"Is that what you do?" I asked. "You delight in life? Seriously? Working for Mike?”
A haunted expression crosses his face, and I know no matter what he says, he isn’t always delighting in life. Sometimes, he’s just surviving it as well.
“Then maybe," I say. "Maybe I'm just surviving my bad decisions."
“Athena.”
I slowly turn my head and look into his captivating blue eyes. All earlier signs of playfulness are gone, replaced by an unwavering seriousness, but still somehow underscored by his usual gentleness.
“We call it ‘the past’ for a reason,” he says. “Let it go.”
“It’s not a button you can just press. It’s there. In my head. It’s me.” I run my fingers through my own hair. “I see it when I look in the mirror. I hear it at night when it’s quiet. I feel it. Always.”
“And it’ll always be there. Our past is part of who we are, but it doesn’t control our future. It doesn’t dictate who we become.”
He’s right, and my head understands, but how did one go about convincing the heart?
“If you’d let me go, I could start over easy,” I say.
He shakes his head. “That’s the thing about pasts: You can’t run from them. You have to accept them as part of you and move on.”
“You act like you you’re talking from experience,” I say. “What could you possibly know about pasts? What deep dark secrets have you accepted?”
A haunted look flickers across his expression. He works for Mike, I tell myself. That in and of itself is dark enough. There’s no telling what he’s been a part of in the last few years.
“There are parts of me so deep and dark, I didn’t visit them for the longest time.” His voice is low and tinged with sadness. “But it was only by visiting them, looking them full in the face and accepting they would never go away, that I was able to move past them.”
His exposed grief at whatever it was he accepted leaves a lump in my throat.
“Hello, my name is Athena and I’m a hooker?” I ask in a halfhearted way to lighten the mood and bring back the teasing. I can’t handle deep and dark right now. I just can’t. I can barely handle my own past, I can’t take on his, too.
His mouth quirks up at the corner. “It’s been known to work.”
“First support group I find for whores, I’ll join, then.” I take a sip of water.
A strong hand stops mine. “Look at me. Stop thinking about yourself as some thing. As some commodity to be bartered and sold. Rented by the hour.” His hand slides up, and he cups my face. “You are a beautiful, strong woman. What’ll it take to make you believe it?”
“I don’t know,” I said, mesmerized by this change, this new, almost raw, Harris.
For several long minutes, we sit still. I am acutely aware of him. His presence almost overwhelms me, and I realize with a shock I’m not flinching at his touch. The fingers on my face are gentle and spark something inside me. I tremble at this new feeling.
“I’m sorry.” He drops his hand, and though he probably thinks I didn’t like his touch, I don’t correct him. It’s much easier that way, to pretend I didn’t like it when in actuality, I wanted more.
“I should probably go get dinner started. You’re welcome to stay out here if you’d like.”
I find it rather lonely without Harris. His backyard is nice and fenced in. I can easily picture a dog running around with Harris playing catch. I hear something from inside the house and I realize Harris is humming.
Fascinated, I go back into the house. He’s in the kitchen making some sort of pasta. When was the last time I heard someone hum? He looks up, catching me watching him, and gives me a wink. I hastily glance away, and then I chide myself for being childish.
To stop myself from doing it again, I take a tour of his living room. Plus, I want to see if I can find out any more information about him. The only personal touch I can find is a set of photos on an end table. They all have the same young girl in them. She looks maybe twelve or so, and the resemblance between her and Harris is striking.
“Is this your daughter?” I ask.
“What?” He pops his head out of the kitchen and sees what’s in my hand. “No, that’s my sister.”
Of course, that makes sense. “Does she live around here?”
A peculiar look of sadness transforms his expression, and I’m sorry I said anything because I really enjoyed his humming.
“She died when she was fourteen.”
“Oh, no. I’m sorry...I didn’t....” It’s one of those awkward conversations I never learned how to handle. I add socially inept to my list of faults.
“No need to apologize. I keep her picture out because it helps me remember.”
I nod. Of course he’d want to remember his sister, but it sounded like there was more to it than just that. “What do the pictures help you remember?”
“Who I am.”
And who are you, Caden Harris? I want to say. The more I get to know, the more I see he has so many layers to him. Seeing him in his house, humming and making dinner, there’s no way I can also see him as Mike’s main henchman. The two aren’t compatible.
And yet, he’s worked for Mike for over two years.
“Why would you forget?” I ask.
It’s not the question he’s expecting. I get the impression he wants to tell me something badly, but instead he shakes his head and smiles. “No time for twenty questions if you want to eat tonight. Pasta’s not going to cook itself.”
He goes back into the kitchen, but I can’t help but notice he’s not humming anymore.
***
My first few days with Harris are easy. We don’t discuss his sister or my past anymore. Instead, our conversations are light. It’s altogether unsettling how quickly I forget who he is when I’m in his presence. I’m sure he must be keeping in contact with Mike somehow, but he never does so in front of me.
A few days after my arrival, he sheepishly hands me new clothes, assuring me they aren’t the ones from the trunk. I thank him and carry them to my room. I hang them up carefully, stopping only when I get to the green sundress I never went back to pick up. I decide to wear that one first, and I put it on before heading downstairs.
Harris is working on his laptop in the living room, but he looks up and gives a nod of satisfaction when I enter. “Green does look good on you.”
“How did you know?”
“I had to keep an eye on you.”
I put my hands on my hips. “So you could report back to Mike?”
He stops typing completely and looks up, holding my attention for several long seconds before answering. “To keep you safe.”
It’s the same thing he always says, and I wonder how many times I’ll have to hear it before I believe it. Is there even a number that high?
He’s so easy to believe here in his house, but all I have to do is picture him next to Mike and all my trust in him disappears.
“I want to,” I tell him. “I want so badly to believe you.”
“I know.”
From anyone else, it would have sounded conceited, but it doesn’t when he says it.
“I know because I want as well,” he says.
“What do you want?”
He shakes his head. “I have to get back to work. Did the rest of the clothes fit?”
“I only tried this one on, but I’m sure the others will.” I swallow. “Thank you.”
His focus is already back on his laptop. “You’re welcome.”
It’s not much later when he comes looking for me. I’m in the kitchen, looking through his cabinets, trying to find something to fix for lunch.
“Athena.”
There’s a catch in his voice, and I suspect I’m not going to like what he has to say. My knees wobble, but I force myself to be calm. He’d told me he’d keep me safe, and I’d told him I’d trust him. This is a test. I have to believe in something, it might as well be him.
“Yes.” My voice doesn’t convey the fear I feel.
“It’s happening sooner than I anticipated. Mike wants to have a video conference tomorrow.”
We hadn’t even discussed what those would encompass, but just the words Mike and video conference have me feeling like I’ve been punched in the gut.