Page 13 of Entwined

“California. You were supposed to text and wait for me on the boat.” He flips the open sign to closed and turns the lock. “Sorry, Yaya. The café needs to stay closed today. Your guest, who had temporary amnesia is about to have a miraculous recovery.”

“So, that’s how we are going to spin it?”

“Yes,” he shrugs, “make me one, too.” He winks as he pulls out a chair and sits. “Where’s my fresh baklava? I’m hungry Yaya…Jessie and I need to talk.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she fires back in Greek. “Go bake it yourself.”

He arches an eyebrow.

“I was once a young woman…I-I loved…. experienced passion. Nothing Jessie says could shock me.”

“No. I can’t picture my grandma that way.” His face prunes up.

I roll my eyes deciding to just rip off the band-aid. “Christos drugged me right here about three tables over. Then he kidnapped me, brought me to England and kept me prisoner. He faked my death. Told my parents I fell overboard the Oasis. We had crazy hate sex. I loved him, hated him. Wanted him, craved him…like a drug. And hated myself for that until somewhere under the gray British skies I accepted my new fate. We fell into a fucked-up relationship, pretending our love was normal,” I break off, collecting myself, “…that we could just become this normal couple in love. But we couldn’t. He saw that a mile away. I didn’t. Or I stubbornly refused. I wanted to stay with him—marry him even. But he dumped me the day after Christmas. I woke up alone with nothing but a note and the ghost of him haunting my heart.”

Andre doesn’t miss a beat. “Is that all? I was expecting worse.”

My face reddens, “No. That’s not all. But the rest stays between him and me.”

Yaya’s silent as she digests my words. She sips from her mug then places a hand on my arm. “You love this man? This devil?”

“I do.”

“What he did to you is between him and God. It isn’t for me to judge. The heart… the heart is a fickle thing. It writes its own rules… chooses who it wants to belong to. It can’t be controlled.”

“No. No it can’t,” I reply staring at the spot on the floor where I dropped the tray of dishes I was clearing that night when Christos came here and captured me.

Andre pinches the bridge of his nose and then reaches inside his satchel. He pulls a thick folder out, laying it on the table. He slides out charts, medical records, notes and pictures.

“What’s all this?”

“Your new truth. This…,” he points to a weathered old boat, “is the fishing boat that scooped you out of the Aegean. These...,” he rifles through sheets of paper with barely legible notes in Greek, “are the records from the doctor who examined you.”

“What? How…” I trail off stunned by the forgery and sheer boldness of what he’s done for me.

He shrugs, “WhenEl Diabloleft the Med… he left holes. Some needed filling. I know people. Dimitri gave me more connections. I’m self-made.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, my grandson ismafía.” She pushes her chair back, muttering in Greek, gesturing wildly with her hands.

“Oh Andre? What have you done? Why? Did you pay all these people off? Are they in your pocket?”

He shrugs, slipping the papers back inside the folder. “I did what I needed… to survive. To provide for my family, just as I always have. But don’t worry California—I’m the good bad guy.”

I suck in a deep breath, “When do I come back to life?”

“Tomorrow. Today we prepare for your resurrection.”

---