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Tears welled in her eyes. “Okay.”
“Good,” he said, standing. “Now let’s get you back to Dia’s. She was terrified when she called me, thought you’d been kidnapped again.”
Shivering, Haven wrapped her arms around herself, guilt running rampant. She was chasing a ghost through the city, risking everything out of desperation, and scaring the few people who truly cared for her.
She followed Dr. DeMarco outside and slipped into the passenger seat of his Mercedes, which was parked haphazardly along the curb. He started it, cranking the heat to get her warm. She laid her head against the foggy side window, frowning as she faintly heard the intercom announce boarding for the bus to Chicago.
11
Things change.
Sometimes it’s abrupt, knocking you off your feet as life throws a curveball nobody expected, turning worlds upside down and leaving those left behind to pick up the pieces. But other times, it happens slowly, an hour, or a minute, or a second at a time, so immeasurable no one can pinpoint exactly when it happened. You find yourself somewhere you’ve never been, doing things you’ve never done, being a person you never imagined you would ever be.
Because Dia was busy and everyone else she knew lived hundreds of miles away, Haven was often left on her own in the small Charlotte apartment. She ventured outside on the days she was alone, the fresh air and change of scenery helpful in clearing her mind. She would walk across the street to a small park and sit on one of the swings, the place deserted in the mornings because the weather was still cold. Haven welcomed the temperature, the icy air stinging her cheeks and reminding her she was still alive—that no matter how much it hurt, or how much she felt like she was dying inside, she wasn’t. She was still breathing, each exhale reaffirming that with a cloud of warm breath lingering in the air around her.
As long as she was still breathing, she was okay.
Dia helped guide Haven through the simple things, things Carmine had never gotten around to showing her, like how to mail letters and use a computer. Haven bought postcards at the store to send to Tess and Dominic across the country, and she set up an email account to keep in touch with them.
The sensation of seeing something in the mailbox addressed to her was indescribable. Most people took it for granted, communicating freely, but it was a big deal to her. It was proof she had an identity, that she was real.
The first time she received junk mail, a flyer from a local business about a sale, Haven was elated. She wasn’t sure how they got her name and Dia shrugged it off, telling Haven to trash it, but she refused. She had been acknowledged as existing, like she was just another person in the world. She wasn’t Haven Antonelli, former slave; she was Haven Antonelli, potential customer.
To her, that was everything.
Things went smoother after she decided to give life alone a chance, but she still had her moments. She missed Carmine immensely, her love never wavering. She often wrote him letters, too, but she never mailed them. Whether it was pride, or anger, or straight-up fear, something kept her from reaching out to him again.
* * *
Haven awoke one morning to sunlight pouring into the Charlotte apartment. Winter had faded away, January turning to February before March blossomed before her eyes. She climbed out of bed and opened the window, breathing in the fresh morning air as she looked out at the street below. The trees were full of lush green leaves, small flowers starting to bloom and freckle the landscape with color that hadn’t been there the day before.
After getting ready for the day, Haven strolled out to the living room. It was quiet and still, Dia having already left. Where her books had been strewn out the night before lay a single pamphlet, a yellow sticky note attached to the front. Haven picked it up curiously before strolling into the small kitchen.
Thought you might be interested in this.—Dia
Pouring a glass of juice, Haven sipped some as she opened the brochure. Charlotte Academy of Arts Spring Schedule was written along the top, followed by a list of upcoming workshops. She scanned them, stopping at one halfway down.
Painting 101
This free workshop will help students loosen up and see the world in a different light. Participants will experience the joy of painting, learning to express themselves in a new creative way. No experience needed. All materials included.
Mon–Fri, March 12–23, noon–3 P.M.
March 12. Haven glanced at the calendar, realizing it was today.
She read the pamphlet three times before setting her glass on the counter. She debated for a moment, wondering if she could really do it, before shrugging away her doubts and grabbing her things. She headed out of the apartment, finding the Mazda parked in the lot across the street.
Hesitating, she ran her hand along the sleek hood before climbing into the driver’s seat and starting it up.
She was nervous as she drove across town, chanting to herself the entire time: If not for you, do it for Carmine.
* * *
It took Haven a while to find the place and just as long to figure out where to park. By the time she stepped into the Charlotte Academy of Arts, it was already a quarter after twelve. Discouraged, she walked up to a lady sitting at a desk in the front lobby, clutching the pamphlet in her hand. “I know it’s probably too late, but I was wondering about the art class that started today.”
“Painting?” the lady asked.
Haven nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
