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“If you could just kill me right now, Lizzy, the evening would go so much better.”
I had zoned out, wondering how the women at my self-defense gym are fairing without me this evening, but I snap back to the present at this ludicrous statement. What is he on about? I haven’t exactly sparkled during our short acquaintance tonight, but my performance so far on this miniature date can’t have been
that
bad.
“My name isn’t Lizzy,” I reply automatically. I’ve always hated being pinned with that nickname by people who barely know me. “Call me Elizabeth.”
“Make me,” comes the response.
I assess him with my best glare. John—or was it Mark?—has black hair that falls in greasy strands across his forehead. He looks to be about seventeen, though I know he has to be at least twenty-five to be here, and it’s not like how old you look means much these days. I’ve been twenty-five for almost three years now. Others have been twenty-five for much, much longer as they wait for their soulmate to appear.
Undaunted, John/Mark stares back at me and runs the tip of his tongue over his upper lip. His blue eyes, his best feature, bore directly into mine in a way that makes me feel like he is peeling back the layers of my skin one at a time to find what lay beneath.
I finger the monitor nodule that was inserted into my forearm at birth. In theory, it makes a noise when I meet the love of my life, or if my nanites ever get out of control. Mine has never sounded an alert, and at this time it remains blessedly silent.
“I think we’re done here.” I raise my hand high in the air, signaling that I’m ready for my next mini date.
“I don’t think so.” He snatches my wrist from the air and pulls my arm back down.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I hiss. “Let go of me.”
I fight against my body’s muscle memory, honed from the years I’ve spent at the self defense gym. For Caro’s sake, I can’t make a scene. She wanted to go to this match party so badly, convinced that the reincarnation of her former husband—and new soulmate—will be much better than the last. And she always has my back in a fight, so she’ll end up getting kicked out with me if things go poorly. Although, she does owe me a massive favor for coming tonight. I’m not interested in matching.
I pull experimentally at my wrist. His grip is strong.
John—I’ve decided that’s his name, even if it isn’t—grins maliciously, showing his molars. “Make me.”
Heat rises in my chest. This is not going to go the way he wants it to. I reach over with my other hand, placing my fingers against his in a gentle caress. I meet his gaze with a sweet smile and he relaxes.
“That’s bett—” he begins.
His words morph into a yowl when I grab his middle finger and snap it backward until it meets the back of his hand. The crack of breaking bone is satisfying. I let go when he drops my wrist. As interesting as it would be to watch his finger heal in that position, I really should let his nanites do their job properly over the next few minutes.
I raise my hand. This time an attendant comes quickly. Her perfectly coiffed blond hair goes well with her clear blue eyes, red lipstick, and royal blue skirt suit.
“We’re done here,” I tell her.
A wrinkle forms in her perfect brow as she looks between me and my date, who wears a scowl like a crocodile wears its skin.
“This gentleman,” I use the term lightly, “thinks we need to become better acquainted, but I am certain that if there is a match to be made here, the physical contact we’ve had should have triggered it by now.”
Her brow clears and her face brightens again. “Touch—in addition to conversation—is one of the best ways to expedite the matching process,” she says. “Good thinking. We don’t like to require it of our potential couples, but it is highly encouraged.” She turns to walk away, gesturing for me to follow her.
I stand up and shadow her eagerly as she moves away from the unsettling man with whom I’ve just had a terrible date. As I try to figure out the appropriate way to warn her about him, she leads me to another table on the far side of the room. That table, like all the others, is a small foldable piece of furniture covered in a classy black linen tablecloth and an array of sweets. On one side sits a man with no hair and handsome features. As his eyes meet mine, he stands and crosses to my side of the table to pull my chair out for me. Already, we’re starting out better than with John.
I tap the attendant on the shoulder while we’re still out of hearing range of the new man. She stops and turns to me, expression expectant.
“I don’t think the last guy I saw was here just to match,” I say.
She raises her eyebrows and waits for me to continue.
“You see, he tried to keep me from signaling you by restraining me physically. Even after I knew we’d had enough time to match, he wanted me to stay. I’m not sure what he has in mind for tonight, but it might not be good.”
She nods gravely. “I’ll take it to my supervisor. For now, let’s take you to your next potential match.”
I glance around the room, looking for Caro. I find her seated at an empty table halfway across the room, waiting for her next potential match. Our eyes meet and she raises her eyebrows at me, silently asking how the party is going for me. I grimace. She smiles reassuringly, then turns away to greet her new mini date.
The attendant and I walk the rest of the way to the table where my next potential match is still holding out my chair. He winks at me, and I manage a small smile. Maybe this one won’t be so terrible. After all, who could be worse than John?
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
I sit as the man pushes in my chair for me. The attendant excuses herself, leaving us as alone as we can be in a room full of people.
“I noticed that last guy you were sitting with,” he says as he sits back down in his chair. “He looked like a real piece of work, resting murder face and all.”
“Resting murder face?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s when somebody’s neutral facial expression looks like they want to murder everybody.
“Ah.” I’m unsure of how to respond.
“Starting a new one of these is always so awkward, isn’t it?”
“You could begin by asking my name,” I supply.
“No, no, that won’t do; it’s too normal. I have to ask something that will stick with you; something important.”
“Oh?” A playful smile crosses my lips. “And what have you come up with?”
He smiles conspiratorially at me and leans in closer. “Well,” he lowers his voice.
I find myself drawn in, despite my determination not to enjoy myself. I might actually be having a little bit of fun.
“Tell me,” he says. “What color is your toothbrush?”
I laugh out loud, drawing a small bit of attention from the other guests around us. Chagrined, I slap my hand over my mouth. “Sorry,” I say, still stifling my laughter.
Mirth dances in his eyes. “No need to be sorry. That’s the reaction I was hoping for. So?”
I think about it. “My toothbrush is white. Boring, I know. What color is yours?”
He grins. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh? State secret? Do you use it to kill those who discover your true identity?”
“Of course not. That would be highly ineffective. It is, however, in the same location where I keep the bodies of my victims.” He laughs, a bright, genial sound. I can’t help but to join in.
“How unhygienic, keeping victims in your bathroom. Everybody knows you should keep them in a crawlspace, basement, or buried under your neighbor’s hedge.”
“I should probably consider that.” He winks at me.
“So, what is your name?” I ask.
“Going boring on me already, are you?” he teases. “My name is Steve. How about you?”
“If you’re looking for a good date, my name is Elizabeth. If you’re looking for more victims, my name is Caroline.”
Steve laughs out loud again. I glance around discreetly and notice that many of the occupants of nearby tables are staring at us. I duck my head as a faint blush creeps across my cheekbones. Then I decide not to care. It’s not my fault the other partygoers aren’t having as nice a time as we are.
“So, who is Caroline, and what has she done to you?” Steve asks with a chuckle.
“Oh, she’s the one who dragged me here tonight in the first place, hoping to match or at least get a glimpse of the oh-so-eligible Devin Hornbacher. So if you are an actual murderer, I feel like she should be the one to bear the consequences.”
Steve flashes me a charming smile, and I have to remind myself that I’m not really here to find a match; I’m here strictly to support Caro. Matching would really mess up my life right now. I intend to enjoy this period before I start aging again when I eventually do find my match. The strength and stamina of being young helps me teach the ladies at my gym how to protect themselves, and they are my priority. Not to mention, a match would take time and energy away from what I can spend with them. It’s a well-known fact that people quickly become infatuated with their matches, despite any efforts to resist. That’s one of the reasons I think Caro wants so desperately to match again, now that the twenty-five year period after her former husband’s death—to allow time for his reincarnation to age up—has passed. She wants to feel loved and wanted, and give those feelings in return. Unfortunately, that infatuation often asserts itself to the detriment of other responsibilities and commitments. That’s why Caro owes me a large favor for coming tonight.
“You’re not like other girls, are you?” Steve asks.
I stiffen. “What do you mean?”
“Calm down, it was a compliment. This is a great date. Don’t ruin it by taking offense.”
“I’ll calm down once you explain what you meant.” More people are looking at us now, for different reasons this time. I decide that I still don’t care.
“I
was
thinking that you’re a more fun, reasonable person to be around, but I’m beginning to rethink my assessment. Maybe you are just like other girls.”
“Good.” I raise my hand to signal that our time together has passed. If this man is my soulmate, I don’t want him. “I want to be like other girls. The girls I know are strong, capable, intelligent women who care about other people. I should be so lucky to be half as great as them.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The attendant from before appears at my elbow. “Is everything okay?” she asks in a too-bright tone.
I become suddenly aware that my voice has risen with each word, and I was nearly shouting at the man sitting across from me, my mini-date and latest potential soulmate.
“Perfectly fine,” I grind out the words between clenched teeth.
She looks to Steve, who shakes his head.
“She just started yelling at me from out of nowhere,” he says, the very picture of calm stability. “I don’t know if she should really be here.”
The attendant appraises me for a few seconds, surely taking in my flushed face and sour expression. She nods to herself and steps closer to my side.
“Miss Robbins,” she whispers, “I think I am going to have to ask you to leave. This is your second altercation with one of our guests in the past hour.”
Not entirely surprised, I sigh and rise to my feet. I look around the room, searching for Caro. I find her at the same table where she sat before, now ignoring her date. Our eyes lock and she raises one eyebrow, questioningly. I shake my head. She shouldn’t have to leave just because I’m being kicked out. She probably wasn’t close enough to hear the altercation, and I might be able to make it look to her like I’m just going to the bathroom.
“Can you point me in the direction of the restroom first, please?” I ask the attendant.
Steve rolls his eyes. The neatly pressed attendant standing next to me tilts her head and purses her lips while she considers my request.
“Alright,” she concedes. “But you have to be quick, and leave immediately after.”
I place my hand over my heart. “I swear.”
“Follow me.” She leads me toward a side door, away from the main entrance.
I pause before leaving the room and turn my head to check on Caro. She seems to have accepted my charade, now fully engrossed in conversation with her date. I smile and walk out.
The attendant points me toward the bathroom and I thank her. Before returning to her duties, she gives me a look that warns me not to forget that I am meant to leave.
After I finish my business in the bathroom, I slowly make my way down the hallway toward the main entrance. I want to take my time enjoying the mix of modern art and more traditional pieces hung on the walls, the plush carpet under my feet. I am
not
hoping for the opportunity to catch a glimpse of the famed Devin Hornbacher, head of Tech Corp. According to Caro—a self-proclaimed gossip monger—he has the dreamiest eyes, the build of an athlete but not a bodybuilder, and more money than anyone. He doesn’t attend any match events, or any other events, really, but he does live in the presidential suite of this hotel. It would be quite the story if I could tell her that, sure, I got kicked out, but hey, I met the man nearly all the single women in the world dream of matching with.
I pass through the lobby and reach the front door without seeing anyone but the hotel concierge. I sigh. It looks like tonight will continue to not be my night. I reach for the brass handle set in the large, ornate glass door when something thrusts it inward and into me with enough force that I fall straight onto my butt.
“Ow,” I complain loudly.
“Here, let me help,” comes a smooth male voice from above me.
A hand comes into my view. I examine it for a moment, then look up into the deepest blue eyes I have ever seen. I broaden my focus and notice the chocolate brown hair and high cheekbones. His lips are coral pink, and his short beard is flecked with black strands. I’ve just been knocked over by the one and only Devin Hornbacher.
As I stare at him, a crease appears between his brows. He must think me daft. I reach up to take his hand.
My monitor nodule beeps.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
My heart pounds in my ears. All I can hear is the beep from my monitoring nodule echoing in my mind. At best, the nanite levels in my body have gotten dangerously high, and I could die if they take over my body entirely before I get to a doctor. At worst…I look at his inner forearm, willing his nodule to remain silent.
It beeps.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe this is a terrible dream, and I will wake up any moment to Caro bouncing on my bed, waking me up because I’m going to be late for work if I don’t hurry. I shove my eyelids back open.
No such luck.
I look back up at Mr. Hornbacher’s face and find my horror mirrored there. A distant part of my mind wonders why he would be so upset at the thought of matching with me—maybe I look entirely too common there on the ground—but I pay it no mind.
My attention is focused on what that set of beeps means for me. I can’t be what I need to be right now if I match. The women at my gym, they are all that matters to me at this time. What would happen if I suddenly couldn’t spend much of my time with them? They rely on me to not only teach them how to protect themselves from their abusive matches, but also to provide a safe haven away from said partners when necessary. I sleep there most nights, often with the company of one or more of the women who need sanctuary. I can’t afford to have some guy taking my time and attention away from them.
“Oh my stars! Did you two just match?” A squeal comes from behind me, snapping me back to the present. “You did, didn’t you? How wonderful, what a gift!”
Gift? More like a curse.
Mr. Hornbacher’s features sharpen into distaste and I wonder briefly if I spoke my thoughts aloud. No, I’m just still sitting on the ground, holding his hand. I allow him to pull me to my feet. When I reach a standing position, I glimpse a flash of something darker than mere distaste in his expression. But in a moment it’s gone, smoothed into a charming smile.
Perhaps I only imagined it.
I turn around to find the concierge bouncing on the balls of her feet behind the sleek black counter of her desk, awaiting our answer.
“It appears we have,” I say dazedly.
The bounce falls out of her movements.
“Are you not thrilled?” she asks, confused.
“Of course we are,” comes the smooth, deep voice from behind me.
I realize that he still has ahold of my hand, and I try to pull it back. He resists.
“Act like you at least don’t mind the idea,” he whispers in my ear.
“Why does it matter whether—” I begin.
“It’s just such a shock,” he speaks over me to the concierge. “It’s been so long since my dear Amelia passed that I’m having a hard time processing it.”
She nods somberly. “Of course, of course. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Think nothing of it,” he says grandly. “I have now matched again, and my time of solitude is finally over.”
He lifts my hand in the air as if we have won some sort of prize. I suppose if you have been lonely for so long, like Caro, matching would be a relief. Your soulmate is supposed to be able to understand and complement you like no other person in the world. Maybe if that’s true, he’ll allow me to continue spending most of my time at the gym, rather than demanding I focus on him.
Not that I’ll give him a choice. I straighten my spine, pulling out of my reverie.
“We need to talk,” I tell him.
“Yes, of course, my dear,” he says. The endearment feels too familiar, but I push away the notion. We’ve matched, of course he would want to call me that, especially if it’s been so long since he’s had that connection with someone.
It can’t have been
too
strong of a connection, though. The more closely intermingled you are emotionally once matched, the more devastating it is physically when your match passes. Many people actually die soon after their match dies, if they’ve been together more than a couple of years. How long had he been matched with this Amelia before she met her demise?
An attendant, different from the one who’d previously kicked me out of the match party, pokes her head out of the ballroom to see what the commotion is all about. Her eyes widen when she sees Devin. I watch her gaze travel up to our joined hands, and she emits a small gasp before ducking back behind the door.
“There goes our last chance at being circumspect about this whole news,” Devin mutters.
He moves his hand up to my elbow and steers me toward the elevator. I suppose he wants to have this chat privately. I don’t exactly want to have this conversation in the middle of a hotel lobby, either, so I allow it. However, once we enter the elevator and he’s pushed the floor button and the doors close, I wrench my arm from his grip.
“Look,” I say, “if this is going to work, you’ll need to—”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” He doesn’t bother looking at me, instead staring straight ahead as if I were a nuisance that could be ignored.
I take a deep breath through my nose, pushing down my irritation. This could be an opportunity.
“I will avoid it as long as you afford me the same courtesy,” I say.
He looks at me sharply, but I stand my ground. “My name is Elizabeth, never Lizzy, and I don’t take orders either.”
He exhales through his nose and his nostrils flare, but he nods his agreement. The elevator doors open and I’m now longer paying attention to the handsome man beside me, because I step into heaven.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
My first impression is that everything is so white, I can’t see much else because of the brightness. My eyes soon adjust to the abundance of natural lighting streaming in through the high windows and skylights; then I can separate the whiteness into walls, couches with light camel-colored throw blankets and pillows, fur rugs, a piano, and the washed oak floor. I move farther into the room and gape as we pass under a crystal chandelier taller than I am.
Devin—a good-looking man with too much money who is apparently my soulmate—walks to a kitchen with painted white cupboards and reaches into the gleaming refrigerator. He pours himself some blue drink I’ve never seen before from a heavy decanter into a multi-faceted crystal glass. He downs the liquid in one gulp.
“What is that?” I ask.
It’s probably a rich person thing.
“Hm? Oh, it’s mannonberry juice, from the eastern mountains.”
“I’ve never heard of it before.”
“You wouldn’t have.” He pours himself another glass.
He really doesn’t like me. Good. If he doesn’t like me, he won’t want to spend time with me, and I’ll be free to do as I please. I will age now that we’ve matched, but maybe this won’t be the end of the world. I should try to look on the bright side of things, even if I don’t feel comfortable with him. Or perhaps it’s all this dazzling affluence that I find disconcerting.
“Pour me some,” I say.
He glares at me.
“Please?” I amend.
He pours a half glass of the blue liquid and slides it across the polished white and gray marble countertop to me like he’s a bartender in a movie.
I catch it, miraculously, before it goes over the edge and dashes against the pale wood planks of the kitchen floor. I bring the glass to my nose and sniff. It smells like blueberries. I sip eagerly at the drink. I taste a hint of cinnamon before liquid fire coats my tongue and the inside of my mouth. I run to the sink and spit out the vile liquid. Devin is ready at my elbow with a glass of milk, which I gratefully chug.
“What kind of berry tastes like that?” I demand.
“The kind that looks like a berry but is actually a type of hot pepper.” Amusement lightens his expression. He was handsome before, but I’m left awestruck when his smile reaches his eyes.
“What happened to Amelia?” I find myself asking. Stupid, stupid thing to say.
The light disappears from his eyes. “She died.”
“I gathered that much.” I want to melt into a mortified puddle. Why can’t I keep my mouth shut? “When did it happen?”
“Do you really think that’s an appropriate question to ask?”
My face grows hot. What I need is an icebreaker.
“How do you spend your time?” I ask.
“I—”
A loud screech sounds from the direction of the elevator. Devin and I whirl to face the threat, both falling into defensive stances. I only have a moment to process the streak of blond hair and suntanned skin before Caro tackles me in a hug. Fortunately, I’m still standing in a way that keeps her from bowling me over.
“You matched, you matched, you matched!” she cries, jumping up and down with her arms wrapped around me. “This is so exciting!”
“Would you introduce me to your lovely friend, my darling?” Devin asks. He has relaxed out of his stance and taken up a position next to me. Between his ever-changing moods and Caro’s rough handling, I might actually get whiplash.
“I’m Caroline,” she pipes up, releasing me. She holds out her hand for him to shake. “I’m the best friend, and the only reason Elizabeth came tonight.”
“A lovely name for a lovely lady.” He catches her hand and bows slightly over it, bringing her knuckles to his lips while gazing into her eyes.
She giggles and blushes to the roots of her platinum hair. I raise my eyebrows. Caro is positively starstruck. It really is too bad she didn’t match with him; they would make quite the couple. I can’t help but to feel a small sting of jealousy. He’s my match, how can he pay that sort of attention to another woman right in front of me, particularly my close friend? I don’t particularly blame Caro—she’s been slightly obsessed with him for years.
I cough to bring my existence back to their awareness, and find myself choking on my own spit. Caro jumps over to me and pounds my back, which only makes it worse.
When I finally stop hacking, Caro graces me with one more resounding slap between my shoulder blades.
“Your medicine was worse than the disease, there, Caro,” I say, tears in my eyes from the coughing.
“You’re just lucky Jake isn’t here; he’d probably have slapped your back so hard, you’d fall to the ground,” she says.
“No, Jake would have known that sort of thing doesn’t help when the person can still breathe, which I was obviously doing. And he’d have known I would kick his trash afterward.”
Devin clears his throat, bringing our attention back to him.
“Who is Jake?”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
I pound the punching bag, one-two-hook, one-two-hook. My frustration grows with each hit scored. Normally this exercise brings me clarity and intentionality, but today it’s just another amplifier for my whirlwind emotions.
“You could give the bag a break.” Caro’s voice comes from behind me. “I don’t think you’re really mad at it anyway.”
“It’s hard to punch the concept of matching in the face, though,” I say, panting as I lean against the large bag.
Caro picks up a boxing pad with straps across the back and motions me over to a nearby mat. I follow, grabbing my mitts on the way.
“You don’t know that this match will be terrible,” she says. “Maybe it will be wonderful, a true mating of the souls. He’ll understand you and your ideals and your reticence, and you’ll find things about him to adore.” She motions me forward.
“If he doesn’t take me away from everything I love and value, from here where I’m needed so desperately.” I strike the pad lightly a few times, not wishing to knock my friend over. It’s unsatisfying.
“We need you, true. But you need to allow happiness a chance to flourish in your life. You have meaningful connections to these women, to Jake. But you need something more, I think.
A tall, curvy brunette walks up to us, interrupting the exercise. “I’m so sorry, Elizabeth.” Sharon touches my shoulder. “I wish I could help somehow. Let me know if you need anything. I hope we’ll still see you around here some. You’ve made a huge difference.” She walks away without another word.
Sharon has a husband at home, her match. She doesn’t go home to him every night. Some nights she stays here with me, if he’s had a bad day or he’s been drinking. At first his abuse was strictly verbal, but soon he found that he liked slapping her around; it made him feel powerful and in control.
He didn’t like it when she started standing up to him, defending herself. He just got more violent. When she asked him to go with her to marriage counseling, he beat her nearly to death. So she tried to make herself small, unnoticeable, thinking that if she did nothing to make him angry, he would leave her alone. That only worked for a little while. And because they’re matched, he feels secure that she won’t ever leave him. Even so, he’s threatened to kill her if she tries.
We’ve slowly been building her confidence back up at the gym, and we have a plan for when things get really bad again. Technically, divorce is an option, but it’s prohibitively expensive. We’ve been secretly saving up to get her one. Hopefully we’ll reach our goal before he finds out about it.
I throw a few more punches, really getting into it, pretending the punching mat is Sharon’s husband. I’d like to get my hands on him.
After a moment, another woman clears her throat behind me. I drop my arms and turn to face her. Tara grabs both my shoulders and bounces lightly as she squeals.
I’ve started to really hate that noise.
“You’ve matched, you’ve matched!” she cries. “And who would have thought; you get the greatest prize of them all. I’ve always said you deserve the best happiness life can give you, and here’s your chance!” She wraps me in a big hug, expresses her hope that I’ll still remember them when I’m a part of the upper crust, and walks back to where she’d been lifting free weights.
I watch her thoughtfully as she goes. Tara’s fiance died after they’d been matched for two years, long before I knew her. She never told me exactly what he’d done to her, but her focus is on becoming strong so it can’t happen again. It’s surprising that she is so excited about my match.
Several more women come one at a time or in pairs to give me their congratulations or condolences, and a pattern begins to emerge. Most of the women who are thrilled for me are widowed, or the equivalent, and are hopeful that their reincarnated match will bring them happiness after more than twenty-five years of solitude. The ones who commiserate with me are the women who are still tied to their living abusive matches. They know and remember what it is to be tied to a soulmate who is not a good person, and they don’t want me to share their same fate. Perhaps they hope that Devin will be one of the good ones, but they are all too aware of how badly the soulmate bond can mess with your life.
All of them think this means I’ll be leaving.
“Why do so many women think I should be thrilled at matching?” I ask Caro. “They know how I feel about it in general.”
“It’s not just the idea of you matching that has them excited for you.” Caro’s face is shielded by the pad, which muffles her response. “It’s who you matched with that they think you should be happy about. Not every woman gets to have the most eligible bachelor in the city for their soulmate.”
I throw another series of jabs. A drop of sweat trickles down my temple. I wipe it away with my arm.
“It doesn’t matter how handsome or rich he is,” I say. “Matching at all is awful. If you just received the information and were left to form your own opinions about it, that would be fine, but the way people become almost
compelled
to be with their matches…” I shake my head.
Caroline lowers the pad and I barely miss punching her in the face.
“Whoa there,” she says. “Watch the merchandise; some of us still want to match, and nobody will get close enough to me to find out if we’re soulmates if I have a battered face.”
“Sorry,” I mutter. I remove my mitts, then grab my water bottle from the floor next to our mat and take a swig. I welcome the refreshing coolness of the water as it courses down my throat.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad for you,” she says. “The matching, I mean, if he’s everything he’s supposed to be, shouldn’t he want you to do what makes you happy?”
“And how did that work out for you last time?”
Caro’s former husband forbade her from leaving the house except to run certain errands, like buying groceries. Then he would hit her every night after he came home late from “celebrating” at the local bar with his friends, who only tolerated him as long as he spent his paycheck on their rounds. One night, he didn’t come home. She assumed he was sleeping it off in a booth at the bar and sent a prayer of thanks to the stars that he hadn’t come home drunk. When two police officers appeared at her door bearing the news that Kade wouldn’t be coming home ever again, she wept tears of gratitude. That was twenty-six years ago.
“It will be different this time,” she says. “Kade’s soul, when reincarnated, will have the advantage of a different family life. He may be the sweet version of himself that I got whenever he wasn’t drunk.”
“That’s an awfully big ‘if.’ What if he’s even worse this time around? Surely you can’t blame his family for everything he did to you.
“You’re right, I can’t blame them for everything,” she says. “But I do know that I had two different Kades, and the mean one came out when the memories got bad.”
“You mean when he was drinking.”
“When he drank to drown the memories,” she corrects me.
Somebody clears their throat behind me, and I paste a smile onto my face, ready to greet whoever wanted to congratulate me this time.
I turn and bump into six feet of pure muscle. I look up into a dark, clean-shaven face framed by black curls. His eyes are so dark, they’re almost black.
“Hiya, Jake,” comes Caro’s chipper voice behind me.