Chapter 8: Ava - Reckless Love

From the second-floor window of Landon’s room, I watch Stephen arrive. Observing him while my son gets dressed in the morning has become my favorite ritual. What I’ve discovered is that if I stay a step or two back from the windowsill, Stephen doesn’t notice me. Whenever he has seen me, his closed-off expression makes me want to take a crowbar to his resolve. Not the best instinct. From a step or two back, I get a true sense of what he’s like on the job, around people who aren’t me, and his locked-down persona doesn’t make me want to do dangerous things.

Right now, he’s clearly frustrated, but I’m having a hard time figuring out exactly why. We woke up to protesters at the gates of our estate. A lot of them. Seems unbelievable to me that Raul’s workers don’t have anything better to do with their time off. Why come to the house when the guy they’re trying to get through to isn’t even here? Makes no sense.

“Ready!” Landon says from behind me. He no longer needs my help to get dressed, but he likes to have me somewhere in the room in case he gets stuck or can’t find something he wants to wear. “Is Stephen here?”

“He is,” I say, ruffling his dark hair. “You know Kiara’s the one you’re supposed to wonder about.”

“I like Stephen best,” Landon says. “He likes the Bellerive Bullets too.”

“He likes ice hockey too, does he?” I usher Landon out of the room and toward the stairway.

Unlike me, Landon seems to be a welcome presence in the front foyer, where Stephen spends most of his time in the mornings and evenings before the night shift arrives. Landon gets a consistent male presence outside the house from my siblings and their partners, but this is the first time Landon’s had an adult male in the house take a keen, consistent interest. Hearing the two of them together in the mornings and evenings causes that ache in my chest to spread and spread and spread. The sensation is what I suspect it’d be like to have an alien take over your body—just a flood of foreign emotion.

My life didn’t feel fucked up until Stephen came back, and now nothing feels right. Like I took a wrong turn, and I’ve ended up on a journey that was never meant for me.

Landon beats me down the stairs, and rather than waiting for Stephen to come in, he rushes out the front door. I go to the door in time to see Stephen scoop him up into his arms, and then Landon seems to see all the people chanting at our gates.

I can’t tell what they’re saying, but it looks as though Stephen’s explaining something to him. Stephen’s scowl and foul mood I noted from the second-floor window are completely gone now. Whether that’s due to Landon’s presence or whatever Stephen was mad about has been resolved, I don’t know.

“That’s a lot of people,” Landon says when he comes into the house, Stephen and Datu on his heels. “So loud!”

With the door open, their chanting is more obvious. For a beat, I try to listen, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.

“We’ll need to leave earlier,” Stephen says. “We’ll have to go slow wading through the crowd. I told Kiara and her crew to meet us at the school. No point in her fighting through that just to go through again. We’ll drop off Landon.”

“I get to ride with you?” Landon asks, and his awed tone makes me stifle a smile.

“You do, buddy. Just for today. Wheels up in ten. Eat in the car,” Stephen says.

When we leave, Stephen and Datu are sitting in the front. Stephen is driving, and he meets Landon’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “People are probably going to shout at the car. They might hit the car. They might throw things at the car. But you’re safe, okay, buddy? Anyone who tries to get to you has to come through me.”

Landon sets his jaw and nods. “And you’re really good at your job.”

“There’s no one better,” Stephen says in a matter-of-fact tone. “We’ll get you to school safe and sound.”

When the gates swing back, the car creeps through the crowd, and Landon tucks himself under my arm as people slap the car and yell into the tinted windows.

“I don’t know what they think they’re going to accomplish,” I say. “Raul’s not even here.”

“You didn’t hear their chant?” Stephen asks, meeting my gaze in the rearview briefly before returning his focus to the crowd in front.

“No,” I say.

“Part of it was ‘Help us, Ava,’ so they aren’t here for your husband,” Stephen says.

“Harassing me isn’t going to make me want to help.”

“I know that,” Stephen says with a wry smile, “but they obviously don’t. Peer pressure’s always made you want to do the opposite thing.”

The admission that he knows me, knows how I’ll respond, causes warmth to spread across my body.

“If they want to waste their time,” I say, “who am I to stop them?”

“As long as they stay behind the gates,” Stephen says, “they can do and say what they want.”

* * *

I leave work early so we can pick up Landon after school and just take one car through the crowd of protesters. If it’s possible, there are even more. Raul has a lot of workers at The Nile, but I’m still surprised at the volume.

“Is your sister in this crowd?” I ask Stephen as we inch through.

“I hope not,” he says with a grimace.

“Ugh,” Landon says. “A sister? I don’t want a sister.”

“She’s not so bad,” Stephen says. “You’d want a brother?”

“Maybe,” Landon says, cuddling closer to me as another person bangs on the car. “Can I get a brother?” Landon gazes up at me.

“One healthy, happy kid is all I need,” I say, keeping my voice light but loud enough to combat the chaos we’re driving through. It’s not the first time the idea of a sibling has come up. Having another baby with Raul is out of the question.

“I’m hungry,” Landon says, and I’m grateful he’s moved on so quickly.

“Spaghetti tonight,” I say, remembering the menu the chef and I agreed on for the time Raul is gone.

“I love spaghetti. Do you love spaghetti, Stephen?” Landon asks, rubbing his tummy.

“I do,” Stephen agrees.

“Do you want to eat spaghetti with us?” Landon asks.

Rather than shutting Landon down, I leave the offer sitting between us. The three of us sitting at the table eating dinner sounds kind of nice, the sort of domesticated bliss that I never thought I’d crave.

“I’m eating with my parents tonight,” Stephen says. “Maybe another time.”

“How are they?” I ask.

“Same as always,” Stephen says, fluffing me off.

We get through the crowd and to the front door, the gates closing behind us.

“Stay here,” Stephen says, meeting my gaze in the mirror. “I’m checking the cameras for any trespassers before we go in.”

Datu turns in his seat and starts asking Landon questions about school while we wait for Stephen to come back.

A while later, the door beside me opens, and Stephen ducks down, ignoring me and addressing Landon. “Let’s get you fed, buddy.”

“No problems?” I ask, climbing out after Landon scrambles across me and into Stephen’s arms.

“All clear,” Stephen says, turning Landon upside down to his delighted squeals.

“Again! Again!” Landon calls out when Stephen rights him.

Leaving them in the front foyer, I head to the kitchen, getting the spaghetti out of the freezer and turning on the oven. Our chef does more of a spaghetti bake rather than a traditional spaghetti and meatballs, but Landon loves this version best.

He comes racing into the kitchen just as I’m sliding the container into the oven.

“Garlic bread, Mom?” he asks.

I purse my lips and scan the counter. We have some fresh bread, and I’m sure the chef has a garlic spread in the fridge. Searching through the shelves, I find what I’m looking for, and then I get out a cutting board to slice the French bread our chef sometimes makes at the start of a week. It’s crusty, and the outside is a bit slick from whatever coating the chef uses.

The bread knife is nowhere to be found, so I grab one of the smooth knives and start trying to cut through the thick bread.

“Mom, look!” Landon cries from the living room.

I glance up to see him doing a flip on the couch, and the knife slips. A sharp pain streaks through my fingers, and I give an involuntary cry.

“What happen?” Landon asks, running over to me.

“I cut myself,” I say, holding up my two bleeding fingers.

“Oh no!” Landon runs toward the front foyer. “Stephen, come quick. Mommy’s hurt.”

“It’s—” But the rest of my sentence dies on my lips as Stephen beats Landon back to the kitchen, his suit jacket flapping behind him like a cape.

“You’re hurt?” Stephen’s brow is furrowed when he reaches the island and sees the blood on the counter. “You cut yourself?”

“Stupid,” I say. “I was slicing bread with the wrong knife.”

He takes my small hand in his big one and turns it over, examining the cuts. My breath gets stuck in my throat at the tender way he’s holding my palm. Our chef keeps our knives very sharp, and the cuts are deeper than I would have thought for such a quick mistake.

“Does Mommy need a Band-Aid?” Landon asks from behind Stephen.

“Can you get the first aid kit from the front foyer, bud? It’s in the cabinet by the door.” Stephen reaches behind him and grabs some paper towel, pressing it gently against my cuts.

Landon races off at top speed.

This close, Stephen’s oaky scent invades my senses, and I close my eyes, trying to breathe him in without being obvious. Having his bulky, overpowering manliness this close already makes the sting of my cuts less than it was a minute ago. Being hovered over by him makes me feel tiny and delicate, which isn’t a familiar sensation anymore, but my body remembers it, wants to respond to it, turn toward him.

“Are you okay?” Stephen asks, his voice gruff.

When I open my eyes, he’s peering down at me, his scotch-colored eyes brimming with so much concern that I can’t resist cupping his cheek with my uninjured hand. He leans into the contact ever so slightly, and a zing of triumph shoots through me.

“I’ve always been accident prone,” I murmur.

“You have,” Stephen agrees. “But this one looks like it hurts.”

“You going to fix me up?”

“So good it’ll be like it never happened.”

“You’re that good at fixing cuts?”

“I’m good at a lot of things.” There’s the faintest quirk to his lips.

“I remember,” I whisper, inching closer.

“Got it!” Landon says, holding a red bag over his head as he tears back into the kitchen.

Reluctantly, I step back from Stephen as Landon squeezes between us. Stephen chuckles as he holds onto my hand with the paper towel covering it.

“I’ll help,” Landon says.

“You want to play doctor?” Stephen asks, setting my hand on the island while he digs through the bag.

“Are you a doctor too?” he asks.

“No, but I had to learn a lot of emergency first aid for this job.”

“Why?” Landon asks.

“My job is to stop people from getting hurt, and I’m very good at that. But if something does happen, my job is to help.”

“I’m a good helper,” Landon says.

The look Stephen gives him is filled with fondness, and then he walks Landon through cleaning, sealing, and bandaging my two cuts. His patience with Landon’s questions and enthusiasm for helping cause that earlier warmth to return. Even though my fingers hurt, my soul feels settled, like it’s finally landed back where it belongs.

When Landon runs the first aid kit back to the front foyer, Stephen cleans the counter and then slices the bread for me.

“Did you do a lot of first aid work while you were gone off the island?”

He glances at me, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he tidies up the breadcrumbs, butters four pieces of bread with the garlic spread, turns on the second oven to toast them, and then puts everything away.

“Why are you like this?” I say when it’s clear he won’t answer. “One minute, you’re open, and the next, you’re so closed off.”

When he doesn’t answer again, I say, “Raul told me you’d been in an accident. A bad one.”

“Your husband shouldn’t be gossiping about his employees,” Stephen says, his jaw tight. “I’ll be at the front entrance if you need me.”

“Stephen!” I call to him, but he ignores me.

A few seconds later, the quiet conversation between him and Landon filters to me, and I let out a sigh of frustration.

* * *

Landon and I eat dinner together, watch a bit of TV, and then I take him to bed. When I come back down, Stephen and Datu are still there.

“I thought you’d be gone,” I say.

“How’s your hand?” Stephen asks.

“Almost like it never happened,” I say, showing him my bandages.

His lips tip up slightly, as though he’s suppressing his amusement at my callback to his claim.

“Why are you still here?” I ask more directly.

“Your husband is off the island with some of our security staff, so we’ve had to adjust schedules and coverages,” Stephen says. “Datu got your mail. It’s on the kitchen island.”

I wander over and start ripping open various bills. When I get to one that doesn’t have a return address, I hesitate. Probably junk mail or some charity trying to get our attention.

I rip the envelope and then I tug out the card, flipping it open. Inside is a cut-out message—such a cliché—telling Raul to back off the union organizers or else he’ll be “sorry.” Nice and vague.

“Well, isn’t that sweet?” I say, holding the card up toward Stephen.

“What’s that?” he asks, coming closer.

“A threat, I guess,” I say with a shrug. “Whoever it is, they’re not very good at it. People still buy physical newspapers and magazines?”

Stephen takes the card from my hand and skims it before setting it down. He seems lost in thought.

The incident with my car, Jenny trying to talk to me, the protesters outside the gate, and now this anonymous mail make me realize The Nile employees are desperate, but I don’t really understand why. And I’m not sure I should even be asking myself that question. Raul won’t listen to me.

“What do you think about The Nile trying to unionize?” I ask.

“What I think doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me. Your opinion has always mattered to me.”

“Take off the rose-colored glasses,” he snaps, startling me. “My opinion has never mattered to you. You’ve always done whatever the fuck you wanted, consequences be damned. Let’s not rewrite history now.”

“I did care what you thought, even if I didn’t show it.”

“Nah,” Stephen says with a sharp shake of his head. “You’re looking back and assuming you must have cared. We’re not rewriting the past because it makes you feel better.”

“Fuck you,” I say. “I’m not the one rewriting the past to make myself feel better. You left me, and if you have to admit I actually cared, that makes you the bad guy.”

“I’m the bad guy?” he sputters in disbelief before he holds up a hand to me. “We’re not doing this.”

“At some point, we are doing this,” I say, invading his space. “You don’t get to leave the country, almost die, and turn up as though we didn’t spend eight years tearing each other’s clothes off.”

He glances over his shoulder toward the front entrance, where Datu is presumably stationed since Stephen is in here with me.

“We made our choices,” he says in a low voice. “I’m not looking back at anything with fondness, and neither should you.”

His words sting more than the actual slice of a knife earlier. I’m staring at him, dumbfounded that he’d say that, that he could possibly believe that, when the front door opens with the arrival of the night crew.

“You can’t mean that,” I whisper.

“I do,” he says, and then he leaves me to stride toward the front foyer.

I stare after him, and I wonder if it’s possible that I’m the one who has it wrong because the only way I look back is with fondness for what we once had. Maybe I’ve allowed that time to take on a golden glow, but we shared so much for so long that I can’t believe none of it was meaningful to him. One of us is lying to himself. Or herself.