I’m adding my deceptive twin brother to the list of people I need to have long, hard conversations with, but today isn’t his day. Today and for however long it takes, I face my demons in Louisiana.
He parks the SUV he borrowed from Kingston and insists on walking me to the security checkpoint. I don’t argue with him, and honestly, it takes everything I have not to ask him to accompany me all the way back to Louisiana.
“Ma and Pa will be at the airport to pick you up,” he tells me as he pulls the strap of my duffel bag off his shoulder.
I take the strap, shouldering the weight, and really look at my brother for the first time since I was rescued. He’s older than I remember, my memories from over ten years ago still trying to accept this new man in front of me.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
He lifts his arms like he wants to hug me, and I really need that from him, but his arms drop as a weak smile tugs up the corners of his mouth.
“Be safe,” he says as he takes a step back. “Text me and let me know when you land, and also when Ma and Pa find you.”
I nod my agreement, but I have to turn around and walk away when I feel tears burning the back of my eyes. If I start crying now, I know I’ll never stop, and I don’t think United would let a hysterical woman on their plane.
I make it through security without issue, and even though I’m starving, I arrow to my gate, unable to stand in a food line with people behind me. I find a quiet corner at the empty gate across from mine and settle in. My phone burns in my back pocket with the need to text Ryan and tell him where I am, but I’m sure Max will give him all the details. What scares me the most, what keeps me from reaching out to him is fear of hearing the relief in his voice when I tell him that I’m going home. I’ve impeded on his life too much as it is, but it doesn’t stop me from missing him. It’s only been twelve hours since I’ve seen his face, but it feels like a million years.
The plane ride is smooth, other than the shaky takeoff and landing, and I mentally commend myself for handling it as well as I did while I walk through the New Orleans airport. My face is stoic, and I refuse to look anyone in the eye as I make my way to the pickup area. I fell for a smiling face once, and I’ll never make that mistake again, even if it means sacrificing pleasantries and common courtesy.
Airport traffic is thankfully calm, most people having traveled for the holidays are already back home and working on this Wednesday afternoon.
I fake a smile when I see my mother waiting by the curb when I exit.
“Where’s Pa?”
People swarm around us, and I should feel safe in public, but I don’t. Any one of the people walking around us could mean to do us harm, so I press my back to one of the huge concrete pillars and keep a vigilant eye on the crowd.
“He had to drive around. I got out because I didn’t want to miss you,” she explains.
I want to scoff and tell her that it’s not like I’d leave with someone else if they weren’t there the second I walked outside, but I can see her actions for the blessing that they are. The old me would’ve called her crazy, but the old me hadn’t been taken and tortured for seven weeks.
“Thank you,” I tell her.
She wraps her arms around me, and as much as I want to sink into her embrace, I keep my eyes open, all the time wondering what I look like to strangers. Most likely, they see me as an unappreciative asshole. I know I would’ve thought that if I saw a daughter getting hugged by a loved one who is looking anywhere but at the one with her arms around them.
I smile down at her for a brief moment when she steps back and brushes something off the shoulder of my jacket.
My dad pulls up to the curb and blares the horn. I know he thinks that acting impatient and hustling us along will look good to the airport security guard directing traffic and making sure people aren’t sitting and waiting for their passengers to step outside. He’s been a United States citizen for decades, but he still fears that ICE will pop out of nowhere and cart him back to Mexico.
An unplanned smile stretches across my face when my mother mutters curse words about impatient men under her breath. My dad’s thumbs are tapping on the steering wheel as we climb inside, and I know every other second, he’s darting his eyes toward the security guard. I chuckle as I belt myself in, knowing he won’t pull away until we’re all obeying the law.
If only his diligence had kept me from being taken.
I clear my throat, pushing thoughts like that away.
I want to do what Ryan insisted in our first conversation before the last raids. I want to forgive myself fully. I want to believe that getting taken wasn’t truly my fault, but I know that’s going to take more time.
“Gonna drop you and Ma off at the house, and then I’ll go grocery shopping. We didn’t have time to get all of your favorite foods. This was an unexpected visit,” my dad says, never taking his eyes off the road.
“I’d like to go to my apartment first,” I tell him as I watch other cars zip past us, going at least ten miles over the speed limit.
“Oh,” Mom snaps. “We forgot to tell Jason you were coming.”
I start to tell her that she doesn’t need to, but her fingers are working over the keys on her cell phone like she was born with it in her hands.
It’s only a ten-minute drive to the apartment I shared with Jason, and I insist they stay in the car while I go up to grab a few things. I realize my mistake when I get to the third floor. I don’t have keys. I didn’t even have my ID when I was found, but somehow, I ended up with a new copy. The only cash I have is what Max shoved in my hand before we went inside the Durango airport.
Taking my chances, even though it’s still too early for Jason to be home, I lift my hand and knock.
Surprisingly the door swings up. Only it’s a woman with a smile melting from her face instead of Jason.
She’s gorgeous with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes, and she’s clearly comfortable in this space because she’s not wearing shoes.
“Mia?”
My brows draw together when she says my name. How does she know my name when I’ve never seen her before in my life, and that’s saying something because Jason and I have been together for many years.
“Is Jason home?” I’m surprised when no emotion marks my tone.
I feel nothing standing here looking at her in what I used to consider my own home.
“He’s not back from work yet,” she says as she steps to the side. “Please come in.”
I waiver for a while, not sure if I’d be safe closed in the apartment alone with her, but I shove it all down and step inside anyway.
The TV plays a sitcom in the background as I walk into the living room. She lives here with him, and that’s clear from the change in décor. There’s a woman’s touch here that is different from my own.
“I’m Cynthia,” she says as she holds her hand out.
I take it, shaking it like a normal person does when a hand is offered, but inside my mind is spinning, wondering why I don’t care that she’s in my space, and then it dawns on me. This isn’t my space. It hasn’t been for months.
But this does explain why Jason was so eager to get home when I was hospitalized.
“Mia, but you already know that.”