Page 16 of Adrift

But I swear I saw . . .. I turn to survey the kitchen again and breathe a sigh of relief when I find what I’m searching for–the fancy coffee maker. “Oh, thank God. I thought you were one of those aliens who don’t drink coffee.”

“I am. I mean, I don’t. The coffee machine is for my mom.”

I shake my head in mock disappointment. “It’s not right, Darian. It’s just plain blasphemy.” I look back at Arman in my arms, bouncing him. He grins, showing me his top tooth. “This kind of craziness should be a crime . . . or a misdemeanor, at least.”

Shaking his head, Darian turns on his heels, but not before I notice the smile on his face. Arman and I follow him as he shows me the rest of the downstairs–his study and a powder room–before we head upstairs.

“This will be your room,” he states, opening the door to a small but cozy bedroom with a four-poster queen bed covered in white sheets and comforter. Thin white curtains line the sides of a large window with a view of the pines outside. Like the rest of the house, each room seems to have minimal touches of color. This one has hints of green–the artwork on the wall and the overstuffed reading chair.

“This is perfect. Thank you,” I reply softly, noting the en-suite bathroom and the bouquet of white lilies blooming brightly inside a pretty white vase on top of the chest of drawers. I can’t help but wonder if he got them for me? I shun the thought as soon as it enters. Ridiculous. His mom stayed with him often enough that he got a coffee maker for her, so the flowers were probably for her, too.

Darian turns to walk us through Arman’s nursery, and I admire the giraffe theme–from the wallpaper to the lamp and bedding–noting several vintage accent pieces strewn around the room. There’s also a changing table and a rocking chair on the other side of his crib, along with a shelf containing tons of children’s books.

Arman babbles, spitting out a couple of incomprehensible syllables, and I nuzzle my nose into his cheek. “Is this your room, little man? It’s adorable, just like you.”

“Sonia decorated most of it,” Darian states, finding my questioning gaze. I thought he told me she never lived here? “This was one of the first rooms we made sure was ready after we had the keys to the house.”

I swivel my gaze around the room once more with the new knowledge of my sister having touched it, having envisioned it, and finding her personality shine throughout it. It’s strange that it’s in a baby’s bedroom that I find my sister again. A tinge of grief pricks my chest as I envision her carefully choosing each item, nesting, and preparing for the little boy in my arms. I imagine her sitting on the rocking chair with her large pregnant belly, whispering her hopes and dreams to the baby inside.

Finding Darian’s gaze again, I feel the press of tears behind my eyelids. His frown tells me he’s reading my thoughts. “In her last few days, he’s all she thought about. He’s the only thing we seemed to agree on.” His voice sounds rougher before he lets out a soft brusque laugh. “He was the only hope we had . . ..”

I stand there speechless, with Arman’s small hand fisting a lock of my hair, staring at my brother-in-law with questions written all over my face. What does that mean? Why was this baby their only hope? “Darian, I don’t–”

Darian shakes his head, as if he’s jolting himself out of memories. His brows rise before they pinch like he’s just realized what he said. He gestures to Arman. “Let me take him off your hands. He’s heavy and you probably need a break from carrying him.” He takes the baby from my arms, combing my nephew’s silky dark locks back before turning his attention to me. “Come on, let’s get back downstairs. I’m sure you’re hungry. We can grab lunch and talk about Arman’s day-to-day routine.”

Swallowing down a mix of emotions and fiddling with the velcro around my left wrist, I follow Darian back down the stairs.

I don’t miss the creases around his eyes before he turns around or the heaviness in his steps as he makes his way downstairs. I don’t miss the way he seems to pitch himself into the past as fast as he hurls himself back to the present, living in two time periods but unable to grasp on to either.

And I definitely don’t miss the fact that he never showed me his room.

Chapter Six

Darian

I grab the large bowl of the Chinese chicken and mandarin salad I’d prepared while Arman was napping from the fridge, along with the dressing. I’d taken the day off today–getting paperwork and receipts sorted in the morning from home, and letting Olivia and Greg handle things at the school.

The cold air from the fridge wafts over my damn-near simmering skin before I close it and place the bowl on the counter a little harder than I’d intended.

Fuck, why does it feel so hot in here?

“Can I help you with anything?” Rani’s voice pulls me from my task. She eyes the bowl. “Ooh! That looks yummy!”

I look back down to finish my task. “I hope you eat chicken . . .. Fuck, I should have asked before I mixed all this in. I’m sorry. I have other things I can put together if you can’t eat this.”

She comes to stand near me, replacing the scent of the mandarin oranges with lilies under my nose. “I love chicken, and what you have looks delicious.”

She reaches up to open the cabinet above me where I’d told her the plates were earlier. Her arm brushes against mine, sending a familiar but forgotten current zipping through my veins and making me take a step back to give us both some space.

“Sorry,” she whispers before grabbing the plates and following me to the dining room.

I already have the lavash Mom made, along with some lemonade set on the table. Rani sits down next to Arman, who’s happily stuffing fistfuls of macaroni into his mouth, watching her every move like she’s some sort of a fairy or nymph.

She’d certainly make a damn good one in real life . . . if there were such a thing.

Since the minute I met her again only a couple of days ago, she’s been throwing some kind of damn fairy dust everywhere, even where it shouldn’t be.

“Oh, God. I’m so hungry!” She scoots her chair in, sitting in front of me, and I serve her some salad before she lifts the basket of lavash my way, silently offering it to me. I take a piece before we both dig in.

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