Page 95 of Don’t Forget Me

The hundreds of books that I’d collected throughout the years were perfectly stacked in the library that Ezra built for me. The fireplace crackled, the scent from the vanilla candles floated around, and our kids jumped in place as they realized they wouldn’t be drinking hot chocolate tonight. We had decided to call the kids from their rooms to listen to this story as punishment for their behavior. It took longer than we had thought; it was almost time for them to head to bed.

Dorian and Larissa. My two greatest blessings. They were turning thirteen, one of the most difficult ages a person could live through.

Ezra and I had decided to tell them our story, not so we could relive the past, but to teach them how communication was the key to a good life. We made mistakes—big ones—because we were too prideful and too immature. Five years of our lives had been wasted.

Violence, isolation, and revenge were not the answers to anger. They never were, and they would never be.

“Do you understand the point of the story?” Ezra questioned, eyeing our firstborn son.

“Honestly, no. All I got from this was how we got our names and how you and Mom met.” Dorian shrugged.

I sighed, putting my hands on my temple. “Dorian, Larissa. We want you both to understand that whenever disagreements come along, it is unacceptable to use your words to hurt one another. Your father and I do not want to see you fighting or that Dorian is giving the silent treatment.”

“But, Mom, it’s not fair. Larissa goes into my room and grabs my things.”

“I do not,” Larissa defended herself, crossing her arms.

Before I knew it, Dorian and Larissa had begun to bicker. Ezra let out a breath as he fixed his glasses.

“Niños, por favor,” I said.

Larissa flicked Dorian’s nose, which ignited a fiery spark in his honey gaze.

“Enough!” Ezra said sharply. The kids’ eyes widened; they calmed down. “Larissa, you are not allowed into Dorian’s room. You have your own. Dorian, we did not raise you to be violent and you will not practice such things in our home. I don’t care how mad you are; it is unacceptable. Do you understand?”

Dorian and Larissa glanced at one another before lowering their eyes. They were left speechless under the scrutiny of their father.

“Understood?” Ezra questioned sternly.

“Understood,” they said.

“Now, it’s past bedtime. Time to go to sleep.”

I watched as Dorian and Larissa huffed in unison, gathered themselves and headed upstairs. By the way they had reacted with such similarity, it was more than noticeable that they were twins. Although they were fraternal. Dorian inherited my brown curly hair, hazel eyes, and beige skin. Larissa bared Ezra’s ocean blue eyes, raven-black strands, and pale complexion. They were a clear demonstration of our love.

We’d named Dorian after one of our favorite books. A book that sparked conversation at the beginning of our love story. And Larissa, well, she got her name from someone special. Someone I owed a great debt to. One of the few people who ripped me from the hell that used to be my life. I had never forgotten about her. To this day, I prayed that she was happy wherever she was.

Sometimes, I wondered what my life would’ve been like if I had never applied to Blackthorn House Academy and Lachlan Prep. I couldn’t help but try to imagine the course of events that would have followed if I had never come to Scotland. “What’s on your mind, love?”

“Just thinking,” I replied.

“What about?”

I smiled. “Us.”

Ezra stood, extending a hand toward me. I took his firm grip and pushed myself to my feet. His arms wrapped around my waist as I wrapped mine around his neck.

“Dance with me,” he whispered.

I gave him a slight nod, then I rested my head on his chest, holding onto him as he held onto me. This was my home, his comfort. We swayed in front of the burning embers swirling within the hearth. In his embrace, I could breathe. The terrors in my mind were quieted when he hugged me.

“What about us?”

“As we told the story to the kids, I couldn’t help but realize that everything we lived seemed to have happened in a specific order. As if each moment occurred for a reason.”

It took my breath away just how much everything was perfectly imperfect in the story of us. His grin captivated me. Each day, it was like I was falling in love with him all over again. “Everything happens for a reason. Whether it’s good or bad, heavy or light, every minute that we live, we are living the consequences from yesterday’s decisions. Whether it be from the choices that people around us made, or our own decisions. But it is up to us to decide what we will do with the fruits of the past, and how to sow seeds for our future.”

“I thought I was the poetic one,” I chuckled, quirking up a brow.