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Whatever the case, I’m working at thawing his icy heart, and each day my affection for him grows tenfold. Which wouldn’t be a problem, except that it’s such a stark contrast to how I felt at the start of our union, and it lines up too perfectly with what Mamá said would eventually happen.
‘You’ll learn to love him,’ she’d said, and although the context—and husband—were entirely different, I can’t help the flare of rebellion that comes at having her be right about this.
I don’t tell Ariana any of this, of course. As far as she knows, my relationship with Kal is real and has depth, despite whatever vitriol my parents are trying to spew against us. I assure her they’re being dramatic each time she brings up the fact that the entirety of Boston seems to think I was kidnapped, and since she knows how they are about narratives, she usually agrees and moves on.
And technically, I was kidnapped. They’re not wrong about that much.
But they don’t have the full story, either.
“Every time you call, all we do is talk about me,” I say now, trying to redirect the conversation so my anxious thoughts cease. “I’m tired of me. What’s new with you and Stella?”
“Nothing’s ever new with that one,” Ari says, snorting. “I have a recital in a few weeks, though.”
My heart drops to my stomach. “Shit, you do, don’t you?”
“Yep.” She pops her lips on the last “p,” making me feel like an asshole. “The Nutcracker, for our school’s Christmas in Spring. Weird time to celebrate Christmas, if you ask me, but I guess it’s easier to theme that way.”
Guilt pinches in my chest, making me recall all the other recitals I’ve been to. How I haven’t missed one since she got her first leotard. “I’ll be there.”
Ariana blinks once. Twice. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
I don’t know where that attitude is coming from, and can’t help wondering what’s going on back home that I’m not being told about. And even though I make the same vow again, meaning it wholeheartedly, it isn’t until later that I realize how difficult coming through might actually be.
Marcelline has a driver take me to the Flaming Chariot a little while after my phone call with Ariana ends, us hanging up as soon as Mamá enters the room and bursts into tears at the sight of my face.
When I climb out of the town car, nodding to the driver that he can leave without me, I stand on the curb of the bar for a moment, holding my purse tight to my side as the memory of the last time I was here resurfaces.
The needle puncturing my skin, the way Vincent looked at me like I was somehow beneath him, the assault that came after.
My throat swells, blocking air as I relive the memories. Goose bumps rise on my arms, sending a shiver grating down my spine.
A normal person would probably have been disturbed by Kal’s form of solving the problem, but in truth, I haven’t lost even a wink of sleep over it. That could have something to do with the fact that we’ve been partaking in rigorous activities every day ever since, and maybe I’m too exhausted to really think about it, but still.
I like the finality of how he took care of it.
Until now, I’ve pushed it to the recesses of my brain, but being back at the bar, staring down the face of my nightmares, I’m overcome with the urge to run.
Soft laughter off to my side draws my attention temporarily from the building, and I turn my head slowly, apprehension threading through each of my muscles, drawing them tight. A girl with black hair split into two French braids stands a few feet away, mimicking my exact stance, arms crossed over her chest as she stares at the bar.
Scrunching my nose, I look away from her, trying to calm the nerves rushing through my veins like a raging rapid.
How long after a traumatic event do you have to wait before you can face your demons?
“Sixteen.”
Eyes widening, I glance back over at the girl standing beside me. She tugs on the hem of a sheer black blouse, shaking her head, and I panic for the briefest second wondering if I’ve spoken out loud.
Casting me a sidelong look, she drops her hands. “I’ve come by this place sixteen times in the last couple of weeks, but I can never bring myself to actually go in.”
Relief washes over me, and I let out a quick breath, scanning her more thoroughly; she’s dressed in all black, her jeans rolled to the ankle, a resin sunflower pendant draped around her neck, providing the only source of color.
Even her eyes, warm but dark and guarded, reflect the morbidity of her outfit choice, and I can practically hear Ariana’s judgment of the bland fashion.
‘People who wear black all the time are not normal,’ my sister would say. ‘Either they worship Satan or hate themselves. There are too many colors available on this green earth to sit and choose one that lacks any at all.’
And Mamá always wonders why she can’t keep a decent boyfriend.
Pairing the outfit with the girl’s pale skin and slender frame, she could easily pass for a vampire. Maybe that’s why she can’t go in.
