bound; governed by fate or extremely likely to occur.
"Face it, Marco. You and I are bound to one another. Even after all this time, even despite the consequences of our love, you can't keep yourself away from me-and neither can I."
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B I T T E R : S W E E T - Bittersweet Faith "Are we moving in the right direction? what is fate, if fate's immersed in shame? a high price for the beauty of perfection; I go when all I want to do is stay."
—
On Saturday morning, Marco woke up alone—and hungover. Despite the shining sun and the clear skies outside, the German felt anything but at peace—not only because of his pounding headache, but because Lucia was screaming in his ears. It was eleven in the morning, causing him to squeeze his eyes closed and then open before he finally managed to make sense of Lucia's words: "Papa, I can't find my lightsaber!"
"Oh, God." Marco sat up and instinctively looked towards Jessica to solve the matter—only to find that she wasn't laying next to him. Remembering that his wife had left early that morning for a weeklong volunteering campaign in the Dominican Republic, Marco realized that Lucia was completely under his supervision now—something that was rare.
"Papa!" Lucia whined yet again, stomping her foot this time in impatience. At five years old, Marco's daughter was just as much a bright burst of energy and happiness in his life as she'd been when she was a toddler. Lucia was an eccentric child—Marco had recently given into her demands to add pink highlights to her blonde hair, and she often sported a few temporary tattoos on her arms. She refused to eat green vegetables, and only left the house if Marco or Jessica allowed her to bring her toy lightsaber along—and God forbid that she lose that lightsaber.
"Okay, okay. I'm sure we'll be able to find it, Lucia. Don't worry." Marco got out of the bed and groaned, feeling his head pound from a light hangover. He'd stayed out with Mats and Mario until nearly three in the morning, hence having woken up so late. After a futile search attempt, Lucia's lip began to quiver in a classic indication of the fact that she would soon burst into tears—causing Marco to groan. "Why don't we just go get you a new one, Lulu?"
Lucia sniffled. "I don't want a new one!"
"Well, did you leave the other one somewhere? Maybe at your mother's house?" Marco grew nervous at the notion of having to talk to Scarlett, even if was simply to retrieve a toy. To say that they were on bad terms would be an understatement—they despised one another. He didn't blame her for hating him, but he would never forgive her for trying to deprive him of his right to see their child. One reason their custody battle over Lucia had been so heavily publicized was because of the insurmountable claims Scarlett made against Marco—she'd called him everything from a cheater to a pervert to someone who was outright mentally ill, and made these claims to anyone who would listen.
Scarlett was only permitted to see Lucia every other weekend, on holidays, or for special occasions. It was harder during the first year, when Marco would feel extremely guilty and remorseful every time Lucia cried for her mother. Worse was when she'd ask him to do things that only Scarlett could do, like putting her hair in a ballerina bun or making a particular meal. But Lucia eventually adjusted to the arrangement, and Marco prayed that she wouldn't harbor any trauma from it later on in life. "I will only get a new lightsaber if it's pink." Lucia crossed her arms and rose an eyebrow, as if to challenge her father. Marco grunted. Where the fuck am I gonna get a pink lightsaber?
