God, I Used to Have a Normal Life

I glanced at him the way one glances at all passerbys, with a fleeting, hopeful interest that will be forgotten by the end of the block. But in a second, his face comes to me, hovering, impossibly, above the coat collar of a strange man, no, not strange, it’s him. In a moment, the sounds of the street come rushing back, filling up all the space for thoughts. “Owen -”

He gives me a tight-lipped, nervous smile. “Camila.”

My knees buckle under me. He grabs me, solid, alive, holding my weight. He smells of snow, and underneath, the same cologne, long since faded from the top right drawer of my dresser.

“It’s ok. Come on, I don’t want to be seen.”

I stagger to my feet. “What?”

He puts his arm around me, tugging me down the street.

“Wait. No.” I yank my arm free. “What the hell?”

“Not here.” He mutters, glancing around at the morning traffic on the street. “Come on.” An arm around my waist, we round the corner, ducking into a dirty convenience mart. The woman behind the counter looks unconcernedly at us.

“Let go of me.” I hiss, twisting free.

“Camila. Camila, look at me.”

“What?”I turn and step into one of the aisles, pretending to look at a display of magazines. “Abducting me on my way to work now? But oh wait - I’m sorry, there’s something more important, you were dead.”

He follows me. “Shit, Camila, I’m sorry, please, just listen.”

“The last time I saw you was at your funeral.”

“Camila, come on.”

That November, the cabin we rented in Briham, it’s so vivid. Our terse conversations fractured into arguments at the slightest breath. I had shouted myself hoarse and hot, yanking off the jacket I had not even had time to remove, and left it on the floor. As I drove away, slushy flakes of snow, the first of the year, fell like tears across the windshield, impatiently brushed away by the brusque wipers. His car was T-boned at the connection to the highway, my jacket in the passenger seat, untouched. “Damn it Owen, four years.” I toss my head. “Four years.”

He takes a breath. “I know.”

On the magazine covers, the faces frozen in fake smiles smirk up at me. This is the sort of thing that happens in their lives. Not mine. “Four years and you’re alive. What the hell do you want?”

“I swear, I can explain. Come here - after work. Wear something nice.” He pulls an envelope out of his jacket pocket, and holds it out to me. “You don’t know the whole story. I didn’t have a choice.” He steps closer, I can feel his breath on my face. “There were people after me. You knew that. I had to disappear.” The envelope trembles slightly. “The less you knew the better - but please - Camila, now I need you.”

I turn in surprise. We search each other’s eyes for a moment. Not once in the years we dated did I hear that phrase from him. Once, he refused to ask for directions when we got lost on the way to the coast.

A new scar sits above his left eyebrow. My fingers lift, as if on a string, aching to brush over that scar, over his face, that face I thought I’d never see again. Suddenly, my hand collides with the paper. I look down in surprise, and grasp the envelope, as if that had been the object of my motion all along.

He nods, and then briskly moves away from me. Turning up his coat collar, he steps out into the street, without looking back. I stand stock-still for a moment, and then tear at the smooth flap of the envelope in my hand. A piece of flimsy, white copier paper is folded in twice. 725 Pluon Street, #302. 8 pm, black tie.

I cram the paper back into its envelope. If not for that faint scar I might have just imagined him, as I used to, a million ways. Time took all the jagged edges from my memories. If only I had touched his face, I might not go.

That evening, a taxi smelling of Chinese takeout drops me at Pluon street. I’m about to walk up the cement steps to the door, when it bangs open. I jump. Owen hurries down the stairs, buttoning his overcoat. At the bottom, he turns to face me. “I knew you’d come.”

“No need to be so smug about it.” In heels, I’m almost as tall as him. We look at each other squarely. “Where are we going?”

He grins. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been your escort for the evening.” He strides over to a sleek black car parked on the street. He clicks the key, and holds the passenger door open for me.

“Oh, I don’t get in the car with strange men until I know where I’m going.” I incline my head.

“ If that was true you wouldn’t be here.”

“I’ve got all night Owen, you’re the one with a place to be.” I fish in my bag for my makeup mirror, popping it open.

“Just get in. I’ll explain on the way.”

“Why, so I can’t escape?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Camila.”

“What?” I pause in adjusting my lipstick.

“Fine. We’re going to Volkov’s party. At the Drastan House.” He pulls out a paper, embossed with silver lettering. “You RSVP’d that you’d be there, we'd better get going.”

I snap the little mirror closed. “Did I?”

“Oh, well I took the liberty for you, I didn't think you'd mind.”

“Tampering with my mail now?”

“You’ve done worse.” He smiles at me.

My heels click over the pavement, and I slide into the leather seat. He slams the door, and crosses over, stepping into the driver seat. The car purrs quietly, and we pull from the curb. “Now, don’t tell me we’re going to this party purely for enjoyment.”

He laughs. “God, I should hope not. No.” He takes a deep inhale. “I’m sure you remember how nervous I was the last few months we dated.”

Once, driving home from dinner, we had driven in dizzying circles around every other block he was so convinced we were being followed. I scoff.

“At the firm, I’d handled a few matters for Volkov’s companies - as you can imagine not all of which are strictly legal.” He drags a hand across his forehead. “God I was so stupid to get mixed up in it. But I was - and then Anton Volkov tried to recruit me to be his personal legal assistant.

“I didn’t want to - it would mean getting mixed up in some very illegal things. A whole pile of money, sure, but I don’t think I could have kept it from you. But he got suspicious when I didn't take his offer. I don’t think he ever considered that anyone might just turn down that much money.

“I was, actually, being watched closely - that trip to the coast, at Hiton Head, remember? A man came up to me and said I wasn’t going to be able to just walk around with the family’s secrets for much longer.”

“God Owen, why didn’t you tell me?”

“He told me he’d take care of anyone else in on it too.”

I watch his hands, steady on the steering wheel.

“I set up the car crash - it’s amazing what you can do for money, faked the whole thing.”

“God Owen, I don’t want to know the details.”

He looks at me and continues. “Only Liam knew. I went to Fort Haymit. He owns a house there.”

“Ridiculous.” I shake my head. “God, only you Owen.”

He shrugs. “No, actually. I saw it in the news that the house of another lawyer in my firm had burned down, unknown causes, the paper said.

“I mean, in my case, there was no concrete evidence, but burning a house down takes a lot of money under the table. If I can get hands on those files, and start an investigation into the family, this guy’s got a lot of dirt.”

“We’re gate-crashing his party to break into his office?”

Owen smiles at me. “If you say so.” He looks ghostly, lit by the yellow streetlights.

“So, you needed me for the invite?”

“Your invite, you party girl, and your accounting skills. I know what I need, but that doesn't mean I understand it."

“Won't it be illegal evidence?”

“Not if we use it to convince other companies to turn in their own evidence. There's plenty of people who want out, or who’ve been ripped off. They're all scared, but if they see their chance they'll take it. So evidence will becoming from an independent source.

We’re here. I was at a party at the Drastan House once years before. It’s like all these society houses, over expensive decorations pouring out of every crack. “Why should I help you?”

“Well, you’re here now.” He puts the car in park. “Besides, after this, if you want, you’ll never have to see me again.” A valet opens my car door. I give Owen a filthy look, and step out.

At the door, he offers me an arm, like a gentleman. “Fine.” I look at him. “God, I used to have a normal life.”

Inside is a sea of silvery lights, guests sipping bubbly drinks from crystal glasses. I’ve always hated New Years. When I was growing up, my mother quit smoking on New Year’s every year for a decade. I don't see the need for a holiday to pick up or drop whatever habits I've acquired.

We stroll through the room. “Volkov doesn’t know what I look like - he always did business through a middle man. I’m not sure how often he changes henchmen, but some of them might recognize me. I’m sure I’m on some list somewhere.”

“Do you know where his office is at?”

“No - I was hoping you would.”

I roll my eyes. “Upstairs somewhere. I don’t know where.”

“Great.”

“I'm supposed to just know these things?”

“Sorry.” He stops. “We’ll just nose around until we find it."

I glance around the room. People are grouped around tables, drinking, talking. Through the wide doorway at the far end, I hear music. I tug Owen’s sleeve. “We look weird standing here. This way.”

The big room is filled with music and swirling couples waltzing across the floor. “Come on.” I lead him out to the floor. I haven’t danced in a long time, and his face is closer to mine than I had expected. The faint scar on his forehead is barely visible in this light.

I haven’t been to a party like this in years. I doubt anyone recognizes me, although I see plenty of familiar, plump, wealthy faces. Owen, on the other hand, is gaunt, although strong, guiding me across the floor. Our gazes flicker towards each other, catching, looking away. We always danced well together.

He fixes his gaze over my shoulder, whirling me around. “That man over there, by the staircase. In black. He knows me.”

He's at the foot of the huge staircase. His beady gaze sweeps like a lighthouse beam across the party, back and forth. “Should we go?”

Keeping his back to the man, Owen dances me off to the side of the room, and we duck into another parlor.

“How're we going to get past him?”

“A house this big, there’s gotta be more than one staircase.” He walks past a side table, filled with decorative party favors.

“Wait.” I pause, and grab two silvery masquerade style masks. “There'll be video cameras all over his office."

We wind through the house, looking inside unlocked doors. The further back in the house we go, the less party-goers there are. Finally, working our way nearly to the back, a smaller staircase reveals itself in a foyer kind of area. In the dim stairwell, I hand him a mask. I tie it on, it smells of plastic.

The stairs open to what looks like a main hallway for the house’s inhabitants. It's more comfortable than ostentatious, but halfway down on the left, a pompous doorplate identifies Anton Valkov’s office in gold letters. “Here.”

Owen nods, pulling a latex glove on. From his pocket, he takes a lock pick. “Make sure no one’s coming.” He begins fitting it into the lock.

A minute goes by. Then a few. The hallway seems to creak, the sounds of the party floating in from somewhere. "Hurry up."

“I’m not an expert.”

“Let me.” He hands me a glove, which I snap on, taking the lock pick. I fit it in the lock slowly, breathing, carefully.

Suddenly, Owen tenses beside me, inhaling sharply, and in one motion yanks me upright, turning me against the wall, kissing my neck.

For a moment, I’m lost, and then he turns my head to the left, whispering in my ear. “There’s someone there. Just pretend like we’re making out and they’ll think we wandered up here for a room.”

I can barely concentrate, but I slide my gloved hand holding the lock pick into his jacket, so the man doesn’t see. My heart beats hard. I see the shadowy figure in the hall.

A male throat clears. “Excuse me, but this part of the house is closed. If you could please take yourselves elsewhere.” He wears the same black uniform as the man downstairs, but I can’t tell if it is the same man.

I slide out from between Owen and the wall, with a giggle. “Oh, sorry.” Hopefully, it’s too dark for him to see any details. I reach for Owen’s hand, and we scamper past him. I wrench open the door at the end of the hall, and we stumble through, shutting it hurriedly behind us.

“Sorry.” Owen says. “I had to think fast.”

“It’s ok.”

We’re in a central room, sprinkled with party-goers. I peer over the balcony, the dance hall is below.

“Oh.” I hand him the lock pick. “It’s unlocked. We’ll just need a minute to squeeze in, and out I suppose.”

He looks at me. “Well done, Nancy Drew.”

“Oh you know,” I shrug. “I had a set as a kid.”

He shakes his head. “Let’s give it a minute. I’m guessing they’ve got more important things to do than stop lovers in that one hallway.”

Sure enough, a few minutes later, the black uniformed man comes through the door to the hallway. It's not the man from downstairs. He paces through the room, disappearing down the hall on the other side.

We stand, and hurry back to the door. It’s locked from this side, but Owen hands me the lock pick, and stands in front of me as I kneel. I work it carefully, and the lock clicks. Running lightly down the hall, we pull on gloves. The office door is still ever so slightly ajar. Owen follows me in. The huge head of a taxidermied moose stares at me from the opposite wall, it’s glassy eyes fixated. “Oh God that scared me.”

“Ha. He put it there to scare anyone breaking into his office at night.” Owen opens the top drawer of the nearest filing cabinet.

“What a creep” I try all the handles of the drawers of the next cabinet. The bottom one is locked.

“Him?” Owen gestures at the moose. “Or Anton?”

"I meant Anton, but him too. The lock pick?”

He hands it to me, and I carefully fit it in. I almost have it, and then Owen slams the drawer next to me shut, and the lock shifts.

“Owen!”

“Sorry. Sorry.” He opens the next one.

The lock turns, and the drawer pops open. I rifle through the papers, pausing occasionally. "Anything, Owen?"

He bends over me “That one.” It’s some sort of receipt. “I recognize that logo, it’s one of his illegal companies. Oh - this too.” He grabs another.

“Wait, we can’t take them.”

“No -” He looks around the room, a printer sits on a side shelf. “We can borrow his scanner.”

The scanner is noisy, inching the papers in painstakingly slowly. Tt whirs, loud enough to hear down the entire hall, I’m sure. Finally, it wheezes out the last paper. I replace the originals, and Owen folds the bundle into his jacket pocket. We listen at the door, but if anyone's there, we’re not going to hear them. After a few moments I creak it open.

We hasten down the dimly lit hall, back down the stairway we originally came through. Barely down the stairs, I hear heavy, methodical footsteps. I duck into the slight alcove of the nearest window, and Owen follows. We stand too close together as a black-uniformed man stalks around the corner. I feel him glance at us, but he moves past. I feel Owen exhale as he turns the corner of the stairs. He steps away. “We shouldn’t leave together.”

“I’ll get a taxi.”

We stand, awkwardly.

He clears his throat. “Well. You know where to find me, at that - that same address. If you, ever want to catch up sometime.”

I step forward, and run a finger over the scar on his forehead. His skin is warm, the scar barely raised, just ever so slightly there. “Maybe, Owen Henderson. Maybe.”