Chapter Eighteen

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AVERY BELLAND

Before I could realize, he's standing just in front of me, stealing my breath and the heat from my skin. Suddenly my defences are just paper, paper that is being soaked by the rapidly falling briny drops. Before I can draw in the air my body needs I feel my body melting, my feet losing control when I start to stand up from the grass; still in shock that the man in front of me is Brent.

With every step closer to him I can examine every inch of his face; something inside me tells me it's not him, or maybe I don't want it to be him. Because after thirteen years, I don't know what to do. What to say. We're not the same people anymore, and we will never be the same.

I stop myself just inches from him, examining his face. A tall man, big, muscular, strong. More ink than skin, all of his body is tattooed with different drawings, like his flesh was a canva. The warm wind plays with his long, curly hair. The beard framing his face; a face of a man, not a teenager boy. There's a real man in front of me; a man that I don't know. But not those eyes, not those green eyes, that thirteen years didn't manage to change.

Those green eyes would make the grass on a professional baseball field get lighter. The pitches mound are pierced with the pupil and the bases and the dirt, scattered around all throughout. The eyes I fell in love with, just like I remember. Probably the only thing that hadn't changed in him.

Because he's bad now. A man that does bad things, who kills other people. I saw him doing that back in Caden's place. He's not a detective, not like he wanted to be. He's a criminal, just like Caden is.

But why it doesn't bother me at all?

"Brent..."

My hand carefully touches his face, sliding my fingers down his beard; Brent keeps looking at me, like he wasn't able to believe I'm actually here. With my fingers on his cheek I look at him, I want him to see that there is no judgement in my eyes. My face buckles and tears roll unchecked, washing a path to my chin. That's him. I can't believe that's him.

Brent carefully lifts his hand forward, like he was afraid to touch me. But as soon as his fingers dig into my hair, sliding down to my spine, I feel both of his hands on my body. His palms stroking my hair. From top to bottom, over and over again; one touch isn't enough for him to realize who he's touching. His eyes examining my face, every inch of it, like it was the last time he's able to look at me. The warmth fills up my chest, though the tears keep falling. I've never felt so vulnerable.

"Avery. Oh my God, Avery..."

How the ground under us is disappeared I'll never understand; but one moment we are apart and the next we are melted into a single being. The warmth of his body meets my cold skin, giving me hope like he always did before the kidnap. One of his hands clasps around my lower back, the other strokes my hair. With each soft touch more tears fall, neither of us wipe away. After so many years we have the chance to make new memories and wasting time isn't on the agenda.

I got him back. And I'll never anyone take him from me again.

"I'm so sorry Avery, I'm so terribly sorry..."

He keeps wrapping his hands on me, pulling me closer with every touch as if there was a chance I could disappear. And I feel nothing but happiness, nothing but warmth in my stomach that I didn't feel for thirteen years. It feels the same, just the same like it felt back in Miami, where we met, where we fell in love. I know it will take time to rebuild our relationship, but none of us needs it now. All we needed was this moment, when we finally can be together again.

"Don't apologize. You came back. That's all that matters."

And actually, it doesn't matter that it took him thirteen years to come back. Thirteen years to find me. No one else was even trying to find me; after a year I went missing, I was dead to everyone. Even to my stepparents. They didn't even bother to look for me, atleast for my body to bury me. I was dead, and no one tried to look for truth. Except Brent, who dedicated his life to find me.

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