“I... I…” my voice trailed off, caught in a truth I couldn’t deny. I wanted all of what Fiona had said and more but wasn’t sure I could give so much of myself to anyone. I didn’t know if I could look at a man without the acidity from my past burning holes into his character. Holes that would never belong to him but would nonetheless cause unbending distrust from me. No, it wouldn’t be fair to anyone.
I cleared my throat. “Well, I’m better off without any of that. It all sounds great but when the inevitable heartache comes, I don't want to be a sopping mess you’ll have to take turns scraping off the floor. Relationships suck and I won't have anything to do with them.”
My loved ones remained quiet, watching me as I fidgeted, twisting and untwisting my fingers on my lap.
Awareness penetrated their faces. The conversation, no longer fun banter, had gone down the same unpleasant path it always took when the subject of my love life was broached. I fucking hated it. It was one thing for the atrocious acts against me to veil over my existence, suffocating my sense of freedom, but it had no right to spread gloom over those I loved. They didn’t need to share my burden. I wanted to bear its heavy weight on my own. But atrociousness was callous and unselective, spurting black blood into everything and everyone it touched.
A shadow of pity passed over my father’s eyes. I pushed on the diamond-encrusted lattice of my platinum heart locket until it left painful indentations on my skin. Dad watched me with microscopic eyes, not missing the subtle yet potent hint of discomfort carved on my face and bloodless fingertips. Swallowing his sorrow with the bob of my throat, I braced for the uninvited insight he’d no doubt dispense. But it never came. With one slow and deliberate blink, pity left his kind face, quickly replaced by much-needed lightheartedness.
Thank you, old man.
“Arie isn’t going to settle down with a mountain man,” Dad scoffed with playful indignation, his fingers steepled in front of his face, his indexes resting on the cleft of his upper lip. “She’s still waiting for Superman, remember?”
Placating humor tickled my muscles. I chuckled. Mom and Fiona threw their heads back with a laugh, while Ben sat with a confusing smirk painting his handsome features and bright green eyes.
My mind rewound to the time I was eight years old, when I’d presented Dad with a sheet of red construction paper, folded in asymmetrical angles. Inside were messy yet legible black crayon scribbles. I’d informed him the only man I’d ever marry was Superman. I’d drafted it as a serious contract, my juvenile signature at the bottom of the page, making my intent official. It was an act that would become one of the main childhood stories my parents would use to embarrass me whenever we had visitors, or when I brought a boy home. Dad would swiftly remind me of my pledge to the man of steel. I halfheartedly glowered while he shared my youthful deed with Ben.
“To which Superman did you promise yourself?” Ben asked.
I opened my mouth to speak, but Fiona interjected. “Henry Cavill, of course.”
“You mean Christopher Reeve,” Dad deadpanned.
“No, George, she’s talking about the latest one,” Mom replied as she sipped from her steamy cup of goodness.
My dad's face looked offended. “The only Superman in my book is Reeve.”
“And the only one in Arabel's book is Henry,” Mom added.
“Arabel made a pledge to Superman, and that’s been Henry Cavill since 2013, and he’s way hotter than Reeve,” my sister said, proudly.
Dad shot me a look, trying not to smile. “Traitor.”
We all laughed. Two silent words left my mouth, directed at the man responsible for my existence.
Thank you.
Thank you for knowing when to impart wisdom and when to diffuse the fist of shame twisting my gut.
He nodded, quickly averting his gaze to my mother, who was squeezing his shoulder, still rapt in the conversation. “George, whenever you see who they’re talking about, you’ll fall in love too.”
“What if you met Henry Cavill’s doppelganger?” Ben asked with a glint in his eye.
Lorenzo was even more beautiful than Henry. I pushed his image away. “There’s no one like Henry Cavill,” I quickly retorted, hoping to successfully bury the tension in my spine and the galloping of my heart that could give away the questionable hope resting inside my rib cage.
My dad put his hand on my arm. “You never know, you never know.”
Being back in the countryside wasn't challenging for me. I thrived in nature. Its peaceful power brought me joy. I read, walked, and played with Liam and my parents’ dog and cat. Dad rigged my aerial silks to the peak of their home's cathedral ceiling, so I could train and stay in acrobatic shape, which was good for my mental and emotional health.
In the few days since we’d arrived in Grass Valley, Carlos Sierra—or C as we all called him—our realtor and family friend, had shown us three properties, none of which fulfilled our vision. We had a good business plan, and I’d saved money for a long time for this purpose. Our grandfather had left a sizable trust fund for Fiona and me. Before passing away, in his will, he stipulated we wouldn't have access to the money until after college. I’d graduated years ago but chose not to touch my trust, letting it amass as much interest as possible. On top of my inheritance I’d been saving roughly half of my yearly income since Ben and I had opened our practice. The trauma healing center would be a huge undertaking. It would be costly to make our vision a reality, and I knew my parents or Granny (who still ran the family’s vineyard) wouldn’t hesitate to give me more money if needed, but I didn’t want to owe them. I needed to do this on my own. To prove to myself that in spite of my fortunate upbringing, I had the acumen to be successful.
It was a cold winter day, and Fiona and I were on our way to another potential property, this one in the Donner Lake area. It was an hour away from our parents in Grass Valley but closer to Lake Tahoe than we’d expected. Nestled in the magnificence of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, the waterfront property actually faced Donner Lake, and it wasn’t far from interstate 80. It sounded promising. If this place met our criteria, we’d have hit the jackpot.
Fiona was at the wheel of her powder blue hybrid car. She’d just finished her MBA and looked forward to helping me get my business off the ground not only for my benefit but to garner experience in order to pursue her dream of opening a high-end pottery store she could fill with her incredible clay conceptions.
As we drove to Donner Lake, I watched her weave the quiet car through tree-lined curves, rambling about the things she missed from her time in the city, her long ebony hair swaying on the white winter coat that brightened the mossy tint of her eyes. She looked just like Dad, while I resembled Mom.
“This is the gate. We’re here!” Fiona yanked me out of my thoughts. The tall rock-wall fence gave me a sense of privacy and protection, relaxing my mind. The private road opened into a huge circular driveway, displaying a beautiful cluster of pine trees in the center. We gasped when the main house came into view. The biggest and most magnificent house we'd looked at so far. Fiona let out a delighted squeal. I remained silent, taking it all in. Carlos’ titanium Volvo was parked next to an “open house” sign.