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Chapter 7

Chapter

Seven

" H oly shit." He stumbles.

Stares at his feet for a moment, wipes a palm across his face. And then he's in motion. Wrapping his arms around me. Pulling me around to sit on the couch. On his lap on the couch. My cheek to his chest. Hand on my back, rubbing in soothing circles as I sob.

"You're pregnant. How long have you known?"

"I just took the test."

"But if you took the test at a clinic, you've been worried about it for a while, then. Right?"

I shrug. "I suppose. I was worried. I missed my period three weeks ago. The doctor at the hospital thought I might be pregnant, actually. So it's been in my mind all this while. And I've been getting sick in the mornings lately."

A silence.

"Holy shit. You're pregnant." A silence. "We're having a baby."

"Logan." I realize something, a factor I'm not sure he's thought of. "I—The time frame. I don't know—"

He takes my face in his hands, lifts my face up so I'm looking at him. There's nothing but love in his eyes. "I'm not an idiot, Isabel. I know ." He kisses me, quickly, softly.

"Logan, it may not be—"

"You were with both him and me in the same span of time. So it could be either Caleb's or mine. That's what you're saying. And I'm saying I know."

"And you're not—you don't—?"

"What did you think I'd do? Kick you out? Tell you to take it to him? Say, ‘Not my problem'? I love you, Isabel. I'm here. We're together. No matter what happens." He pauses. "Is it easy for me to accept? No. I'm not sitting here saying, ‘Hey, cool, the woman I love is having a baby and we don't know if it's mine or the man who's cost me five years in prison and my eye.' It's not cool. It's not fine. Thinking about it in those terms makes me a little crazy."

"That's what I'm—"

He doesn't let me finish. "But what I'm not going to do is condemn you or hold anything against you or push you away. It'll take time to come to terms with, but I'll do that in my own way, on my own terms and in my own time. And I'm not going to get all nasty with you over it in the meantime."

This just makes me weep all the harder. "I don't understand you, Logan, and I certainly don't deserve you."

He touches my chin, and I meet his gaze. He speaks softly. "Doing the right thing isn't always easy, Isabel. You know that. But it's always an option. It's a choice. To be a good person is a choice, day by day. I had to choose—still have to choose each and every day—to not hate Caleb for everything he's done to me, to not seek revenge. I have to choose, in this case, to continue loving you, no matter what. That means accepting the reality of difficult circumstances. I'm not going to abandon you or push you away. It's hard, yes, but my love for you is stronger."

I cling to him. "I love you, Logan. I was so scared. So worried about what you'd say, what you'd do."

"His, mine, I don't care. It's ours . We'll handle this together." He goes silent. "Have you decided if you're... keeping it?" This sounds like an afterthought. Something he realized I may have considered.

"I haven't gotten that far, Logan. I don't even know... what to do. What to think. What I want. I want to not be pregnant. I want to not... I want to not be such a horrible person that I don't even know which of you is the father. How awful is that? What kind of horrible woman am I, that I'm pregnant and don't even know who—who... who the—the father is?"

I break down, then. Truly break down.

Sobbing. Mucus dripping. Chest heaving. Hyperventilating. Unable to function, to see, to move, to do anything other than just... break.

Shatter: to break suddenly and violently into pieces.

Logan just holds me. Lets me break, and clings to me through it.

I don't know how long I break, there against the wall of Logan's chest. How long he holds me. How long it takes me to shatter completely, until there's nothing left of me.

I have no recollection of being picked up, carried, and set down in our bed. But I come to awareness, eventually, and I'm there, in our bed. Logan is spooned behind me. I can tell by his breathing that he's awake.

I lie silent a long, long time, letting my mind work. Letting my thoughts and emotions just flow, flicker, flit-stream.

How is it even possible? I am on birth control, and I have been for a very long time. You brought me to the same clinic in your office building, where I lived, where you live, where I had the chip removed. There was an examination, you watching like a hawk all the while. And then the doctor inserted something into me. Birth control, the doctor explained. An IUD. The process was a little uncomfortable. There was some pain, some dizziness, nausea. Normal, I was told, considering my young age and that I had never given birth before; it will pass. And it did. I had regular checkups by your private doctor thereafter. Once a year, that same doctor would perform an overall examination. You even had the doctor replace the IUD a year ago, as it had reached the end of its efficacy term.

Perhaps it came out? I don't know. I never thought to check. I should have, I was told to, but I never did.

Or, perhaps, it just didn't work. Nothing is ever 100 percent effective, I remember the doctor saying as much.

I slip out of bed and go into the bathroom, check for the IUD; it's still in place, which I assume means it failed.

In the end, though, it doesn't matter how it happened. It did. It's real. I'm pregnant. A human being is growing within me.

What do I do? The counselor at the clinic outlined three basic choices: abortion, adoption, or raising it myself. Which do I choose?

Abortion? Terminating the pregnancy?

I consider it. But something within me rebels against that idea. No. Not that.

So, adoption, or delivering the baby and raising it.

Adoption, delivering the baby to term, and giving it away for someone else to raise. Could I do that?

No. My heart rebels against that just as strongly. If I am going to carry the child for nine months, I could not then give it away. Give her or him away. Say, as Logan put it, Not my problem ? I couldn't. I just couldn't.

I'm scared. I'm terrified. I don't know how to be a mother. I don't know how to raise a child. I don't even really know who I am, yet. Maybe I never will. How could I then raise a person, teach that child to be the best he or she could be? What could I teach them? What do I know? How to be addicted to a man who doesn't love me. Doesn't care for me. Just wants to possess me.

Is that true, though? A sinister little voice whispers, deep inside me. What about the last time you were with him? He kissed you. He made LOVE to you. As Jakob. What if... ?

No.

No.

No.

Even if you COULD love me, if you did, it wouldn't be enough to overcome all that I have endured at your hands. Even though you have given me a life, given me somewhere to live, even though you were there for me, caring for me when I was helpless and had no one. It isn't enough. It can never be enough.

And nothing you could ever feel for me, nothing you could ever do or say could ever match what Logan feels for me. The way he makes me feel. The way I feel about him.

I am complete, with him.

I have an identity, a future, potential, with him. I am someone , with him.

With you... I will always only be Madame X.

A possession.

I have to tell you.

The life growing inside me could be yours. I don't think there's any way to know until I give birth. Will the baby have blue eyes and blond hair, like Logan? Dark eyes, dark hair, like you? Like me? What if the baby's features aren't distinctive enough to tell me who the father is? What then?

Does it matter?

If I told you— when I tell you—what will you say? Will you want it? Want me? Would you insist I get an abortion? Try to force that on me? Manipulate me and twist me into it? If I had still been Madame X and this happened, I came up unexpectedly pregnant, what would you have done? Let me have the baby? Let me raise the baby on my own, alone, perhaps stopping by once in a while? I don't know. I don't know what you would have done. What you will say. What you will do.

I just don't know.

So I can't abort the baby—God, my heart twists in painful knots just thinking that. I can't. I can't.

And I can't give the baby away. That too hurts to even think.

So I am keeping the baby.

As if a human being is a stray dog to just... keep . It is a life growing within me. A soul. A mind. Talents. A smile. Hugs, kisses.

Mama is a warm weight on top of the blankets, on the edge of my bed. Her arm is over me, her fingers toying with my hair. She's singing a lullaby to me, the same lullaby she's sung to me every night for my whole life. I am too old for lullabies, probably. But I don't care. I love these moments, when I am clean and my hair is damp on the pillow, blankets pulled up to my chin, Mama's breath on my ear, her voice singing sweetly, softly, a song her mother sang to her, and so on down the generations. So Mama tells me, some nights. An age-old song. I feel myself start to fade, to fall into sleep. I welcome it. My window is open, and the sound of the ocean crashing against the shore is another lullaby.

I hear her humming now. The tune only. Stroking my hair. "Duerme, mi amor."

Fading in and out, listening to the waves. Later, I hear my door creak. Heavy footsteps. Papa's cologne. His hand, warm and heavy on my shoulder. Whiskers on my cheek, breath smelling faintly of the red wine he and Mama drink when they think I'm asleep.

Kiss to my cheek. "Te amo, mija."

I am too nearly asleep to even murmur.

Now that Papa has kissed me good night, I can sleep.

I smile to myself. They loved me, my mama and my papa.

I will love this one—my hand goes to my belly. I will love this one.

"I'm keeping the baby." I whisper it.

Logan's hand slides over my hip, his fingers tangle with mine, over my stomach. "Good."

"I'm so scared, Logan." My voice quavers. "I don't know how to do this."

"You're not doing it alone, Isabel."

"But I don't... I don't know how to be a mother. I barely even remember my own. A few snatches of memory. Her cooking for me when I was a little girl. Her singing an old lullaby to me in Spanish. But... how do I mother a child? I'm not—I don't—"

"Love, Isabel. That's how. Hugs, kisses, lullabies. Be there. Just... love. The rest we'll figure out together, as we go. That's all anyone has ever done, I think. I don't think anyone is ever ready for a baby, sweetheart. No one really knows what they're doing. You just... do the best you can. Love them, be there for them, take care of them to the best of your ability. That's all you can do."

"But what if . . . what if it's his?"

"Will he want it? Will he want, like, joint custody or something, if it is?"

"I have no idea, Logan. I don't even know how to tell him. I don't know if I ever want to see him again." I shake my head against the pillow. "He has answers. He knows things about me. There's a history, there, somewhere. He knew me. I know he did. But... if I see him again, I'm afraid of what will happen. Me changing has changed him. I don't want to... to see him anymore. Even if I never find out the answers, I don't want to see him. I am Isabel now, yes. But I am also the woman who was Madame X. I am both. Madame X is still a part of who I am. So is he. But now... so are you."

"We're a part of each other."

"It's all so . . . messy."

"Life is messy, Is. We're all just... fumbling around out here. Living, doing the best with what we've got. It's never easy, and it's never simple."

"I wish it were."

"So does everyone else."

"Not everyone has been through what I have."

"True. And I'm not trying to make light of that. Just saying, you're not alone in this mess called life."

"I have you."

"Exactly." He pulls at me, so I'm on my back. I turn my head to look at him. He's removed the patch, and the space where his eye used to be is a wrinkled, scarred hole. It's strange, but it's part of him. "Listen, Isabel. I promised you I'd love you, no matter what. I do. I will. I'm making that promise again. I love you. No matter what. Okay? You want to tell him, I'll go with you. You want to stay clear of him, we'll make sure you never see him again. We'll move to freakin' Thailand if we have to. Okay? I'll take care of you."

"And the baby?"

"And the baby."

I can't help crying again at that.

And again, he kisses me. Kisses the tears away. Wipes them with the broad pad of his thumb. Kisses my lips.

It's going to be okay.

It is early in the morning, and we are having breakfast. He shoots me a glance, sets the newspaper down. "Babe?"

I lower my mug of tea. "Yes, Logan?"

He snorts. "You gotta loosen up, honey." He straightens his spine, makes a tight, sour face, raises his voice to a falsetto, and captures my inflections precisely. "‘Yes, Logan?' Like for real, if I say, ‘Hey, babe,' you should say something simple and normal , like... ‘What's up, buttercup?'"

I frown at him. "What does that mean, ‘What's up, buttercup?' It strikes me as trite and empty."

Another laugh. "It is. Which is why it's funny. Just... try it. So let's start over." A pause, and he clears his throat. "Hey, babe?"

I slouch in my chair, make a grumpy face, affect as deep a voice as I can. "Yo dude, what's up?"

A big broad shout of genuine laughter. "Exactly! I love it!"

I straighten. "Now that we've gotten that out of the way, what is it you wanted to ask me?"

"You ever see the touristy stuff around here? Like, the Statue of Liberty and all that?"

I shrug. "Probably before, but not recently that I am able to recall."

He slaps the table with his palm. "It's settled, then. Time for a field trip!"

"Really?"

"Really. I'll take the day off and we'll just hang out and do the tourist thing. I've never really done it myself, for as long as I've lived here. You just... take it all for granted, you know?"

I shake my head. "Not really."

"I suppose you wouldn't, huh? It's like, you live here, you work here, and the tourist stuff will always be here so there's no point in going to look at any of it, because you live here. So you never end up going to see it." He pulls out his phone, glances at me. "I'm gonna get us an Uber so I don't have to worry about driving. You'll want a sweater or something for when we're on the ferry."

"Ferry?"

"Well yeah, how else are we gonna see the statue? It's way out in the bay, right?" A shooing gesture. "So go get some sturdy walking shoes on and grab a sweatshirt. The Uber will be here any minute."

I do as instructed, putting on a pair of running shoes and a zip-up hoodie, by which time Logan has locked up Cocoa and is waiting outside by the Uber car, a black Mercedes sedan. He locks the front door, and we're off.

I'm excited, actually. A day off, out with Logan. Exactly what I need, really, especially since I've already dealt with the morning sickness today.

Our first stop is a pier on the Hudson River, where Logan buys us a ticket for the full tour of the island. We find seats on the upper deck, in the open air, and wait for the boat to fill. Within fifteen minutes or so, the ropes are thrown off, a horn sounds, and we back out of the slip, pivot, and trundle out into the river. Another couple of minutes, and then a voice fills the air, coming from a PA system, narrating our journey, describing landmarks of the island on our left telling us which number avenue we're passing and explaining how the number of the pier corresponds to the street number nearest it. I pay close attention, sitting on the inside of the row, closest to the water, feeling as giddy as a little girl.

Mile by mile, however, a strange sensation grows within me. Familiarity. As if I've been here, before. The sun is midway up toward the zenith, beating warm on my face, and the boat is rolling gently, an elderly, stentorian male voice guiding the tour. Behind us, a woman and her two young boys chatter to each other in Spanish:

"Mama, where is the Statue of Liberty? Are we going to see it soon, Mama? Can we go up in it?"

"No, 'Jandro, we are going to go past it, but not on it. I think the man will tell us when we will be able to see it."

"Can we get some food, Mama? I'm hungry. It's been hours since breakfast."

"My God, Manuel, you only think of your stomach. We have to save our money, so we cannot get anything to eat just yet. We will have lunch after the tour."

I hear their voices, feel the sun. I'm floating.

Dizzy.

Something sparks, tumbles in my mind.

Clicks.

Mama is on my right, Papa to my left. We are up on the very top of the boat, sitting as far forward as we can. I am excited, flush with exuberance, but I am trying to keep it in, to be more like Mama, who has her hands folded on her lap and her ankles crossed beneath her, under the bench. She is calm, quiet, watching the buildings of Manhattan float past us.

We are really in New York! I am as excited as I am frightened. I know no one. I have no friends. We have no family. Papa speaks the best English of any of us, and mine is a close second to his, but Mama speaks barely any at all. I think it is okay for her, though, since because she is so very beautiful most men will do whatever she asks, even if she is asking it in Spanish, and they speak not a word. They'll trip over themselves just to get a smile from her. I've seen it happen. She wanted a bottle of water but couldn't figure out the money. The paper bills were all too big and they all looked the same, but the coins were too small and all looked different, and she was worried about getting cheated. The man trying to sell us the water didn't speak any more English than we did, but he was a man, and a man with eyes for a beautiful woman. So when Mama let out a frustrated sigh, smiled that smile of hers, and held out the money to the man, he made the correct change for her. I am good at math, so I counted it, because really it's very simple, and tried to tell this to Mama, but she just shushed me. But she got the bottle of water, and the correct change, and all she had to do was smile.

That's Mama.

Papa is more trusting. He would have given the man the money and trusted him to make the right change, and wouldn't have realized he'd been cheated until much later, when it was too late. But Papa knows this, which is why he let Mama buy the water. Because he is smart about being stupid.

That is most men, I think.

Or so I have observed.

We have only been here two days, Mama and I. Papa came first, a month ago, and found us an apartment to live in near where both he and Mama worked, registered me for school, and signed us up for our citizenship classes. He'd even managed to get a few days of work in but hadn't had a chance to see anything fun. So the moment Mama and I arrived in the baggage claim area, Papa piled our suitcases onto a trolley and led the way to our car. It's not a new car, and not a very nice one. It has rust on it, and there is a crack in the windshield, but Papa said it was a cheap rental just for the day, because taxis cost too much money and the subways are very confusing, the roads only marginally less so.

Papa was very excited, babbling a mile a minute, talking about how our new apartment is nice, very nice, but of course not so nice as our home back in Barcelona, but still nice.

Even now, despite the fact that there is a tour guide, Papa is talking, talking, talking, pointing out buildings he recognizes, laughing at what I assume was a joke the tour guide made that I did not quite understand.

Eventually, as she always does, Mama quiets him. "Luis. You are babbling, my love. Hush, please, and let the tour guide be the tour guide."

Papa pretends to be grumpy and embarrassed, but he reaches his arm behind me and Mama reaches up, holds on to his fingers with her own. I roll my eyes at their display and get up, move to the front of the boat.

"Isabel, please be careful," Mama says.

"I will," I say, stuffing down the impulse to say something rude and childish about how I'm not a child that I need a reminder to be careful.

As soon as I am up, Papa takes my seat and Mama leans into him, tucks her head against his shoulder. I sigh and look away, turn my attention forward, hoping to see the statue. There is nothing to see yet, though, but the island on our left and the place called New Jersey on our right, and water between. I like the wind in my hair, because it reminds me of home—of Spain.

This is home now.

I feel a pang in my chest at that. This is home.

I'll never see Maria or Consuela again, my best friends since I was a baby. I told them I would write letters, but in my heart I know I probably won't. I'll be busy with school, and trying to make new friends, and learning to speak English. Maria and Consuela were jealous of me for getting to move to America, but I think maybe it isn't going to be as fun and exciting as everyone thinks.

It is scary. This is a huge place, this New York. Everything is so tall, so wide, so fast, so new. There are millions of cars, taxis, buses, trucks, and there is the rumbling of trains underfoot and the crush of people, so many people.

And they are all so rude, so unfriendly. As if they cannot be bothered to even look at me, because their lives are so important, so much to do. At home—back in Spain—people would smile at you as you passed them. You might see someone while you're sitting at lunch in a café, not even someone you know, but you could become friends with them, talk to them. Smile at them, at least. And no one was in as much of a hurry as they are here. You take too long ordering food or even walk on the sidewalk too slowly, people get so irritated, push past you, yell at you to hurry up. I do not understand why everyone is in such a rush here.

I am not all sure I like it, really.

Even though I am a little excited to see the Statue of Liberty in person. I've seen it in American movies a thousand times, but now I'm about to see it for real, right in front of me.

And then it happens, the tour guide tells us we'll see it on our left first if we're on that side, but no matter which side we're sitting on, everyone will get a good look. I am in front, in the best spot to see it as we approach. There it is! Huge, so big, so much larger than it seems even in the movies, soaring so high into the sky, impossibly vast. It strikes something deep inside me, the statue. It is just a big green woman with a torch and a book, but it means something. It inspires something in you, something beyond being the symbol of America, the symbol of so-called freedom. I don't know the words to capture my own emotions, but I am full of thoughts and words and pictures and hope, so full my chest hurts as if they're all trying to rupture out at once.

I forget myself, that I am fourteen and not a little girl anymore. "Mama! Papa! Do you see it!"

She smiles, that soft bright smile she gives only to me. "Yes, mija , I see it. It is very big, isn't it?"

Papa just smiles, and watches Mama and then me, as if capturing the moment in some internal, mental camera. Remembering. But not the statue, not the trip... us , Mama and me.

"We came here," I say, when the memory breaks and I am once again myself, an adult, here and now, with Logan. "My mama and papa and I. On this tour."

Once again, the tour guide makes the announcement that the Statue of Liberty will be visible soon. I am compelled forward, to the bow once more, hands on the railing, eyes scanning the river for the first sign of the statue. I feel Logan beside me, and he puts his arm around my waist. He's quiet, letting me experience it in my own time. Letting me feel it, I think.

There it is. God, so vast. Arm raised high, torch flames looking as if they could flicker alight at any moment, sleeve tumbling down her arm, the other hand wrapped around that big book, on which—so says the guide—is written the date of the Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776. Two days after my birthday. Her full title is Liberty Enlightening the World , and she represents Libertas, the Roman goddess.

I am dizzy from the overlap of memory and reality.

I could close my eyes and be fourteen.

I could turn my head and see Mama and Papa.

I am so tempted to turn my head, to look. But I do not. It is just a memory, a precious memory. I lean into Logan, and focus on each breath.

"You remember something?" He asks.

I nod against his shirt. "Yes. But I'm not sure how to put it into words. I mean, it's a simple memory, really. Us, the three of us, on a boat just like this, about to see the statue. Being a young girl in a new place. I think we'd just come here a few days before. I was unsure of so much. Trying to be adult about it, but really, I was just fourteen."

"A big change for anyone, much less a girl at that age."

I nod. "Yes, exactly. It was very scary. I didn't understand—oh, so many things. Why everyone was in such a rush, for one, and why everyone seemed to be so rude, for another."

Logan laughs. "Ah, New York. Those aspects of this city are a culture shock for people born in the States, much less someone like you from a much slower-paced, friendlier place like Spain."

"What was it like for you, when you moved here?"

He tilts his head to the side. "Oh man, it was... kind of the same, honestly. I mean, I'd already been stationed in Kuwait and fought combat missions in Iraq, flipped houses in Chicago. So... I wasn't a kid, you know? But it was still a culture shock. Everything happens so fast, here. Like you said, everyone is in a rush, you're always getting jostled and told to hurry it up. Plus, there's just... so much . You could live your entire life in this city and there'd still be things you've never seen, places you've never been, restaurants you've never heard of."

"I get that feeling too, the little of it I've seen."

"It's weird, to me, how you can have been here since you were fourteen and still know nothing about the city."

"Not by choice."

"No, that's for sure. I get it. It's just... weird." A shrug. "Twelve years, and it's like you're seeing it for the first time."

"Because I am, really."

"And that's why we're here, babe. I want your memories of New York to be of me, of us. I want... I want to give you good memories."

I melt into him. "Every day I spend with you, it's a good memory."

"Good answer, sweetheart, but we gotta make you some new ones, some real memories. That's what today is about."

I watch the statue drift past us as we glide around it, across the bay and to the opposite side of the island. We sit again, once the statue is out of sight, and the rest of the trip is quiet, slow, and peaceful. I hold Logan's hand and listen to the tour guide, and enjoy the sun on my face.

By the time we've returned to the dock, it's well past lunchtime, and my stomach is grumbling, so Logan hails another Uber and has us taken to Times Square, another place I've never been, or don't remember coming. The driver deposits us at the edge of the square, and we get out, make our way on foot through the bustling crowds to the giant red staircase. I look around in awe at the myriad flashing lights and mammoth screens and endless advertisements, finding it hard to breathe from the grandeur of the place, the chaotic wilderness of lights and lives and frenzied exuberance.

There are thousands of people, just like us, taking photographs, posing for selfies, pointing, just sitting and taking it in. After a moment, Logan leads me across the square, consulting his phone now and again. A map, directions to something. A restaurant, I assume. Indeed, he guides us unerringly to a little place not far from the square itself, called Ellen's Stardust Diner. It doesn't look too impressive from the outside, and indeed, the interior is that of an aging diner, vinyl seats and Formica tables. But once we're seated and we've ordered food, I see why he brought me here.

The servers all sing.

I smile the entire time as a flamboyant young man with bouffant red hair climbs up on a little catwalk between a row of booths, microphone to his mouth, singing an old show tune for all he is worth. And then, after a moment, a girl starts singing a different song, and while she's singing she's inputting an order and carrying a glass of soda to a table, and then she's dancing past the tables and shaking her butt and holding the end note until I begin to wonder if her lungs can possibly contain any more oxygen. The whole lunch is like that, me watching the waitstaff singing and forgetting to eat, while Logan watches me.

And then, once we're done eating, Logan leads us back out to the square, and to a theater a block away, where he buys tickets for a show called Aladdin . A real Broadway show? I'm so excited for that it's hard to contain it, and I find myself wishing the day would pass more swiftly, so it would be seven o'clock sooner. But then, I don't want to miss anything else Logan has planned for us.

Which, apparently, entails shopping.

We walk to Fifth Avenue, and when we reach the intersection and stand on the corner, he sweeps his hand at the array of shops, a grin on his face. "Pauper me, Isabel."

"Pauper you?"

"Yes, love. This is Fifth Avenue, honey, one of the most expensive streets in the world, along with Rodeo Drive in L.A. and Rue St. Honore in Paris. I'm giving you carte blanche to go into any store and buy anything you wish." He winks at me. "Every girl's dream, I think."

"I don't even know where to start, Logan. I've not done much shopping."

He tugs on my hand. "Well then, let's start simple—with a woman's best friend."

With that cryptic remark, he leads me into a jewelry store—Tiffany and Company—which makes more sense of the comment: diamonds. I spend a few minutes just perusing, and I'm overwhelmed.

"I don't know, Logan. They're all beautiful, but... maybe this sounds bizarre, but I don't even know what I should like."

He laughs. "That is pretty weird, Is. But it shouldn't be too hard; just look at the stuff, and if something grabs your eye, point it out and I'll buy it."

"Just like that?"

"If you like it, yeah, just like that."

So I look again, this time just letting my gaze flit and float from piece to piece. I'm starting to wonder if there's something wrong with me, because nothing catches my eye. But then... I see a necklace in the shape of a key.

I point it out, and an elderly woman behind the counter drapes it over a black felt stand for me to examine. My heart is pounding, for some odd reason.

And then, when I touch it, I understand why.

The moment my finger touches the diamond-encrusted key—

I am little girl. In my mother's room. The sea crashes somewhere in the distance. I shouldn't be in here, but I just want to look at Mama's box. It is a hand-carved thing of polished reddish-brown wood, and it has all of Mama's keepsakes and jewelry in it, which I want to look at. There is a little brass lock in the front, keeping it closed.

I tug on the lid, but it is locked.

"You want to see inside, mija ?" Mama's voice comes from behind me.

I startle, spin. "I just wanted to look, Mama. I wasn't going to—"

She lifts the box in both hands, holding it reverently. Sits on the bed, pats a spot beside her. "Come, sit." She smiles down at me. "This is a very special box, Isabel. You know why?"

I nod. "Because it has your jewelry in it."

Mama shakes her head negative. "No, mija , although that is true. Even if the box were empty, it would be special. And if someone were to tell me I had to choose between the box and all the gold and silver and diamonds and pearls in the world, I would choose the box."

I am confused now. I touch the lid, carefully. It just seems like a wooden box, not even a very well-made one.

Mama laughs. "Would you like to hear the story?" I nod, of course. "Your papa made this box, many years before you were born. Now your papa, he is the best goldsmith in all of Spain, as you and I both know. But he is not so good with wood. But still, he made this box, and he made it just for me. It was the only gift he ever gave me, until after we got married, but that was fine with me. You see, I don't know if you know this or not, but when I was young, there were a lot of young men who wanted to marry me. I told them all no, which made my parents upset, but they were all so dull. Rich and handsome, perhaps, but boring and stupid. And then I met your father. He wasn't rich, and he was—well, handsome to me, but not like the other boys. His hair was always in his eyes, and he didn't play football like the other boys. But I liked him. He was apprenticed to a goldsmith, which meant he worked very hard all day, every day. We spent a lot of time together, all of his time he could spare from work, and from sleep. I grew to love him, but of course I couldn't tell him that. I had to wait for him, because back then, that's how it was done. I was waiting, Isabel, for so long. And you know, I knew he loved me too. He was silly with it, like boys get. And you know, men get even sillier than boys, when they're in love. But don't tell your father I said that. I was waiting, and waiting. And one day, when I was very impatient because I hadn't seen my sweet Luis in almost a week, he finally showed up in my parents' courtyard, holding this box.

I was excited, thinking he'd come to propose, or to give me a very fancy gift.

But no, it was only the box. A simple, not very well-made box. I was confused. But your father told me that, even though he loved me, he couldn't ask me to marry him, even though he wanted to. He had to finish his apprenticeship first, and then he had to find enough work to support us. My father respected that, and of course he liked it because he hoped I'd find another, wealthier boy to marry in the meantime.

"Luis told me the box was a promise. A promise that he would marry me, one day. Of course, I took the box. Yes, I told him, I would wait for him. I tried to open it, but it wouldn't open. It was locked."

Mama reaches into the front of her shirt and pulls out a brass key on a red ribbon, lifts it off her neck, and hands it to me; it is still warm from her skin.

"Luis told me that he had already made the ring he would propose to me with, and that it was in the box. He'd saved and saved all of his money, rather than taking me on fancy expensive dates or buying me presents, so he could buy the diamond and pay his goldsmith master for the gold, so he could design and build the ring. Again, I tried to open the box, but of course, it was still locked. And that was when Luis showed me the key. ‘When I ask you to marry me, Camila, I will ask you by giving you this key. And if you accept the key, you are not only accepting the key to this box and the ring inside, but the key to my heart.'"

I stare at the key for a long, long time. "So this is the key? To open the box?"

Mama nods. "Yes." She turns the box on her lap so it faces me. "Go on, mija . Open it."

I insert the key, twist; the lock disengages with a tiny quiet snick . Mama lifts open the lid, and I gasp. Inside, lying in little felt trays, are gold rings, gold necklaces, gold bracelets, gold earrings. Each piece is unique, and ornate, and beautiful. Handmade by my own papa.

"Each of the things in the box your father made me, and gave to me on the anniversary of the day he asked me to marry him. He got down on one knee and held up the key to me, holding it in both hands like he was a knight and I was his queen."

"And you said yes?"

Mama laughs. "Well, of course, silly girl! We had you, didn't we?" She closes the lid, turns the key to lock the box, and then holds the key on her palm. "This key, mija , it is worth more to me than anything else in the whole world, except your papa and you."

She hands me the key, and this time I look at it more carefully.

It is just a brass key, plain, burnished, simple. There is but one simple set of teeth on the stem, rounded, old, worn. The bow of the key, where one holds it to turn it in the lock, it is the most beautiful part of the key. It is a circle, but within the circle is an ornate flower blossom, symmetrical, four petals at the four compass points of the circle, connected by delicate filigree, at the center a knotwork design.

"I don't think there are many women in the world who can say they have the literal, physical key to their husband's heart on a ribbon between their breasts, mija . Which makes me the luckiest woman in the world, because your father's heart... it is what makes my own continue to beat every single day."

I jerk my hand away, gasping.

The memory sears me, sits heavy in my heart. God, the love my mother had for my father... it is staggering.

And this key, the ornate, diamond-encrusted thing on the pedestal, it reminds me of that key. Obviously so, because it sparked such a powerful memory merely by touching it.

Logan lifts the necklace in his hands, moves to stand behind me. I feel my mother, in that moment, I feel the way she would move, if my father were to fasten a necklace around her throat. She would gather her thick hair, black as raven's wings, in her hands, drape it over one shoulder, tilt her head forward. Papa would fasten the catch with his thick but nimble fingers, and then he would gather Mama's hair in his hands, and she would lean back against him, look up at him, craning her neck to peer into his eyes.

My hair is too short to gather into my hands, to drape over my shoulder, but I feel Logan behind me, feel his fingers working to fasten the clasp. And I am my mother in that moment, leaning back against the man I love, twisting my head up to look into Logan's face, feeling the love in his eyes.

Logan accepts a little hand mirror, and I look at the key, hanging just so between my breasts. It is a beautiful thing, the key. Made of platinum and white gold, with hundreds of tiny diamonds lining each side from bow to stem. The petals of the flower within the bow are each large teardrop diamonds, and the center of the blossom is a stunning square yellow diamond.

Logan spins me in place. His eyes ask the question.

"This, Logan. Please?" I wish I could explain the meaning, but I cannot. Not yet. I need a moment or two to process the memory, to internalize it.

I just need a moment alone with the memory, before I share it.

I hear Logan speaking to the clerk. The price staggers me—twenty-two thousand dollars. I expect him to haggle, at least, but Logan pays it without a squabble, handing the woman a card to swipe, signing a slip, and then he's guiding me outside.

I lift the key, gaze at it. "I'm sorry, Logan, I didn't know it would cost that much."

He laughs. "Are you kidding? I'm glad you found something you like." He tips my chin up so I'm looking into his one bright blue eye. "I have money, Isabel. Plenty. More than plenty. You could shop for weeks and not put a dent in it. So don't apologize."

"All right. I just was shocked when she told you the price."

"It means something to you?" He says it somewhere between a statement and a question.

I nod. "Yes. I . . . remembered something else."

"You don't have to share it, if you're not ready, Is. I'll never pry, okay? I'm just happy you're not only making new memories with me, but getting old ones back too."

I am near tears. Blink them back. "I don't know how to thank you, Logan. For the necklace, but also for—today. The ferry ride, getting a few memories back. I cannot tell you what it means to me."

"That's thanks enough, Isabel. I love you. Anything I can do, I will." He shrugs. "But honestly, it just seems like luck, sort of, you know? I wasn't setting out to get you your memories back, since there's no way to know what will or won't trigger something."

"It's not luck, Logan. It's you. You..." I have to think hard about what I'm trying to say. "You're bringing me to life."

He touches the key where it rests between my breasts. "Aside from what it obviously triggered for you, it's apropos, you know? Because I don't feel like I'm bringing you to life, I'm just... opening doors for you. Unlocking the life that was already there, so you can live it."

He takes my hand, and we walk for a while. Finally, while in line in the Godiva store, picking out chocolates, I feel ready to share the memory.

So I tell it to him as I remembered it, and I can recite my mother's words verbatim.

When I'm done, Logan and I are outside again, munching on truffles. Logan is quiet a few beats, and then he laughs softly, shakes his head. "Goddamn, that was smooth. Your pops had moves , Is. He literally proposed to her with the key to his heart? That's romance right there, man." He bends close to me, licks chocolate off the corner of my mouth, and then kisses me. "I can't promise I'll be able to come up with anything that romantic, but I'll sure as hell try."

"I don't think anyone could live up to the standard my father set in that regard, Logan. And I don't need you to try. Just be you. Love me, and that will always be so much more than enough."

He tugs me flush against him, his palm warm and strong against my spine. "You make it easy to love you."

"I nearly got you killed. I cost you your eye. How does that count as easy?"

"Men have fought wars over the love of a woman, Isabel. And trust me when I say you're the kind of woman wars are fought for."

It's easier to shop after that. He follows me from store to store, sometimes suggesting we go into a certain one. I buy dresses, skirts, tops, shoes, everything wildly expensive. Logan never bats an eye. I've been keeping a loose tally, and if my math is correct, we surpassed a hundred thousand dollars quite a while ago. Logan is heavily laden with bags, half a dozen in each hand, a huge one hanging off his shoulder.

I take pity on him, though he's not uttered one word of complaint, and indeed, he seems to be actively enjoying watching me splurge.

"I think I've spent enough of your money, Logan. Let's take this stuff home."

He glances at his watch. "Sounds good to me. We've got to get changed for dinner and the show anyway."

We catch another Uber home. Set the bags down, sort through them, pick an outfit for tonight, strip for the shower... and up on the counter, beneath Logan, which has us running late for our dinner reservation. Not that I mind.

Dinner is a fancy affair at an upscale place somewhere in what Logan tells me is Hell's Kitchen. I don't recall the name, or the cross streets. I don't really care, not today. I'm all about the experience, letting Logan take care of the details. I follow him on foot from our home to the nearest subway station for my first subway ride. It is a revelatory experience, sitting in the inward-facing seats, holding on to the bar, watching the wide variety of people. Old, young, white, black, brown, Asian, rich, poor, clean, dirty, self-absorbed, alert. There is nothing connecting any of them—any of us —except this moment on this train.

We are ascending the stairs to street level now. I wind my fingers through Logan's and share a slice of my thoughts. "When I lived in the condo in Caleb's tower, there would be many, many hours of my life that were just utterly... empty. One can only read for so long, you know? One of my only pastimes was to look out the window and watch the people coming and going. There was never any lack of passersby, so I could stand at that window for hours, just watching them go past. I would imagine lives for them, create entire stories about them. I still do it, sometimes. If I'm having trouble processing my emotions, or I'm just overwhelmed, I'll end up people-watching, and imagining stories for them. I would create these elaborate histories for the strangers walking under my window, I think, because I had no history of my own."

Logan nods. "There's a word that sort of encapsulates that idea: sonder . It's the realization or understanding that each person passing by you or sitting next to you on the train or whatever, that everyone has their own life, their own complex network of friends and relatives, their own stories. I picture each person having a thread that follows them, and it's a tangled, knotted, interwoven thread with a million individual skeins, but if you could follow that thread, it would eventually, somehow, intersect with yours. Sometimes it's just that individual moment, where you and that person occupy the same space for a single heartbeat, and other times that person might be more intimately connected to you in a way you'd never have imagined."

" Sonder. I like that word."

By this time, we're at the restaurant, where we're told it will be a bit of an additional wait, as we're a few minutes late for our reservation. Logan leans close to the hostess, an attractive young woman wearing a dress that reveals more than it covers, has a brief whispered conversation that also involves a surreptitiously passed bribe. I don't know what he said or how much he bribed the hostess, but it clearly worked, since she leads us to an empty table immediately.

When we're seated and Logan has ordered us a bottle of wine, I question him about it. "What did you say to the hostess? And how much did you bribe her to get us this table?"

Logan laughs. "Oh, I didn't bribe her. I just showed her my business card." He slides one out of his wallet and hands it to me. It bears his name, a cell phone number, an e-mail address, and nothing else.

"So? I don't understand."

He taps at the bottom of the menu: Owned and operated by Ryder Enterprises, LLC. "This was the very first business I started, when I moved to New York getting out of prison. I figured a restaurant was a safe bet for an ex-con, right? As long as the food and the service is good, the environment quiet and the atmosphere pleasant, the clientele won't care whether or not the owner has an arrest record."

"So you own this restaurant?"

He shrugs. "Yeah. I actually worked as the manager for the first year it was open, too. I had limited capital, and I didn't want to blow it all right off the bat. So I took it slow. Got directly involved, made sure this place was stable, made sure I personally hired a quality manager, good waitstaff, a great head chef. Once I was sure this place would turn a profit, I started sniffing around for my next venture, but I stayed involved here still, more as the owner than the manager, at that point. Now, with all the other shit I've got going on, I'm rarely here, but I figure since I own the place, I might as well take advantage of it, right?"

"I thought you sold off businesses once they were turning a profit?"

He shakes his head. "Not all of them. One of the most important things as an entrepreneur is to make sure you always have multiple streams of income. Never rely solely on one venture, if you can help it. Diversify, diversify, diversify. So I've kept ownership of... oh, a dozen or so various enterprises. This place, a chain of auto parts stores out in the Midwest, Detroit, Chicago, Milwaukee, that region. There's a security firm for B-list celebs out in Hollywood, um... God, it's hard to remember them all. I don't have anything to do with the day-to-day running of ninety-nine-point-nine percent of them. They're all owned under the overall umbrella of Ryder Enterprises, which is, basically, a management corporation. I've got a whole staff of efficiency experts, transparency officers, troubleshooters, sales account managers, shit like that. Unless there's a major, major problem, I just file the taxes and rake in the profit. Oh, there's a chain of cinemas down south, small-town, single-screen sorts of places. Um, a couple different gas station franchises, three—no, four, luxury car dealerships, one here in Manhattan, one in Atlanta, one in San Diego, and... shit, where's the last one? Seattle."

I wrinkle my brow as I sip my wine, the one half glass I'm allowing myself. "I thought you flipped other businesses? I'm confused again. What is it you actually do, Logan?"

This gets me a laugh. "After I got out of prison, I had a decent chunk of start-up capital stashed down in the Bahamas, one of those private, offshore, numbered accounts. I'd been siphoning my income there via a complicated network of transfers while I was working for Caleb. Security, you know? I needed to know, if something went wrong, that I'd have some cash to start over. Well, good thing I did that, because obviously, something went wrong and I had to start over. And I started over by starting small. This was a floundering restaurant when I bought it. It was a sushi place, I think, and not a great one. So I gutted it, remodeled the interior, gave it a new identity. Upscale, a simple but elegant menu, efficiently run, good service. I sank maybe a quarter of my capital into this place between the purchase and the remodel, but it started turning me a decent profit within three years. It was stable and climbing toward the black by the end of the first year, though, so I knew I was good to start looking for my next endeavor, which was the car dealership here in Manhattan: BMW, Lexus, and Range Rover. High initial cost, but quick returns." He searches my face. "Am I boring you?"

"Sort of, yes," I admit. "I'm not a businesswoman."

"Okay, short version, then." He takes a swallow of wine, pauses so we can order our dinner, and then starts over. "I started out buying businesses, anything I could find that I could afford and that I thought would turn a quick profit. Once I'd gotten my investment back from each business I bought, I would invest in another. And meanwhile, each business would be turning me a profit, increasing the cushion between my investment and my income. I would invest, restructure if necessary, get involved to make sure it was running, and then I'd move on to the next venture after I was sure the company could run without me. I did a lot of traveling in those early years. I was an independent business owner, essentially, and that was it. But after a few years, my income was enough and my diversity of businesses broad enough that I figured it'd be safe to let that spread of companies be my stability, so I set up Ryder Enterprises, the management company, to run them without my input. And then I started doing what I do now, which is what you saw, what I've told you about—flipping corporations. Mostly stocks, tech, investment, securities analytics, high-dollar, white-collar sorts of stuff. See, there are millions of businesses out there, thousands just here in New York. And at any given time, there are always some that are barely making it. I buy them up at a bottom-dollar price, since they're about to go under, and then I either jigger things internally so they'll start turning a profit, or I disassemble them and transfer their accounts to a different company, usually one I own, which I then sell at a profit. You ever see Pretty Woman ? I'm kind of like Richard Gere's character in that movie, just... hopefully less of a dick than he was."

"What about the people who work for the businesses when you tear them apart?"

"Well, that's what sets me apart. I always make sure there's somewhere for everyone to land. I've got a whole team dedicated to referrals, connecting employees to headhunters, things like that."

"So this restaurant, the gas stations, and the movie theaters, you just own them?"

"Right. They're income stability. So even if I make a colossal blunder, make a bad investment and lose a shitload of money, the Ryder Enterprises spread of companies can sustain me in comfort." He bobs his head side to side. "Can sustain us in comfort, I mean."

I expect Logan to have our bill comped, since he owns the restaurant, but instead he pays it and leaves a rather significant tip for the waitress, who I don't think had any idea she was serving the owner.

And then a long walk block after block back to the theater district. We take our seats just as the house lights are lowered.

The show is... unlike anything I've ever experienced. Bursting with energy, music that soars and sweeps and hints at the Middle Eastern origins of the story. The dancing! The singing! It's all too much, and I want to sing and dance with them. The Genie, especially, is a delight, such wild, joyous, frenetic energy, presence that dominates the stage, the whole theater.

I am raving as we leave the theater, chattering more than I think I have since I woke up from the coma. Logan is listening, attentive, but seems content to let me talk, to merely enjoy this admittedly rare bout of effusiveness from me.

It is past ten o'clock now, but the city is still manic, bustling. Lights flash and blink, voices rise in a pleasing din. A policeman on a huge black horse trots past, watchful, alert. The crowd of people leaving the theaters takes over the streets, so the cars trying to ply their way from one avenue to another must inch slowly between the gaggles of theatergoers. I chatter about my favorite songs, about the Genie, about how fun the show was, how Logan has to take me to see as many shows as he can spare the time for.

All the while, Logan has my hand and is taking us somewhere specific.

To a place in the heart of the theater district called Junior's. It is crammed with people, every table occupied, and the hostesses are telling people it's a twenty- to thirty-minute wait minimum. Logan puts his name in and then finds me a seat, stands in front of me. I've run out of words by this time, though, and now we're quiet.

But I like this, too, that we can sit together in silence, content to merely be .

It seems Junior's is famous for its cheesecake, and Logan doesn't have to ask me twice to convince me to order a piece of chocolate cheesecake. Which, when it arrives with Logan's coffee and my tea, is mammoth. More cheesecake than I think any one person should be able to eat all at once; that is my thought when it arrives, at least. But yet by the time I've set down my fork, I've eaten very nearly the whole thing.

Cheesecake eaten, Logan pays the bill and yet again leaves a fabulously generous tip, and then leads me back to Times Square, which at night is a simple magical place. The lights, the way the TVs shine and flicker and shift, the advertisements for all the shows, the contagious air of vivacity that infuses the crowd... it is truly magical. We sit on the steps and watch people, and I take the time to process everything I've experienced today. The ferry, the memories I regained, the key necklace, which is now nestled between my breasts, exactly the way Mama wore hers.

I am sitting a step below Logan, between his knees. I lift up, twist, and kiss him until someone hoots at us, and someone else tells us to get a room. I smooth my palm over the stubble on his cheek. "Logan, I know I already said this, but thank you so much for today. It was... I think this was the best day of my life."

Logan's eyes go down to my cleavage, but the speculative gleam in his eyes tells me he's looking more at the key, and I wonder what he's thinking.

Marriage?

I'm having a baby, possibly his.

And possibly . . . not his.

So what do I want?

To belong to Logan forever, of course. To be utterly, irrevocably his. To know that no matter what else life throws at us, we will belong together, side by side, hand in hand, lives tangled and braided and inextricably woven together.

Yes, I want to marry Logan.

And I cannot wait to discover how he will ask me. Because he will.

I know he will.

It's just a matter of when, and how.

I am not impatient, I realize. He will ask me in his way, in his time. And it will not disappoint, because Logan is incapable of disappointing me.

Love is patient, I remembering reading somewhere.

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