The Alignment (25 page)

Chapter 30

Liv

I
n just a
few days, Trey might be gone to me. A countdown has been started, and at the end of it, he could be back with his wife and son. Although I’ve known it’s been a possibility all along, it hasn’t settled on me like it did this morning when I stood in the living room looking at his empty spot on the couch. Of course, back with his family is the natural place for him. It’s the place I’d want for him if it didn’t feel so wrong.

I hear him in the basement when I go into the kitchen. There’s no sign of breakfast, so I start the coffee and go downstairs. He’s hard at work over dozens of books propped open with various objects to hold the pages back. Jars, measuring cups, beakers, a mortar and pestle, a cutting board, knives, and other instruments clutter the table. I stand and watch him for a minute before moving to his side.

When he sees my expression, he says, “It’s way easier than it looks. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not going to worry until we walk into the airport carrying bags full of guns.”

“I could mix up something for your anxiety.”

“No. I want to be myself. Have you had breakfast?”

“Not yet.” He rubs his hand against the grain of his shorn hair and turns back to his work.

I hug myself. “Do you want a shirt?”

Negative. I decide not to ask about shoes. Or pants. In his boxers in a chilly basement, he’s either immune to the temperature or too engrossed in his task to feel cold concrete under his bare feet. I’m going to miss this. Just the thought of my life without him gives me the sensation of a phantom limb. Only the feeling doesn’t involve an appendage—it’s right in my chest.

Back in the kitchen, I decide to splurge and make blueberry pancakes. When I have a small stack finished, he appears like a dog following a scent.

“You’re spoiling me.” He pulls off the edge of a pancake and tastes it.

“Yeah I know. You’re going to lose your figure.” I swat his hand away from a second taste and hand him an empty plate.

I bring him coffee and orange juice and join him at the table.

“Only a few more days…” he says under his breath.

I know he thinks everything is going to be settled easily. He seems to have a cut-and-dried view of the world, and I don’t think his philosophy is going to apply to what is about to happen. There are so many people involved, along with strong emotion and complicated history. He thinks he has it figured out, but everything is going to change as soon as he sees her.

But I’m no expert either. I can’t pretend to make sense of these thoughts that are darting around in my head. So I decide to keep my mouth shut and enjoy this time with him. It will probably all end as quickly as it began. It’s hard to believe we’ve only known each other for these past few weeks. I feel like I’ve known him all my life.

I’m going to miss him like I’d miss someone I’ve known forever.

Pushing his plate away, he shoots me a satiated grin. “You should cook more often.”

“But then you’d be used to it, and it wouldn’t be special.”

“True.” He gulps the last of his coffee and starts to gather his dishes.

“Leave it. I’ll get it. It looks like you have a lot to do down there.”

“I’m going to take a shower first. You should pack a bag. Very light.” He holds my eye like it’s some kind of order.

Really? I am the queen of light packing. I moved across the country with only a car full of stuff. I could teach him a thing or two about light packing.

In the bedroom, I pack one bag with bare necessities, and it all fits with room to swim. When I hear Trey leave the bathroom, I take a shower, afterward tossing in my shampoo, conditioner, and a razor. My sleeping pills on the shelf lack their previous appeal. I dump them into the toilet and flush before that other part of me can protest. I put the packed bag by the front door and find Trey in the kitchen.

“My bag is packed. What else can I do?”

“Where’s your bag? I need to approve it.”

I lead him to the door. It’s easier to humor him than argue. Maybe I’m whipped, but I don’t want him on my bad side again anytime soon. Plus, proving his judgment of my packing skills wrong is a battle I’ll gladly win.

“Good.” His attention lingers on my initials on the bag. “What
is
your middle name?”

I sigh. “You’re not going to like it.”

“Why wouldn’t I like it?”

“It’s Catherine.”

His face darkens. “With a K or a C?”

“C.”

“You’re fine then. Kate’s is with a K.”

A sour feeling erupts within me as he says her name and it feels like jealousy. All I felt for her up until now was compassion, and most of all, I was happy for Trey. After all these years, he could have his family back from the grave—the wildest dream of anyone who’s lost a loved one. And I’m still happy for him. But my sympathy for her is different now, almost nonexistent.

The animosity has put down roots, and whether it happened just now or days ago, it’s not going anywhere. Understanding might calm it down. If I was in her shoes, I couldn’t have gone so many years without contacting him. I may not have seen Trey’s perspective before, but something has moved me from neutral ground to his camp. Had I been her, I wouldn’t have let him suffer so long thinking I was dead. And their child. She allowed him to grow up never knowing his father, Trey never knowing him. But it’s true we don’t know the situation, and we can’t fairly judge her until we do. I need to remember that.

This leaves me wondering what caused this change in me. Is it because now I have a valid claim on him? A claim more powerful than hers?

“Liv?”

“What?”

“You were spacing out.”

“Sorry. I guess I have a lot on my mind.”

“Don’t go freaking out on me now.”

“I’m not.” I look down at the two black cases in his hands.

“You need to decide what you’re taking. I’m taking these.” He doesn’t need to tell me what. I already know it’s two of his favorite model—SIG Sauer P220.“What do you want to carry besides the Ruger? You’ll need something bigger, with a higher caliber.”

“Glocks will be fine. Not forty-fives though. What else do you have?”

“Let’s go downstairs and see.”

He picks up one of the new duffle bags and I follow him downstairs. His workbench is a disaster, but at the end of the table is a pile of individually wrapped packets each tied with string.

“Those are going to get our weapons through security. They go in the duffle bags with the guns. Just gotta warn you—it’s been a while since I’ve done this one.”

I lean down to take a deep smell of their fragrance. It’s an earthy, herbal mix.

“The spell will attach to their scent. As long as it lasts, so will the spell. I made you immune.”

“And what’s our story if it doesn’t work?”

“Simple. We’re terrorists,” he says, deadpan.

“Lovely. I’m looking forward to it.”

He keeps his best guns in cases on the lower shelves, and we go through them together in search of the best fit for me. It’s not a matter of what he taught me to use—I know every weapon intimately before I take a glimpse inside each case. We’re on the lookout for a model best suited for my hand.

“How about an M16?” he asks with a mischievous smile, holding it up out of the case.

In his dreams. “Where did you get an M16?”

“Christian.”

“Why’d he give you that?”

“Just Christian being Christian. I don’t think I’ve ever used it.” He holds it against his shoulder and aims at the wall. “Punk had the nerve to say I’m lazy enough to use this thing.”

I pause to watch him. He could decide to move back to his family in Virginia. Christian would allow him back. They all might want him back. He’d have to accept a truce. I’d have to return here, alone, to my own house. I’ve become so settled with him that I don’t know if I remember how to live alone. Even the beginning with the nausea, bickering, and captivity seem preferable to life without Trey.

“You’re spacing out again,” he says, searching my face.

How could I possibly manage living without him?

“What.” His hard tone is like a bad habit—a bully’s way to get answers by making demands. He should know better than to try that with me, especially so soon. Some things I just can’t humor.

“It’s nothing.”

“Right.” He doesn’t buy it. He crosses his arms over his chest. His bad-cop expression holds.

“I’ll just take the two Glock 23s. And can we bring a couple nine millimeters in case I change my mind?”

“Okay…” He sets those guns to the side and starts collecting a pile of ammunition. He puts a few silencers on the pile, thinks for a moment, and puts a SIG Sauer P229 into its case, adding it and an extra threaded barrel to the stack. He starts to pack the duffle bag, randomly tossing in the packets he prepared.

“Why so much firepower?”

“So we’re prepared. I might want to approach it differently—”

“Never mind.” The less I know the better. I squeeze his forearm and go upstairs. When he comes up he drops the duffle bag onto the floor with a thud, rattling dishes on the counter. There’s a finality in the sound and the contrast of silence that follows. It sends a restriction to my esophagus and a weakness to my limbs, like a crippling stage fright. A coordinated effort has been set in motion, and my role is critical. He’s counting on me and I can’t back out, but too many pieces are out of my control. I’m standing off stage, hearing the sudden hush of the crowd when the curtain rises. I’ve been cast in
Giselle
. It’s perfectly fitting. I have the costume and the title but I’ve had no time to practice. The music has started, and the show will go on with or without me. My only option is to dance, fully aware that at the end I will die of a broken heart.

After lunch, he loads the second duffle bag with the case containing his sniper rifle and the two cases containing his P220s. Together we make a pile of our other gear then we head to the sporting goods store.

My new gun is ready and waiting at the counter. On our way to the cashier, he asks, “Is there anything else you want?”

“There’s nothing else I could possibly want.”
At this moment
, I want to add.
Ask me that again in a week, when I could be without you.

He stops walking and grasps my upper arm to spin me to face him, making me wonder if I spoke it out loud, and I make an instantaneous decision to stop agonizing over something that’s out of my control. Nothing is allowed to ruin what could be my last few days with him. I’m not sure what he reads on my face, but whatever it is causes him to run a rough hand against the grain of his hair and lead me straight to the checkout line. His responses to the cashier’s pleasantries sound more like grunts than words, and I can tell he’s grinding his teeth again.

In the parking lot, I slip my hand into his. “Is this allowed?”

He nods, trying to play it cool, but I notice the slight softening of his eyes, the easier set of his jaw. I could make him smile if I wanted to, but a shield has gone up around that pleasure like it’s no longer mine to provoke.

Back at home, we break in the new gun together before going into the house. It doesn’t take long; I acclimate to it as if it was made for me. Inside, he puts the case inside the duffle bag and packs in the rest of our gear. I help him clean up his work area in the basement, and we tidy up the house. He goes out to the deck to tell River we’ll be gone for a while, and I heat up the leftover Chinese food for dinner.

Afterward, we retire to the living room. He’s grown somber, but I figure it’s simple apprehension and the best thing is to leave him to his thoughts. All we’d do is talk in circles anyway. Nothing will be solved until he does what he needs to do. I slide my feet into his lap, expecting no response. His warm hands close over them.

Playing with fire, I crawl over to him and rest my head against his chest. When it’s obvious I’m not going to seduce him, he stretches out lengthwise on the couch and I match his position, my leg hooked over his. He makes a great body pillow, even when he’s in a mood. As I start to drift off to sleep, a shadow lifts away and my world becomes clear. A mixture of comfort and confidence washes through me—a distinct combination I realize has been building up inside me for some time now. Only now, it has matured into a full-blown revelation.

Trey Bevan is mine. And I am going to fight anyone who tries to take him away from me.

Chapter 31

Trey

I
sit on the
edge of her bed. She’s in the same position I laid her in last night which must prove she slept well. Knowing this relieves me. She had me worried yesterday. After all this is over we’ll have that small problem of our mutual freak fertility and their ban on my reproduction, if I even care what they think of me anymore. Fuck them and their rules. They’re after me already. I may as well give them a good reason to be.

Her lips part. She stirs. She slowly opens her eyes. Smiles.

“How nice.” She reaches for me.

I take her arms and lower them back down to the bed. “Ready to get up?”

She groans, “It’s so early…”

“We have to drive to the airport. Just get up and have breakfast. You can fall back asleep in the truck.”

“Join me first. Just a few minutes.” Her voice sounds deep with sleep that has not yet worn off.

Knowing how close freedom is saves me from diving in bed with her right now. I pull her up by her arms and she sits, so I go back into the kitchen. After her shower, she joins me, her wet hair twisted onto the back of her head.

“How far is it to the airport?” She sits, one arm on the table propped under her chin. She still has that content, sleepy look to her eyes.

“Just a couple hours. Do you want coffee?” I long to touch the soft skin on the back of her neck. To inhale against it. To press myself—

“Yes, please.”

I set a plate of food and a cup of coffee in front of her. She smiles at me all through breakfast, and I’m not sure what to make of it. If she’s happy, the emotion has invaded me as well. I’m thrilled to have her by my side on this day. On every day.

She goes back in the bathroom to dry her hair, and I take our bags to the truck and say goodbye to River. Heavy fog hangs in patches on the road until we hit the highway. Liv flips through the channels on the radio, stopping on all the songs I would stop on myself. Our drive together to pick up her car a few weeks ago happened in another lifetime.

I park the truck in the airport pay lot and tell Liv to stay in her seat. I hop into the bed, pulling my page of notes out of my back pocket. It doesn’t take long to solidify the effect. We board the shuttle as its only passengers. The horizon glows in different shades of orange and pink, and by the time we’re walking into the airport the sun has just begun to slip out of hiding.

Fluorescent lights buzz inside. I give a nod to the security guard; he nods back. We carry our bags to the ticket counter. While I check our bags, Liv’s composure remains as flawless as I expected it to be. She keeps her purse as a carry-on and holds my hand on our way to the gate. There’s no line when we get there. Several seats near the counter are already occupied—a twenty-something kid with the vacant stare of someone who’s been up all night, an older couple reading a magazine together, a woman and a man in suits sitting a seat apart. We check in.

“I’m imagining myself in a movie,” she says as we take seats facing the windows. “So if anything goes wrong, it’s just part of the script, and afterward we can just return to our normal lives.”

“In this movie, nothing goes wrong. The good guys win.”

“We’re the good guys?” She looks up at me.

“Of course.” I rest my arm across the back of her seat. Her eyes move back to the traffic on the runway, and I try to ignore the charged air between us. She unzips her jacket. The pale pink color of her shirt sets off the natural pink of her lips. My earlier lust returns, making it hard not to grab her right now, in front of all these people.

I stand. “Do you want a coffee? A magazine?” A quickie in the handicap stall of the men’s room?

“No. Well, maybe some gum.” She snags my jeans as I walk away. This simple motion sends a surge right to my crotch. She knows exactly what she’s doing to me, and she shows no mercy.

I buy her two flavors of gum and pick out a few magazines. I take a walk, trying to find other options for coffee while calming my hormones. What I’d really like is a drink, but I suppose it’s a little early. When I return, the waiting area has been overtaken by a mob. I take my seat next to her and hand her the gum.

“I got some magazines anyway.” I drop them in her lap. All these people are already getting on my nerves. And I don’t like them behind me.

“
Guns and Ammo
? Are you trying to give us away?” Her eyes do an exaggerated look around.

“There’s a write-up on the Ruger LCP versus the SIG P238.”

That has her interest. She flips it open to find the article. I stare out the window and sip my coffee, trying to move my thoughts away from the chaos behind us.

She finishes the article and closes the magazine. “Ruger’s better.”

“Is that what it says?”

“No, that’s what
I
say.” She holds my gaze. “Can I kiss you?” she asks innocently.

I stare at her for an eternity because it takes that long to talk myself out of it. “You are definitely pushing it.” I break my eyes away from hers and lean forward, resting my arms on my knees.

She pokes me in the ribs. I look up.

“They’re loading the luggage on the plane,” she whispers.

We watch until our duffle bags ride the conveyor belt to the attendant and get tossed onto the plane.

“Too easy,” she says under her breath.

I settle against the seat and a thought nags me. “Is Gilchrist your married name?”

Her fingers playing with her zipper freeze. It takes her a moment to respond. “No. I switched back when I moved to Black River.”

“What was your married name?”

She looks at me sideways. “Why?”

“Just curious,” I answer, but she’s already on to me.

“I don’t trust you with that information.”

“I could find out very easily.” But I’d rather her tell me. I’d never go behind her back.

She sighs. “Aren’t there enough people in your life to take out your aggressions on?”

“It’s a lot more fun when it’s personal.”

“How could it be personal? You don’t even know him.”

“I don’t need to know him.”

“Please. You don’t always have to be so macho.” Her voice carries a slight tease. I know she’s just trying to soften her seriousness. I’ve hit a nerve.

“Has nothing to do with being macho. It’s about people getting what they deserve.”

“You’re so vengeful. It’s not even your fight.”

“I’m making it my fight.”

“Well, don’t.” She turns away, crossing her arms.

“What about Liv? What’s it short for?”

“Nothing. It’s just Liv.”

Our plane begins boarding, and when our group gets called I follow her down the ramp and onto the plane. As I duck through the doorway, I’m reminded how much I hate flying. I feel like a giant in a world designed for elves. Liv takes the middle seat and I take the aisle, and suddenly I realize how difficult this flight is going to be for me.

“Maybe I’ll get lucky and this other seat will stay empty,” she whispers in my ear as an inferno spreads from my ear to my toes, burning the insulation off a live wire in my groin on its way. An electrical fire in my pants is just what I need to make this plane ride even more hellish.

I say a silent prayer for the seat to stay empty so she can move over there after we take off. A woman with a baby pauses at my shoulder. Prayer is asinine.

I stand, and Liv moves her knees to the side. The woman squeezes in. I’m really paying for my sins now. Not only is the seat taken, but it’s taken by two people, one of which will probably scream the entire time. I sit back down and try to catch Liv’s eye, but she’s busy smiling at the baby. A severe sadness lurks behind her smile, and I feel something tear inside me.

The engines scream. We pick up speed and lift into the air. I glance at her again, but her head remains bowed like she’s in a trance. I can no longer empathize with her now that I know Aaron is alive and I’m on my way to see him. But knowing this doesn’t dilute the dark creature crawling from its hole and climbing inside me, headed for the vital organs just like old times. I had fifteen years to deal with my loss. Her loss is still a fresh open wound.

I raise the armrest between us and wrap my arm around her, pulling her against me. She lays her head on my chest and I hold her until the beverage cart arrives. When she raises her head, she leaves a wet spot behind on my shirt.

“Sorry,” she whispers, her eyelashes wet.

The flight attendant hands me a napkin. “What can I get you to drink, sir?”

“Scotch on the rocks.”

Liv orders orange juice. Liv’s neighbor orders water, and Liv and I drop our trays. Liv offers space on her tray to her neighbor whose lap is full. I can tell Liv is still having a hard time with it. I try to come up with a subject for conversation but I’m at a loss.

The plane trembles under some turbulence. We must be near a storm. The seat belt signs come on and Liv whispers in my ear, “I have to pee.”

I point to the sign. She tries to break my finger so I get up to let her out. Her body brushes past mine, and she gives me a sly glance before heading down the aisle. She knows exactly what she does.

When she returns, she shares a look with the woman next to her, and I overhear the woman say, “I can’t possibly take her in there with me with this turbulence.”

“I…” Liv begins, and I instantly understand what’s going on.

“I’ll hold her.” I reach for the baby.

“You’re an angel,” the woman says, handing her baby to me. I stand to let her pass, then I sit with the baby in my lap.

“She probably thinks I’m a freak now,” Liv mumbles to the back of the chair in front of her.

“She’s right.” An attempt to make her smile. I try to think of something else to say but can’t. Staring into the baby’s blue eyes, I’m reminded of the last time I held a baby. That baby is now a young man.

“She was exactly that age,” Liv chokes, covering her mouth with her hand, still staring at the seat in front of her.

I take her free hand in mine and squeeze, unable to think of anything else to do or say.

“She died in my arms. Her cheek went cold against mine.” She makes a shaky gasp, as if her mind has taken her back to that exact moment.

Her pain multiplies wildly with the helplessness inside me. If only I could be inside her mind right now, I could take all her pain away, claim it as my own. A sob catches in her throat. Her hand clings onto mine. We’re trapped on this fucking plane and there’s nothing I can do.

The woman returns and I stand to let her in then hand the baby back. I sit down and lift the armrest, settling Liv back against me as I did before. She buries her face against my chest and I tuck my chin over her head. The woman with the baby looks at me, worried, and I close my eyes and shake my head to communicate to her that it’s nothing for her to worry about.

We remain in this position until we enter Minneapolis. Our flight arrives late, so we have to run to catch our connection to Richmond. The last passengers to board, we’re somehow lucky to have the row to ourselves this time.

When we’re settled and have our breath back, I notice the slump in her shoulders.

“What can I do?” I ask like an idiot. Helpless. I’m no good at this.

She shakes her head. When I turn away, figuring she doesn’t want to talk, she says, “It’s just hard sometimes. It all comes crashing back.”

“It gets easier with time.”

“I know.”

“What was her name?” I ask and immediately wish I hadn’t. I could punch myself.

“Sloane.”

I didn’t hear that right. I bend to look directly in her face. “What did you say?”

“Sloane. S, L, O—”

“You don’t have to spell it.” I straighten and look away, shaking my head, exhaling. This is unreal. “That’s my mother’s name,” I say.

“What?”

“That’s my mother’s name.”

“I heard you. It’s just…not a common name.”

“Yeah I know.”

What a sick coincidence. Unless it’s not a coincidence. But how could it not be?

“How did you come up with that name?” I ask.

“A dream. When I was pregnant I dreamed her name was Sloane. So I named her Sloane Catherine.”

My focus shifts from the top of one head to the top of another. All these people are too damn close to me. I could kill every single person on this plane right now. I knew I hated flying and I signed up anyway.

“What’s your father’s name?”

My answer is automatic. “Martin. Martin Moore.”

She makes the tiniest sound—a short exhale, like the result of a slight jab to the diaphragm. Her grief must be rising again. I can’t sit here and let her cry a second time without doing something about it. I should keep her talking. Distract her. “My mother is Sloane Bevan. She didn’t change her name. And I think I told you they gave me her name, not my father’s.”

She stares at me for a long time before she looks away. When she speaks, her words sound guarded. “Yes, I remember. How do you spell Moore?”

I spell it. She focuses on the seat in front of her, raises her thumb to her lips, and bites it.

I try to remember what I said but all I can think about is the seat in front of me that just got six inches closer to my face. The person in that seat. His soft tissue. His breakable bones.

Her hand slides onto my knee. “So there’s Sloane Bevan, Martin Moore, what about Christian?”

“He’s a Moore. He’s my father’s brother’s son. And Kate is a Bevan. She took my name. Not sure if she still has it though.” My words carry a sour tinge, but I don’t care.

“Anyone else?” There’s still an off tone to her voice. Maybe I’m overwhelming her.

“Aaron of course. And Christian’s father, my uncle. My grandmother—my father’s mother—she’s a Moore. And a million other relatives always visiting. They’re scattered around Virginia and the Northeast. All from my father’s side.”

“What are their names?” She leans toward me. Her eyes look a little wild. Maybe I’m not the only one about to go postal.

“All of them?” I chuckle. She can’t possibly be this interested.

She leans back and turns away. A moment later, her hand finds mine, intertwining our fingers.

She changes her question. “Where does Christian live?”