chair reclined into a makeshift bed, thin white blanket pulled over a large, muscular body. A glimpse of black hair.

A snort, squeaking plasticky leather, and the form shifts, twists. I can see the face now.

Jakob?

What is Jakob doing here?

My throat is clogged. Something is lodged down my throat. Taped to my nose. I can't speak. I try to moan.

Jakob starts, sits up immediately.

"Isabel?" His voice is scratchy, muzzy with sleep.

"Miss?" A concerned male voice, lilting, accented. The doctor. A hand cool on my cheek. "Are you okay?"

I straighten. Nudge his hand away. "Yes. Yes. Thank you. I just... I got dizzy."

"Are you visiting a patient on this floor, miss?" A penlight, shining in my eyes. Tracking their motion. "Look down, please. Up... left... and to the right." I do as instructed. "Very good. When was the last time you have eaten, please?"

"Recently. An hour or two ago."

"Do you feel ill to your stomach? Queasy, at all?" Cool thin long fingers check my pulse at my neck, kind brown eyes watching an analog watch.

I shrug off his concern. "I'm fine. Just... a long day." I breathe and compose myself. "I'm visiting someone. Logan Ryder. He's in here." I reach for the door lever.

"Ah. I am Dr. Kalawat. Mr. Ryder is very, very fortunate indeed to be alive. Some would even call it miraculous. He is also very tough, I think. Extremely determined."

I hesitate to ask, but must. "How is he? I mean... I haven't seen him yet, since—since..." I am reluctant to speak the words.

"Since someone tried to murder him, you mean?" A hardness laces the doctor's eyes. "As I have said, he is lucky to be alive. The bullet entered his eye socket on an angle oblique enough to pass through without damaging his brain. He lost the eye, of course, and needed rather extensive reconstructive surgery. If the angle had been even a few millimeters different, he would be dead right now, or at best, would have suffered rather more severe brain damage. It's too soon to be totally sure, of course, but we think he will make a full recovery without any lasting brain damage."

Lost the eye? God, Logan.

"Can I see him?"

"If he is resting, please allow him to remain asleep. He needs his rest so that he may heal more swiftly."

"All right. Thank you, Doctor."

A nod. "Of course. And if you feel dizzy again, please, page the nurse. You are in a hospital, after all." A gentle smile in farewell.

When he is gone, I softly open Logan's door. Tiptoe in.

Beep—beep—beep. I know that sound. It echoes in my skull, in my gut. In my memory. I feel disoriented once more, but shake it off.

Logan is sleeping on his back, the bed inclined upward slightly. Pressure bandages are wrapped around his head, covering his left eye and cheekbone. His mouth is slack. Arms on top of the thin white blanket.

I want to cry.

He has been through so much, and now, again, he is near death. For me. Because of me.

My eyes water. Sight blurs. Hot salt burns my vision. I am weak in the knees, unable to support my weight. Sick to my stomach. I wasn't queasy when Dr. Kalawat asked, but I am now. Queasy. Unsettled. Dizzy. My mouth waters, saliva running, pooling against my teeth. My stomach tightens. My gorge rises. I barely make it to the adjoining bathroom. My gut rebels, convulses, and I forcefully empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet. Again. Again. Until there is nothing left but bile and saliva. When it seems as if my stomach has quieted, I rinse my mouth at the sink, wash my hands.

Logan is awake when I return to his room.

"Isabel?" His voice is rough, scratchy.

I pull the visitor's chair close to his bed. Take his hand. "I'm here, Logan."

"You got... away?" God, he sounds so weak.

I try to smile. Squeeze his hand. "Sort of, yes. Don't worry about that."

He smiles back. Gestures toward his bandaged eye socket. "Arrggh. I'm a pirate."

I can't help but laugh at that. "God, Logan." I lean closer. Shudder. "I'm so—I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

His hand squeezes mine. His other flutters like a sparrow and finds my shoulder. "Ssshhhh. Don't be. I'm here. I'm alive."

"You almost weren't. Because of me."

"But I am." His gaze flicks to the bathroom. "You're sick?"

I lift a shoulder. "I don't know. It hit rather suddenly. I'm fine now."

"If you're sick, you shouldn't be in a hospital."

I frown at him. "That doesn't make any sense."

"You'll just get more sick. Lots of germs in these places."

"I'm not sick, Logan. I just... felt queasy. I don't know what it was, but I'm fine now. I'm not leaving your side. Not until you leave the hospital."

Logan tugs at me. Shifts to one side, making room on the bed. I lie beside him, on my side, wedged onto the very edge of the bed. His arm curls around my waist. For a moment, at least, I can pretend to feel at peace. In Logan's arms again. Listening to his heartbeat. Except for the monitor beeping, I could almost pretend we're in his bed, at his house. Tangled up together. No worries. No lies. No mistakes. No missing eyes.

He sighs. "About Caleb—"

"I don't want to talk about Caleb. Don't worry about him."

"Always worry about Caleb. He doesn't let go. Doesn't forget."

"I know. But I'm here now. With you."

"For how long?"

I don't know. Until I tell him what I did.

"You need to rest." I whisper it. Pleading.

"Can't avoid it forever, Is." He sounds sleepy, groggy. Fading, but fighting it.

"I know, Logan. I know." I twist against him, gently, so very gently kiss his jaw. "Rest. Please."

He breathes out, long and slow and resigned. "Stubborn girl."

"You were shot. You need to rest so you can heal."

"You sound like Dr. Kalawat."

"I suppose. I met him outside, just before I came in."

"Good doctor. Nice guy."

"Yes." I pat his chest. "Logan?"

"Hmm?"

"Shut up and rest."

"Stubborn girl."

I smile. He's still unequivocally, quintessentially Logan.

I wake up some time later. The room is darkened, but afternoon light peeks through a crack in the curtains.

He's staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. He sees me, and the pensive expression is replaced by a brighter, happier one. He's putting on a brave face for me, I think.

"Hey, you," he says.

I stretch. "Hi."

"Dr. Kalawat was here. He wants to do some follow-up scans, make doubly sure there's no damage to my brain. Assuming those come back clear, they'll keep me a few more days for observation, and then I can go home. I'll be limited for a while, though. Lots of rest, no exercise, no driving. He wanted to be sure I'd have someone with me."

"I'll be there with you, if that's what you want."

He seems a little confused by my statement. "Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know. I guess you would."

"Isabel?"

"He's still out there. Nothing has really changed. But now you're injured. You lost an eye." I have to pause for breath, for courage. "All this is because of me. He wouldn't care about you if I weren't in the picture. I'm dangerous to you."

"Does he know you're here?"

I shrug. "I don't know."

"How did you get away?"

To explain that, I'd have to tell him. How do I tell him?

I hesitated too long.

"Isabel?" His voice is unsure. "Talk to me."

A shaky sigh escapes me. "Nothing makes any sense anymore."

"What do you mean?"

I can't do this lying in his arms. I get up, poke the curtains open a little wider; nothing to see beyond but a wall opposite, windows, a square of roof below, white pebbles and spinning air-conditioning units. I speak to the window.

"He drugged me. I saw Thomas a split second before it all happened. Thomas hit you. Len injected me with some kind of drug to knock me out. Maybe that's why I threw up, the drug? I don't know. I saw Thomas hit you. I heard the gunshot. I knew he'd shot you. And then... I woke up. Back in my apartment. Everything like it used to be... before you. He was calling me X again. Acting like nothing had happened. But I had a dream. Or a memory? I don't know. It felt like... like he knows more than he's saying."

"That's what I've been telling you all along, Is."

"I know. And I'm realizing you're right. But it just feels like... like what he knows is... much different from what he's been telling me. Nothing makes sense. Nothing adds up. And he won't answer me. He won't tell me the truth. I've asked him over and over to just tell me the fucking truth, but he doesn't. He won't. He ignores me, or gives a non-answer, or just... distracts me. And I just... I want to know , Logan. I want to know who I am. I want to know what happened to me."

I cannot bring myself to say it: I slept with Caleb again. I FUCKED Caleb again.

And I surely cannot even begin to verbalize what it was like. How different it was.

I turn around, and Logan is facing me, but his eye isn't on me. It's downcast. At the sheet over his lap. "Isabel, I—"

"I have to tell you something, Logan."

"I lied to you." He says this over me.

"I—what? You did? About what?"

"Caleb... Jakob Kasparek. I said—I told you I couldn't find anything on that name. That was a lie. I just—I was worried it would all be too much for you. I figured I'd fill you in later, when I had a chance to look into it more."

"So you do know something about . . . Jakob?"

He nods. "Yeah. There really isn't much." He pauses. Deep breath in, and lets it out. "Jakob Kasparek was born in 1976 to Tomás and Marta Kasparek. Tomás was a businessman from an extremely wealthy Czech family, and Marta was an Ashkenazi Jew from Vienna, from an even wealthier family. Which means Jakob was born into extreme wealth, in Prague, what was then Czechoslovakia. His mother died suddenly, and his father committed suicide not long after. The particulars are sparse, but it seems Marta's family disowned her after she married Tomás, since he was a gentile. So she had family, but they were in Vienna and refused to have anything to do with the kid after his parents passed. Tomás only had one distant cousin, living here in the States, in New York. After Tomás shot himself, Jakob was sent here to live with the cousin, but from what I could find, that didn't last long. Jakob vanished then, around about the same time when his cousin rather suddenly came into a lot of money. Theory is the cousin took Jakob's inheritance from his parents' estate and tossed the kid out on the street." He glances at me, but I keep my expression neutral. Nothing new, so far, and it matches what you told me. I turn away, look out the window as I listen. "This is where I really had to pull out my amateur detective skills. In the early nineties there was a prostitution ring working in several of the New York boroughs, operated by a woman named Amy Llewellyn. She was a pretty slick figure, I've been told. No one could ever pin anything down on her, even though the operation wasn't precisely secret. Amy primarily catered to the extremely wealthy socialites, the upper-crust businessmen with a taste for a little something illicit on the side. She didn't run escorts, didn't run a brothel or women working the streets. Everything I'm telling you right now I learned from a retired detective who worked the case back in the nineties. He could never get enough evidence to nail her or take her down, despite that fact that Miss Amy, as she was called, was a known madam. Jakob, I think, got pulled into her ring somehow. There were interviews with some of Miss Amy's former call girls who heard talk of a young man who worked for Amy, but not as part of the central ring. Privately, on the side, so to speak. This is hearsay, mind you. No one I spoke to ever actually met him. No one could find anyone who would admit to being a client of his. It was all very mysterious. So, basically, I'm just guessing. But it all fits.

"See, Miss Amy was killed in 1998, hit by a distracted cabbie. Should have been the end of the ring. And, when it comes to her ring of call girls, it was. They all scattered after her death, either were able to find legitimate work or were snapped up by someone else. But then the antiprostitution task force started getting evidence of a new ring. All young girls, all former runaways and homeless girls. Their pimp was, once again, hard to pin down, impossible to find. They wouldn't talk about him, on the rare occasion his girls were picked up. And I say rare, because they didn't operate like typical escorts or call girls, and certainly not like your average whore. Much more discreet, and, if you can apply such a word to prostitution—elegant. The girls were paid on commission, sort of. They were paid a flat base salary, and earned commission and bonuses based on repeat clients, extra time requests, that sort of thing. The setup allowed them to get ahead, in a way most prostitutes can't, usually, unless they're high-end escorts, who are usually only in the business temporarily anyway. The other unusual thing is the girls were always totally clean, no drugs, no diseases."

He pauses, scratches carefully over the bandage near his eye, and then winces.

"This is where things get tricky. Jakob Kasparek suddenly reappeared, legally speaking. Meaning, there was evidence of his existence. He suddenly had money, and was spending it. He bought a restaurant. A shipping company a few months later. An import-export business a year after that. A big corporate accounting firm next. A hotel. One after another, bam-bam-bam. Big dollars. And one by one, the prostitutes I suspect he formerly employed were living legit lives, in nice apartments, working jobs that didn't involve being on their backs or knees. They gave plenty of interviews to the task force my guy was part of, but they couldn't give anything concrete. They didn't know his last name, didn't know where he lived, didn't know anything about him. Jakob, that's all they knew. Tall, dark, and good-looking. Possibly from Europe, somewhere.

"And then, abruptly, Jakob disappeared. No reason, no explanation. Sold all of his businesses and properties for a massive profit, and just... poof. Vanished. Gone. No one ever heard from him or spoke his name again."

Another pause, this one for effect, I think. I turn to face Logan.

A glance at me. "Not long after, the first rumors of a man named Caleb Indigo started percolating around the New York business world. A property here, a business there."

I breathe out. "None of this seems to have anything to do with me."

He tips his head to one side. "Gotta go back to Jakob. The prostitutes. The girls the task force spoke to all told very similar stories. They weren't kidnapped and forced into prostitution. It wasn't accidental, like ‘I'm starving, can I give you a blow job for ten bucks?' They were all homeless, runaways, orphans, addicts. Young girls with no one who cared, with nowhere to go. They talked about how Jakob took care of them. Took them in. Fed them, clothed them. Got them off drugs. The prostitution was added gradually, and the girls were always given a choice. They weren't tossed into a locked room with horny criminals. They were introduced to ‘friends of Jakob's.' They had no money of their own, nowhere to go, and were usually desperate to avoid being back on the street. Hunger is a powerful motivator. It's... manipulative, shitty, shady, and disgusting. But incredibly effective. They essentially chose it. Wasn't much of a choice, whore yourself out or starve, but... still." A glance at me again. "Sounding familiar, yet?"

"What are you implying?"

"Well, number one, it's obvious Jakob became Caleb Indigo." A breath, a pause. "Jakob preyed on lonely, desperate young women. Some of them were only sixteen or seventeen when they met Caleb. He never personally touched them, they were always very clear on that. After the car accident, what were you? A sixteen-year-old girl, beautiful, orphaned, and without a memory. No past, no future. A blank slate. A piece of clay he could manipulate into being whatever he wanted you to be. A pet. A project."

"Stop." I shake my head. "What are you saying, Logan?"

"The accident that killed your parents, nearly killed you and stole your memory. I looked at the reports again. Compared them to other similar reports I was able to get my hands on. The reports are... vague at best. Inconsistent. Basic info on your parents, the VIN of your parents' car. But there's nothing on the other driver. No witnesses, no VIN, no tickets, nothing. The report says it was a crash, but not into what. Another car? A building? It doesn't say. It's all vague. So much so as to be useless."

"Make your claim, Logan."

"What if it wasn't an accident? What if he wanted you, because he had a predilection for young girls, so he did what he had to do to make you his?"

Logan—"

"It fits, Is. All the girls, every single one, they were all sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Young, beautiful, and desperate. And what could be more desperate than a girl with not only no parents, but no identity?"

"Why would he need to fake an accident?"

"The accident wasn't faked, Isabel. It was real. Your parents died."

"Arranged, then. But how could he be sure I wouldn't die? Memory loss... is not well understood, Logan. It is impossible for him to have been able to arrange a car accident in such a way that he could be sure I'd lose my memory. That's crazy, Logan. And just impossible."

"True. But... there's something there, Is. Something he's not telling you, or lying about."

Crazy. Impossible.

But... the flashes of memory I've had... they seem to be hinting that I knew Jakob before my memory loss. But then, he told me I lost my memory suddenly, after surgery.

The lies you've told don't match with the accidental truths you've spilled. 2006? 2009? Sixteen? Eighteen? Car accident? Mugging?

Isabel . . .

The whisper on your lips as you come.

Your forehead against mine.

—You were so frail, so slight. So young. Only sixteen, I think. Or thereabouts. Sixteen, seventeen. A girl, still. But so beautiful already. Dying, terrified, lost, and your eyes, when I set you down on the stretcher when we got to the ER, you looked up at me with those great big black eyes of yours and I just... I couldn't walk away —

"Isabel?" Logan's voice. Far away. Warm, concerned. Loving.

Far away. Faint.

I'm dizzy.

Something sparks, in my skull. Deep in my chest. A vision. A thought.

Life, relived:

I am alone. I should be in school, but I'm not. It is warm, a beautiful, sunny day. I am in my favorite dress. I've curled my hair, stolen Mama's makeup and a pair of earrings. I feel beautiful. Excited, but scared. Down the stairs to the subway, onto the train. Only a few stops, and then I get off. Ascend to the street, cross the intersection. There, the café. OUR café. He's here every morning, so I know he'll be here now.

I hurry, because I am excited.

There, I see him. God, so handsome. So tall, such broad shoulders. He's sitting at a table, sipping espresso. At ease, powerful, in command of his surroundings. He looks up... he sees me! My heart pitter-patters. I blush, trip a step. He stands as I approach, and I breeze past the hostess, through the doors and out onto the patio. Into his arms.

He grabs my shoulders and touches his chin to the top of my head. I have an instant, a glorious instant, where I'm pressed up to him, engulfed by him. But only briefly, and then he lets go, steps back.

"Caleb!" I breathe his name.

"Hey, gorgeous. How are you?" Oh, his English is so flawless. I am jealous. You can barely hear his accent.

"I am well, Caleb. How are you?" Ugh. I sound so SPANISH. Not American at all.

"You should be in school, shouldn't you?" He says it with a teasing grin.

"I had to see you." I say this in Spanish. I can't help it; if I don't consciously think about it, Spanish comes out.

"English, Isabel."

I think it through. Make sure it is correct. "I am very well, Caleb. How are you?"

"That wasn't the question, Isabel." Another teasing grin, as we sit down.

"Brute. Don't be mean to me." More Spanish.

"Isabel. ENGLISH." This is a scold, very serious.

I sigh again. "I wanted to very badly see you. School is dull. It is for children, and I am not a children."

"Not a CHILD," he corrects.

"Yes, that. Whatever."

"If you want to sound American, you have to get it right." He flags the waitress, indicates another espresso.

"I know. But it is hard." I sound petulant, like a child. I am irritated with myself. "What are we going to do today, Caleb?"

He sips his espresso, eyeing me over the rim of the little cup. "You are going back to school. I have work."

"Caleb. Please. I came all this way to see you. Spend time with me." This is in Spanish.

He doesn't correct me, responds in his perfect American English. "We've talked about this, Isabel. That's not possible. You shouldn't be here. We can only be friends."

"But WHY?" Again, I sound so childish.

"Because you are only sixteen. Too young."

This makes me so angry. "I am not a CHILD!" I say it in English, for emphasis. "I know what I want."

"There's more to it than that." But his eyes, oh, those eyes.

They WANT me. I know what desire looks like. The boys at school, those little sniveling brats, they look at me the same way. But they wouldn't know what to do with me if they had me. Caleb would know.

"Isabel. I'm not going anywhere." He leans forward, takes my hands in his. Smiles beautifully at me. "When you graduate and turn eighteen, we can talk about this. But not until then."

"I hate you." I stand up, yanking my hands away.

"Isabel, don't be—"

"Childish? I can't help it, can I? Since I'm just a child." I storm away, stomping my feet.

Feeling rejected. Feeling stupid. I put on makeup for him. I put on earrings for him. I wore my favorite blue dress for him. I looked in the mirror before I came, and I know I look much older than sixteen. Eighteen, at least. With my hair done right and a little makeup, everyone thinks I'm far older than I am. But not Caleb.

I can't help but steal a backward glance at Caleb. He's reading a newspaper now. Sipping espresso. Not a care in the world, as if he didn't just break my heart.

I wait for him to look up at me, but he doesn't.

I walk back home with tears blurring my vision. I scrub off my makeup, change into blue jeans, tie my hair back. Catch a train to school, and pretend nothing is wrong. As if I were just late for school, overslept, perhaps. Not heartbroken.

I feel myself falling. Hit the floor, but I don't feel the pain.

Only the memory. Clear as crystal. Each emotion, what I was thinking. The way he looked. The openness of his expression, not the mask.

The dress, the blue dress.

I wore the blue dress for him.

For Caleb.