An older man in a crisp tux approached, smiling widely. “Zak, great to see you,” he said, reaching out and shaking Zakai’s hand.
“Jake. Great to be here. This is Karys Grant. Karys, Jake Madsen.”
“Nice to meet you, Karys,” the devastatingly handsome older man said. He glanced behind him as a woman walked up, beautiful in a peacock-colored gown, her dark hair swept away from her lovely face. “This is my wife, Evie.”
“Hi, Karys,” she said. “Zak has told us so much about you. And of course, I’ve read all of your books. They’re wonderful.”
I looked down, feeling shy. “Thank you. That means so much coming from another author.”
She smiled humbly. “You’re too kind.”
“Karys,” Zakai said, “Jake was going to introduce me to some donors. Will you be okay if I leave you with Evie for a few minutes?”
“Oh, yes.” I glanced at Evie, not wanting her to feel as if she had to babysit me. “But it isn’t necessary that—"
“I’ll take good care of her,” she said, leaning up and kissing her husband on the cheek. “Go.”
“Come with me.” She smiled, turning and leading me away from the patio. “I’ll show you the garden. It’s magnificent—a small park actually.” I followed her, through the guests chatting and sipping flutes of champagne, around the house and down a short set of steps.
“Oh my goodness,” I said, stepping down the final step and surveying the beautifully unexpected space.
“I’m told it’s an English garden,” Evie said, smiling as she nodded toward the hedges and rows of flowers interspersed with fountains and stone benches. “But I have to admit that as a city girl, I don’t know much of anything about gardening.”
I smiled back. “Whatever it’s called, it’s beautiful,” I said, walking forward, my fingers running over the velvety leaves of a large blue and purple flower. “It’s very different and yet . . . the beauty reminds me of where Zakai and I grew up.” I blushed, looking away. “I’m sure he’s mentioned—"
“Yes,” Evie said, laying her hand on my arm momentarily as she walked beside me. “He’s told us. My husband and I grew up in a dismal situation too.” Despite her words, a gentle smile graced her lips. “I’m a child who aged out of the foster care system.” She swept her hand around, indicating the formal garden and the mansion beyond. “I never in a million years dreamed I’d be standing in a place like this. Not only this garden but this life. The people who own this home, they have a lot, but they want to share it with those who don’t. We’ve made it our life’s work to surround ourselves with people just like them.”
“Like Zakai,” I murmured.
“Zakai is more like us than the financial donors.” She smiled over at me. “My husband and I have been lucky in that we have the means to give back too, but we’re also made more complete by the work. Zakai is going to be a wonderful asset to our larger team and I believe he’s already come to understand how much healing supporting those in the position you were once in can bring.”
We’re also made more complete by the work.
“Zakai hasn’t mentioned exactly what he’ll be doing,” I said.
“Well,” Evie answered. “Zakai has particular knowledge of what it’s like to be trafficked. Many come to our organizations reeling from a rescue. Zakai has met several times with a rescue team who work out of Las Vegas.” A small frown marred her brow. “They’ve communicated the difficulties of finding appropriate long-term housing for people who have such specific needs.”
I exhaled a long breath, thinking about what Zakai had told me about the house he had lived in when we’d first arrived in New York City, the things he’d experienced that I had had no knowledge of. Reeling was the word Evie had used and it was appropriate. I thought, too, about my uncle and the betrayal I’d felt. As devastating as that situation had been, how would I have fared if I’d been placed in a similar situation to Zakai? Repeatedly attacked by a stranger intent on overpowering me? Not well, my mind whispered.
“The work you do is so important,” I said softly. “I’m very glad Zakai is involved.”
Evie glanced at me and though I didn’t look her way, I sensed her assessing me. “Zakai’s told us a little about what happened when you both moved here,” she said gently.
My shoulders sagged and I sat on a bench next to where we walked. Evie took a seat beside me, turning my way, her eyes filled with concern and kindness. “It’s such a mess, Evie. It’s all such a giant mess.” And I can’t even begin to tell you the extent.
Evie reached out, taking my hand and squeezing it. “I was very much like you growing up, Karys. A dreamer. I suppose it’s no wonder we both turned out to be storytellers. Though admittedly, my stories are nowhere near as well-crafted or detailed as yours.” She laughed softly.
A dreamer. Was that what I’d been? Or was that just a prettier way to say I’d been willfully ignorant? “Sometimes I think I just lived in a fantasyland,” I said, feeling empty.
Evie gave my hand another squeeze. “No. You saw beauty where others did not. It’s a strength, sweet girl. Not a weakness. Zakai has expressed to us that it was part of what kept his soul alive. You were his dreamer when he forgot how to dream.”
Oh God.
Maybe that was true. But I also had to acknowledge that Zakai had made concessions for me since he was a child. He’d always been a fighter and yet he’d tempered his fight. Because of me. His dreamer. The one who had always clung to safety in lieu of freedom. The one who had chosen comfort over courage. Perhaps loving me for those qualities had kept part of him alive, but perhaps it had caused part of him to die as well. Because he’d fought for me, but he’d stopped fighting for himself.
If I’d been his dreamer when he’d forgotten how to dream, he’d been my champion when I lacked the will to fight.
Our parting had been filled with pain and desperation, and yet, ironically, we’d only learned how to regain the qualities we’d handed over to the other, when we’d found ourselves alone.
The picture was becoming even clearer the more I stepped away. And yet . . . I didn’t want to step away. Not from Zakai. Not from who we’d once been, or who we might be now . . . together.
I’m learning to like the mess. I think it’s the heart of the story.
“I’ve loved him my whole life,” I said sorrowfully. “I never could figure out how to let him go. And now, I don’t think I want to.”
“I relate,” Evie said, a wry smile tilting her lips.
“How do we move past it all?” I asked. Is it even possible?
“I don’t think it’s about moving past it all. I think it’s about learning and growing and finding a way to become better versions of yourself because of, not in spite of, what you experienced. It’s about finding a way to incorporate all your experiences—good and bad. Because you wouldn’t be where you are right this minute if not for each and every step you’ve taken along the way.” She paused. “It’s also a decision to forgive the missteps of the other. A choice. It doesn’t always come easily as there are some things that are extremely difficult to forgive. But there is a freedom of the heart when you’re released from the darkness that unforgiveness creates. A burden that’s lifted. And I think that’s what forgiveness entails: letting go of the hold the hatred or disappointment or hurt has created.” She smiled softly. “So some of us have to fight harder for our happily ever after. But it makes it all the sweeter once you get there, I promise,” she said with such intense conviction in her voice it made my breath stall.