So instead, I take a step forward, my fingertips running over the woven bags and childish trinkets on the table, my eyes searching for any sign that Stella existed here. I know it’s stupid and that it won’t prove anything, but I feel like I need something to be here, to validate my grief in order to help lay it to rest. I begin rifling through the bags hanging off the canopy in front of the crumbling walls of the storefront. I tell myself I need a bag like this for Beaux’s surprise, but there’s no denying I’m reaching for an excuse until I find what I’m looking for.

Then I move closer and lean over the table, my hand reaching out so that my fingertip fits in the bullet hole that’s been left unrepaired in the store’s facade. My finger stays frozen there, the nightmares of that night colliding at a ferocious pace with the good memories of the ten years Stella was in my life until they crumble to pieces, falling with the guilt laid at my feet.

I inhale deeply through a clenched jaw and face all the emotion that’s overwhelming me right now, good, bad, and irrevocable. I shake my head softly, a soft smile on my face as I remember our last full night together. Our kiss. Our promise. That smile of hers and the friendship we had for so long.

“Good-bye, Stella,” I whisper, my words carried away in the sounds of the streets around me and the music coming through the store’s window before me. I hang my head for a moment and close my eyes. I’d be your once-in-a-lifetime, your goddamn everything if you’d come back.

But I know she can’t.

And I know that she was one of the most incredible people I’ll ever meet. I know that I’d live the lie if given the chance to make her happy even though I know now that she wasn’t my once-in-a-lifetime in return. I’d have been cheating the both of us of that chance to find it. Our friendship was the strongest one I’ve ever had the fortune to experience, but that sexual chemistry wasn’t strong like it should be.

Not like the way it is between Beaux and me.

So maybe that’s why I’m here. Maybe I’m saying good-bye to one woman so that I can give myself completely to another. And yes, Stella and I were more like siblings than a romantic couple, but when you’re that close to someone for so long, you still feel like you are cheating on them in a sense when you start to move on with someone new, sharing a friendship, your confessions, your laughter, your comfortable silence.

Once I’ve had my moment with her memory, holding on to the image in my mind of Stella laughing from behind her camera and shedding the horrible ones of that night as best as I can, I’m determined to leave the pain here and move forward with the happy memories.

With my head still angled down, I open my eyes, and something about the sight in front of me makes me smile. There is a bowl on the table filled with small bottles of bubbles. Although it’s amongst a hodgepodge of items, it’s such a welcome sight nonetheless because it brings up memories of Rylee and me growing up. Her theory at eight years old that blowing bubbles makes everything better because you can’t say the word bubble without smiling. How when the bullies in third grade picked on her when I was home sick from school one day, I brought out a bottle of bubbles to where she sat sniffling on the swings in the backyard and made her blow bubbles until she smiled. And then of course I went to school the next day and earned some detention for persuading them with my fists to not pick on my little sister again.

Or how, years later, after her eighth grade formal when she came home upset that no one had asked her to dance, I brought out a bottle of bubbles, again to the swings that hadn’t been used in years, and made her blow them until she laughed.

With a huge smile on my face, I immediately know that even though Beaux doesn’t know the significance of bubbles to me, she’d love them and the small piece of normality that they represent.

Besides, who doesn’t love bubbles?

With the bubbles and a colorful tote bag stuffed into my backpack so Beaux won’t see them, I leave the shop, the weight of grief a little lighter in my heart for the first time since Stella’s death. Glancing at my watch, I realize I need to get my ass back to the hotel before Beaux wakes up and discovers that I snuck out.

Just as I’m crossing the street, my phone alerts a text, and I cringe in fear that I’ve been caught. My mind is already scrambling for the excuses I’d prepared, but suddenly my feet falter as I look at the name lighting up my screen. It’s Omid with a text: They are here. Many in my village. I think the meet happened today. Sorry. Did not know.

My heart sinks as soon as I read his message. Mostly because I didn’t come through for Sarge and the good guys but also for the lost opportunity of reporting on a meet that no one else knew was happening. Fuck. That single word sums up how I feel and then some so much that it bears repeating. Fuck.

I stop in my tracks on the sidewalk and type out a text as fast as I can: When? How many? Where? Meet me. I could go on endlessly with the questions, but the language barrier would make it impossible to persuade him to give me any further information. I need to see Omid face-to-face; I need to have Beaux there to translate if there’s any hope of having this situation not be so damn fucked.

“Answer, Omid,” I groan into the night as I stare at my screen with the hope fading that the harder I stare, the quicker he will respond. After a few minutes I realize that standing here is not going to help anything, so I start hurrying back to the hotel when at last I get his reply.

Not now. Dangerous. Trust gone like I said last week. No more.

My mind races as I try to figure out the text. Last week? Did he text me last week and I didn’t get it? Trust is gone? From Beaux taking a picture? Yes, but what I don’t get is I didn’t speak to him last week. What the fuck? I growl out in frustration. Fucking cell phones and their limited service in this godforsaken land. What did he text me that I didn’t get?

And no more? No more what? I want to yell. No more people there? No more information? No more being a source? What?

I’m frustrated and disappointed and just disheartened at the missed opportunities all around. Defeated, I look at my screen one more time before picking it up and dialing a number. The phone rings several times, and just as I’m about to hang up, he answers.

“Hello?”

“Sarge. Here’s what I’ve got…” And I tell him what I know.

Chapter 18




“Tell me again why we use your room for reports?” I ask Beaux as I look over to her and laugh when she shifts on the bed and the springs squeak.

“Location, location, location,” she says, and I join in on the last repeat of the word with her. And really she is right. At this time of day, the early evening’s natural light through the windows is soft enough that I can file a live report and not look like I’m cordoned off in some darkened cell like I would if I were in my room.

“I’ll give you location, all right,” I tease as I turn my computer off and hold my hand out to her. “Come with me.” I love the little surprised tilt of her head.

She stands cautiously, squinting her eyes as she tries to figure out just what I’m doing. And it’s nothing really, nothing except realizing Beaux deserves a little something special, something girlie in this land where we’re faced with so much harshness.

The rooftop door sticks like usual until I thrust with my shoulder on the right-hand edge to get it to fling back. Beaux laughs as I play up my demonstration of strength by pointing out the dent in the metal that’s always been there. With fingers crossed that all of my preparation and bribes have worked perfectly, I put my hand on the small of her back and usher her over the threshold first.

She walks from habit around the one rooftop vent that blocks the view of my spot, and the minute she clears it – the moment I hear her sharp intake of air, my name in a surprised tone on her lips followed by a hand flying up to her mouth – I know the past week’s preparation has paid off. Beaux turns to face me, tears welling in her eyes before looking back to the scene before us as she walks slowly toward the mattress.

When I can force myself to look away from her, I’m filled with relief to see the scene set to perfection by some of the hotel staff that I had paid on the side. A small canopy made with local fabrics from the closest market has been rigged to hang above the mattress. Scattered across the ground are glass votive candles that create a soft light against the skyline. The mattress itself has a new cover; the colorful tote I bought sits on top of it.

Beaux takes in everything, her hands smoothing over the fabric, moving past the flame of a candle, and running over the mattress. All the while her eyes flicker back and forth to me to make sure all of this is real.

“You did this?” The incredulity in her voice tugs on every damn heartstring I have. “How? Why? I…” Her voice fades off as she shakes her head.

“It’s not much, but —”

“It’s perfect!” There’s appreciation and so much more woven in her tone. “Just perfect.”

And the repetition of the word mixed with the break in her voice tells me that this was the right thing to do, that my sister was right: Every woman needs to feel like she matters regardless of how many hours you spend together a day.

“I won’t take all of the credit. I had some help.” Her eyes whip over to mine, but I just smile at her. “Relax. Hotel staff that don’t know us from Adam. It wasn’t anyone who works with us.”

When her smile softens as she turns to survey the scene again, I reach out and grab her hand, tugging her body so it lands firmly against mine. As she looks up to me, her eyelashes flutter, and her eye color is such a sharp green in this vast backdrop of tan landscape. “I just wanted to give you a real date like you deserve. Something more than sex in a hotel room…” I pause when we both laugh. “Which is kind of the only way we can have it here, considering the circumstances, but…” I have to stop myself from rambling, because even though I am never unsure of myself around women, for some reason, right now, I am nervous.

I don’t know if it’s the look in her eyes or the fact that this is the first time in forever that I really, truly wanted to try to make something special for someone, but the sudden sense of insecurity that I feel is foreign and oddly welcoming. Yet at the same time the feeling is a pain in the ass.

And I think she senses my conflict, sees me falter over the words that I can’t form, because she steps up on tiptoe, uses her hands on my shirt to pull me down to her, and presses her lips against mine. The kiss lingers over the next several minutes, tongues fluttering as we drink each other in, before she leans back and looks at me. “It’s the nicest thing that anyone has done for me in as long as I can remember. Thank you. It means more to me than you’ll ever know.” Tears glisten in her eyes as I pull her into my chest, wrap my arms around her, and just hold on.

We stand like this as time moves slowly amid the glow of tiny flickers of light and colors illuminating the sky on the horizon. And then, I begin to sway back and forth with her, stepping side to side, dancing to the beat of our heartbeats in rhythm together. I twirl her out at arm’s length, her gasp of surprise turning to a laugh that causes her head to fall back and her hair to hang farther down her back. She spins into my arms again, so that our chests touch and our hearts are connected once more.

“I guess I could play some music on my phone,” I say in a pseudo apology, suddenly embarrassed that I forgot such an important element of the evening. But when I start to let her go, she just holds on tighter.

“No. Don’t. It’s perfect just like this. Everything is…” Her voice trails off as emotion thickens it.

So we dance for a few more minutes, spinning around the rooftop and laughing until our bodies home in on the need to be close again, before we sit down on the mattress. Beaux looks at me over the bag, and her face lights up when she pulls out a bottle of wine followed by cheap plastic glasses and some cheese, crackers, and chocolate. “Oh my God, this looks like Heaven!” She takes a bite of the gourmet cheese that I had to pay an arm and a leg to get here, but for the look in her eyes and the smile on her face, I’d have paid double.