Page 17 of Severed Heart

“I will. I’m not afraid to tell him what I want.”

She smiles. “Always so sure of everything. I admire you for that. Are you not scared at all?”

“What is there to fear?”

“So much,” she says, “but maybe I won’t worry too much for you. I believe you scare even Abijah sometimes.”

We both laugh and spend the rest of the day together until I know I must leave to prepare to sneak away tomorrow.

After promising her no less than a dozen times to write—with the decision that I address my letters to Celine’s best friend to keep them from Abijah’s reach—she finally frees me. Kneeling next to Ezekiel at the top of her apartment stairs, they both wave me off. Celine’s tears fall freely as Ezekiel calls after me. “Au revoir, Tatie!”

“Au revoir, Ézéchiel.” Goodbye, Ezekiel.

The image of the two of them on the top of those stairs imprints in my mind and heart as I roll the lit part of my cigarette along the curve of the ashtray. In that moment, I vow to keep Celine in my life. Aside from Papa and now Alain, Celine is the only other person who has ever accepted me exactly as I am. As I catch a glimpse of the ocean out of the window past the snoring man, I feel little remorse for my decision to leave. My gut telling me they won’t be far behind.

In hours, I’ll have a home and husband. I’ll have a purpose, and we won’t have to hide our love, nor will I from who I truly am. I can finally rid my life of the ruffles and the lie of being a little girl with a woman’s mind and start my true life as a soldier and wife.

My heart beats faster at that knowledge as the flight attendant stops her cart next to me, eyeing my cigarette and dress.

“How long to airport?” I ask.

“We have about three hours left. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Vodka. No ice. Merci.”

She pauses. “Vodka?”

“I am”—I briefly struggle to find the English word—“celebrates. I marry tomorrow.”

“Oh? Congratulations, I’ll get that drink for you.” When I have my vodka in hand and the attendant moves to the next passenger, Janet lifts a brow at me.

“You know, I’m not worried about you at all. You’re going to be just fine, but I am a little worried for your fiancé.”

I laugh at her joke, but Alain knows how to handle me when I get too cross.

My love.

For years, I had to make him see me as the woman I am. Not Celine’s little sister or a little girl, but as an equal and soldier. For years, he denied me, but all the waiting has proven worth it. Soon, we will be together the way real couples are together. Physically, intimately, and completely. Hours until I become his—entirely his.

My heart pounds as the minutes pass, and I drink down the vodka in celebration of the new life that awaits me.

Chapter Six

TYLER

US PRESIDENT: GEORGE W. BUSH | 2001–2009

“FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, Regina,stop!” Dad snaps at Mom for her tears as he packs his duffle while I pace in my room, making noise here and there so they assume I’m busy. I’ve already cleaned it to the point that I could eat chow from the floor and ensure my bed sheets passed the quarter bounce test. A lecture I’d been given when Dad returned from his last deployment.

“If you can’t figure out how to properly make your own bed, Son, how in the fuck do you expect to defend your country?”

For days on end, I spent my free time trying to get the sheets tight enough for the quarter to bounce—which was nowhere near as easy as I thought it would be. When I’d pulled Dad into my room to show him, instead of giving me the proud grin I’ve come to expect, he’d whispered a sarcastic “congratulations,” rolled his eyes, and walked out of the room.

As he stalked out, for the first time ever, I felt something bordering hate for him, or at least that side of him. Last year and in the years prior, he’d taken me hunting every chance he got and spent hours on end prepping me for my own time in the service. He didn’t stop there, teaching me mechanical basics, including fixing the plumbing, air conditioner, and other things to help ‘spruce up the house’ and maintain it.

This year, it had been the opposite. He just expected me to know things—to have figured them out for myself. Not only that, but he also seemed to be weighing my intelligence and worth on whether I could figure them out on my own. I was thankful when, more often than not, I could.

“Excuses are for the lazy and weak,”he’d said when I failed, all patience gone—for me, for Mom, for my uncles, and his oldest friends. They stopped coming around when he got home this time, and I can’t blame them. He argued with them every chance he got, and when they weren’t arguing, he’d start one.