For the next twelve days, I do almost nothing but clean and paint. Going from room to room, I sort, clean, paint, and rearrange. The storage shed is full, and I’ve taken countless carloads of donations to the local secondhand shop, which is run by a woman named Ruthie.
It’s also the only bookstore in town, and as such, Ruthie has her nose in a book every time I stop in. After the second visit, she lent me one. “You need a hobby that lets you relax at night after so much work during the day,” she said, also giving me her phone number and asking to text her updates.
The book wasSadieby Courtney Summers. A story about a woman searching for her missing sister with the help of a podcaster. Traumatic, but also somewhat cathartic, because I could equate her search for her sister to my own plight of searching for myself.
The reminder that I don’t know who I am anymore came so quickly and hard that I ended up having another cry fest. This time, I was by myself in the middle of Irma’s kitchen, as opposed to in Grady’s arms.
I’ve kept some distance between us since that night. Partially from embarrassment. Partially because I liked the feel of his arms around me. I wanted them to hold me closer, hug me tighter. It was nice and needed, which I don’t want. The only person I want to rely on right now is myself. I don’t need a man. I needme.
I only need to figure out who she is, now.
Aside from working around the house and reading books, I’ve been pushing to advance my case. That hasn’t amounted to much.
Pierre is very respected in the industry. He’s wealthy, well-known, and technically a first offender. I’m sure he’s treated other women the same way he did me; he’s too well practiced. No one ever filed a police report on him, though.
It looks like I’m going to be out of luck on any real punishment for him. That’s been the toughest pill to swallow.It also brings up all those self-deprecating feelings again. If this wasn’t my fault, he’d be in prison, right?
No. Of course, that’s wrong. My brain forgets easily, though. Heartbreak can do that. I’m not heartbroken over Pierre. Honestly, fuck him. I’m heartbroken over how I betrayed myself. How I abandoned the dreams I had as a small girl, when I thought I’d grow up to live in a dreamy place that looked like a cloud. I’d have the most handsome husband who worshiped the ground I glided over, because I was a fairy princess with wings, so my feet never touched the ground. Obviously. We’d be rich and famous but not in the asshole kind of way. Instead of flaunting our wealth, we’d build hospitals for children with cancer and libraries in inner cities.
While those dreams weren’t realistic, I should have held true to the ideals behind them.
Instead, I got greedy for success and lost sight of what I valued in other people. I let the lifestyle guide me instead of my soul.
It was easy to get caught up. Surrounded by money, luxury, and the general debauchery that can come along with those things.
Pierre was exciting. Enticing. He promised me the world. At the start, he delivered. I was booking better jobs for more money than I’d ever made. My agent loved my relationship with him and used it to my advantage. I suspect it’s how I got that first cover of Vogue, though she never confirmed that.
She’s been emailing me too, wanting me to come back to work. She only makes money when I do, after all. Nothing sounds worse than going back to LA, New York, or Paris, just now. The desire to be back in front of a camera lingers, though.I miss work more as I start to whittle down my to-do list here at Irma’s house. And as my cashflow dwindles.
I’m still only spending cash because I can’t trust that Pierre doesn’t have access to my accounts. Changing all my passwords was one of the first tasks I did, but my laptop is still at home in Los Angeles and I’m unsure how much access that gives him.
Home.
His home. It’s not mine anymore. Really, it never was. He moved me in but didn’t make space for me. He wanted me to fit around him; there was no desire to share with me. I didn’t see it then, believing his reasoning was easier. His excuse was that he had such a busy life, there was never time to accommodate me.
The number of red flags I ignored could line both sides of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Now, I think I’m the red flag. My baggage weighs me down. I’m not good company to even myself, let alone others. Juliet says I’m being ridiculous and is determined to prove me wrong. She’s back from Milan and is coming to stay for a week. I’m excited for her to see the progress I’ve made here and for her company. But it also makes me anxious because I’m still such an emotional mess.
Every day I get better in a small way. I’m still only on foothills, though; I’m nowhere near the mountain peak.
Grady has checked in with me regularly since my breakdown on the beach. Mostly with text messages, unless he hears me outside. He’s been very respectful of my unspoken boundaries. There have been moments when I wish he wasn’t. It’s in those moments that I can’t trust myself.
Paige was here for the weekend, and I made her a batch of cookies, which she loved. I like her around; she brings ayouthful lightness to life that I’ve never experienced. My family isn’t large. All my parents’ siblings were spread out. I didn’t grow up around young cousins, and I have no nieces or nephews. None of my model friends had children. Pierre has a large family in France, so I hardly saw them. There hasn’t been much opportunity for me to be around children.
Paige shows me that I’d like for that to change.
That I’d like to have more people around me that aren’t so phony or self-involved. The real world of blue-collar, small-town life is awfully beautiful when you’ve seen the worst of what the other side has to offer.
Yet, I still wonder how I fit into any other place.
I’m watering the new houseplants I bought when Juliet arrives with a knock as she walks through the front door.
“Holy shit, Lou. This place looks fantastic,” she says, taking in the living room.
The room gets the most light with a full wall of windows, allowing me to paint it a dark peacock blue. There was an off-white rug rolled up and hiding in one of the bedroom closets. I moved it out here, tucked it under the red velvet sofa that is clearly straight from the seventies but still in excellent condition. I also pulled a plush yellow chair from Irma’s bedroom. I’ve curated the bookshelf with pictures and trinkets I’ve found throughout the house. The art on the walls is a combination of Irma’s and a couple of pieces I found at a local artist co-op. It’s eclectic, bright, and has become my favorite space inside the house.
“It’s coming together,” I agree. “I hope Irma would have liked it.”
