Passions Prologue
By Dana Keylits

Chapter Thirty: We part.

I blinked. Not sure if I'd heard her correctly. "You what?"

She continued to stare at her hands as they lay folded tightly in her lap. "I'm sorry. Kate. I just, I can't keep seeing you. It's not you, it's…"

She stood up, her robe falling open, her flawless mocha body exposed to me, "it's me."

"I don't understand! Bette! What did I do?"

She was standing at the foot of the bed, tying the sash on her silky robe as I gathered the sheet around me; suddenly needing it's flimsy protection against the harshness of her words.

"You didn't do anything, Kate. You're," she paused, blinking away tears, "…lovely, perfect. It's just. This isn't what I want anymore. It isn't what I need."

My vision blurred and it was my turn to blink away tears, I could feel my face contort into a mask of pain and I resented the hell out of it. I felt like I was in some kind of nightmare, and if I pinched myself, or clicked my heels three times, I'd wake up and this would all just be the vestige of a bad dream.

I scrambled to gather my thoughts, to know how to respond. "I.." I paused, my mouth open, searching for the words. "I don't know what to say. It seemed like an hour ago this is what you wanted! An hour ago, when I made you come?" An hour ago, when my mouth was on your…?" I was going to lose it, I was going to start bawling, or screaming, and I did not want to show her that weakness. "An hour ago when you told me how beautiful I am?" My voice broke and I looked into the dark pool of her eyes, feeling betrayed by the cursed tears spilling down my cheeks.

She looked at me with such pity that it made me crazy, and for the briefest flash of a moment it made me hate her.

She crossed to me, sat on the edge of the bed, but I slid away from her, clutching the sheet to my breasts like a talisman to ward off this darkness. She reached out in spite of my anger, pressing her palm to my cheek, wiping my tears with the pad of her thumb, and I could see the dampness build behind her eyes.

"Kate," she whispered, her voice strangled by pain and regret.

I studied her expression. This wasn't what she wanted, it couldn't be! Just a few hours ago we were licking syrup off of each other, whispering secrets and sweet nothings! How could she suddenly want this?

In a desperate bid, I grabbed her wrist, pulled her to me, on top of me, crushed my mouth to hers, my tongue diving past her lips, curling around her tongue, desperate, angry, searching, pleading. I pulled at the sash of her robe, forced it open as the sheet fell from my breasts and gathered around my waist. I smashed my body against hers, could feel her nipples hard against me, could feel her body hum and vibrate, and I knew she still wanted me.

But, she pulled away, sat up, clutched both of my wrists and gazed sorrowfully into my eyes. And, I saw it, the quiet look of resolution, of determination. She was ending this. For whatever crazy, fucked up reason she'd conjured up in that artists head of hers, she was ending this.

"No, Kate. I can't do this with you. Not anymore."

I just stared at her, my mind spinning, my expression blank, my breathing labored. And then it happened.

I broke.

I couldn't breathe, or think, or hear or see or care about anything but getting the fuck out of there. The tears were flowing freely down my face now and I hated that. I didn't want her to see it. I didn't want her to know the kind of power she had over me, over my emotions. I wriggled my wrists free of her grasp and in a furious flash of anger, hissed "Fuck you!"

She climbed off of me and stood up, nodding, expecting this, prepared for this. "I'm going to get dressed. I'll give you a ride home."

But, I was already out of the bed, gathering my clothing, searching under the bed for my shoes. "Don't bother," I spat.

"Kate, it's late. I'll give you a ride."

She hadn't even noticed that the sun was already peeking over the horizon, it wasn't late, it was early.

I was already into my jeans and slipping into my bra when I shot her a look, an angry, perplexed, sad look. "I don't need you to give me anything, Bette."

"I wish I could explain this to you, Kate. It's not you. It's me. It's, I'm. I'm fucked up, Kate."

I just stood there, rooted to the floor, my shirt dangling precariously from my fingers, one hand on my hip as I cast my eyes downward, unable to look at her. I was different now, in just that miniscule amount of time, I was different. I was numb. I didn't care. Or, I didn't want to care. I stared at the floor. Seconds ticked by, then minutes. We didn't move, we barely breathed. I waited for something to come over me, some emotion, some inspiration, some way to change what had just happened. But, I couldn't change it. It was done. We were done, and I had to get out of there; I had to get away from her.

I looked up, angrily wiped my cheeks with my fist, and then wordlessly slipped into my shirt and buttoned it. I nodded, accepting her answer as the only one she would or could give to me. I struggled into my shoes, and then crossed the room to stand in front of her.

"Fine." I suddenly reached out and grabbed the back of her head, gathering her hair in my fist, and angrily planted my lips on hers, biting her bottom lip before darting my tongue into her mouth in one final, angry, frenzied exploration. She fell into me, matched my furious cadence, and I could feel her regret.

But, it was too late.

I pulled away, and watched her stumble backwards. "Whatever it is. Whatever need you have that I can't fulfill. I hope it's worth losing me over, Bette. Because we could have been great together."

She reached out for my hand, searched my face, her lips parting as though she needed to say something, but couldn't.

"Let go," I whispered, but I was secretly praying she wouldn't. Please don't let go, Bette. Don't let me go. It's not too late. Please don't let …

She let go.

And then, before I could change my mind, before I could completely lose it, I grabbed my keys and my bag and I walked out of her apartment.

And, out of her life.

January 12, 1999

My mom died.

She was killed by what the police described as a wayward random event. Stabbed to death, left in a pile of garbage in some back alley somewhere.

Nothing made sense anymore.

Everything had changed.

Even the explanation by the police didn't make sense, and the cop who talked to us, a Detective Raglan, he seemed shady, uncertain, like he knew more than he was telling us, but he was afraid to say too much. It didn't sit well with me, but my dad was in so much pain, I couldn't talk to him about it. So, I wrote down my suspicions in a spiral notebook, fractured thoughts, questions, observations that would eventually lead me to the awful truth that my mother was murdered for far more nefarious reasons than we were led to believe.

But, on this day, on this day of her funeral, when we were honoring her life, her achievements, as we listened to her colleagues and friends tell story after story about her dedication to the truth, to justice, to fairness, while we shared everything that we loved and cherished about her, and even the things that drove us the most crazy about her, I would let it rest.

There would come a day.

After the funeral, people came by the apartment armed with food and drink, enough to feed an army, as though that would sooth the pain. Which, I supposed it did to some degree. It was nice to know that people cared, that they were thinking about us, taking care of us, allowing us to abdicate the responsibility of even needing to feed ourselves so that we could take care of our grief.

I sat by the window, my throat constricted, my mind going over the events of her death, the clues that weren't clues but were dead-ends, the image of her bloody and bruised body, the police tape, the garbage.

The life that had gone out of her eyes.

My father strolled over to where I was sitting, a plate of chicken salad in one hand, his other hand stuffed in his front pocket. I glanced up at him, offering a weak smile; it was the best I could do. I was miserable.

He reached out, tucked a strand of wayward hair behind my ear and then nodded towards the door, taking my hand. "Let's get the hell out of here, Katie," he whispered.

As we walked along the beach at Coney Island, still in our funeral clothes, not minding the chill in the air that nipped at our skin, we talked and laughed, remembering mom and all of her quirkiness, how much she loved us, how much we loved her. We gathered up bits of stick and twine that had washed up on the shore, and as we strolled along that beach, we made a little stick man, for no reason, really. It was just something to do.

As dad scooped up a perfectly smooth rock, well suited for the head on our little guy, he glanced up at me. "You know, your mother told me last month that she thought you were seeing someone."

I bit my lip. "She did?"

"Mmmhmm," he replied.

I shook my head. That seemed like it was a hundred years ago. Bette, the fifteen days we'd spent together, the way she'd ended it. It was all a blur in light of my mother's death, a dream, a story, an event that had happened in someone else's life and I was but a silent observer.

"She said she thought you might have fallen in love."

Did I even talk to mom about Bette? I knew I hadn't told her I was with Bette, but maybe I'd mentioned her? I couldn't remember. But then again, my mom always had a way of knowing things that she'd had no business knowing. I shook my head. "No," I replied honestly. "I don't think I was in love. To be perfectly honest with you, Dad, I don't think I even know how to be in love."

He stopped walking and looked at me sharply. "Oh, Katie. Honey, you'll figure it out." He smiled at me in that sweet, adoring, fatherly way. He palmed my cheek and I leaned into him. "You'll meet someone, someone who gets you. Someone who cherishes you, and you'll know."

I felt a tear slip down my cheek and my father immediately wiped it away, leaning in to gently kiss the spot where it had fallen on my cheek. "And when that happens?" He searched my face, wanting me to understand what he was about to say. "Let it," he advised.

I nodded, blinking away the tears that rimmed my eyes, struggling against the lump in my throat. "I'll try," I promised, falling into his comforting embrace. "I'll try."

When everyone was gone, the food safely stored in varied Tupperware containers, the dishes washed, the lights turned out, my father poured himself a glass of Highland Park whiskey and withdrew to his study. I walked around, picking up discarded programs from the funeral, mom's smiling face adorning the covers. I piled them neatly on the dining room table, next to the stack of cards we'd need to go through over the next few days, the memorial gifts for which we'd need to write thank you letters. The funeral home had given us several boxes of generic thank you cards, but it felt so stale, so rote, that I made a mental note to go out and buy our own colorful cards, cards that reflected more of who mom was, who we were.

As I made my way down the darkened hall to my bedroom, I passed by my parent's room. Mom's bathrobe was still hanging from the hook on the back of the bathroom door. I walked over to it, buried my face in it, inhaling her scent. It wouldn't be long before I wouldn't remember what she smelled like, what she sounded like. No one ever tells you you'll forget those things. But, you do. And, it breaks your heart when you realize it's happened. Like losing them all over again and feeling like you're a bad daughter for forgetting.

I walked to the bed, to her side of the bed, and noticed the pile of books stacked smartly on one corner of the oak side-table, mother's reading glasses perched on top of them. I moved the glasses aside, and picked up the top hardcover. A grin stole my lips as I looked at the title.

Flowers for Your Grave, by Richard Castle.

She hadn't finished it by the looks of it, judging from the colorful leather bookmark stuck between pages 101 and 102.

"Hey, Katie," my father greeted from the doorway, his words gently slurred from the alcohol. "You okay?"

I stood up, clutching the book to my chest. "Yeah, Dad. I'm fine." I held the book out. "Do you mind if I take this?"

He walked towards me, squinting to focus on the book. He nodded. "Go ahead." He gestured at the bookcase on the far wall, the ice in his tumbler softly pinging against the glass. "She has a number of his books, your mom was a detective novel fanatic," he chuckled, draining the contents of his tumbler before turning to walk back out of the room.

I took the book to my room, the walls of which were still adorned with posters of grunge bands I'd liked in high school. I tossed the hardcover on the mattress, quickly undressed, slipped into my pajamas, and then sat cross-legged on top of the covers, opening the book. I'd finished In a Hail of Bullets just before Christmas, but, needing to study for finals, I hadn't read anything else.

I liked this Richard Castle. Even though he seemed kind of like a cad with an ego to match, there was something about him, something attractive and charming certainly, but also warm, and authentic. I had no idea how I knew this, why I thought it, having seen him for only a few seconds in person, but I just had a sense about him. Something instinctive.

And, the guy could write.

I settled against the pillows, unfolding my legs in front of me, and started to read, quickly losing myself in the rich fantasy world created by Rick Castle. And, I was inexplicably, if only momentarily, carried from my grief - from funerals and thank you cards, and overcooked casseroles congealing in our refrigerator.

And, from Bette.

And into a world where all I had to do was let the events unfold in the ordered pattern imagined by their author. Unlike the real world, unlike my world, his world made sense.

And for that, I was truly grateful.

A/N: And here we are, at the end. I had planned this ending from the beginning, but getting here kind of surprised me. I'd imagined Johanna's death, the funeral, Kate finding Castle's book by her bed, to be a one-paragraph epilogue. Instead, it became front and center. I guess that happens sometimes.

Thank you so much for all of your kind words and encouragement as this story unfolded. I really enjoyed writing it, and am so happy to know that some of you enjoyed reading it as well. And, thanks to KB who suggested that a "prequel" to Passions Past might not be such a bad idea. Guess you were right. :-)

Oh, and watch in the coming days for a short epilogue.

Until next time, thank you.

-dk