AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I give him a nod and he leaves.
The room falls silent but I’m still breathing hard. I haven’t been able to calm down since I pulled my gun out on that palm reader. It’s not like I feel any remorse. She had it coming with all that fucking drivel she was on about. But it’s left me rattled. And that’s a hard feat to achieve.
Distracted, I don’t notice my hand moving up to my chest like it has a life of its own. My finger rubs my chest directly over my heart as if soothing a small, near imperceptible, twinge. As soon as I realize what I’m doing, I yank my hand away.
What the fuck am I doing?
That psychic’s question, or whatever the fuck she was, echoes in my head.
“Do you have a birthmark over your heart?”
I spring out of my seat and head for my bedroom at the end of the curved hallway. Passing closed doors and largely unoccupied rooms, I begin unbuttoning my dress shirt, revealing my chest underneath, my body so heavily tattooed now that you can barely see the skin anymore.
Crossing the threshold, I trek across the room, walking right up to the floor length mirror in the corner near the walk-in closet. I stare at my reflection, my muscles taut. I’m feeling fucking ridiculous but all of a sudden I’m on my hand and knees pulling a plastic box from under the bed.
Inside, I find a photo album from when I was young—when my mother was still around. It’s one of the few things she left behind when she walked out on me and my father twenty-three years ago. I flip through the laminated pages, the smell of a home lost wafting through my nose with each page turn, finally landing on a few pictures of us at the beach. There’s one of me, waving at the camera in nothing but a bathing suit and a green bucket hat. Must have been six or seven. I take the picture out of the plastic and look at it closely. It’s grainy but unmistakable, my birthmark like a small splatter of paint directly over my heart.
Chapter 10
Hunchedovermyovalkitchen table with one leg raised up on the chair, I peruse the binders stuffed with an assortment of color SKUs and fabric swatches thrown haphazardly around me. I’m working from home today, trying to land on a coherent theme for Connor’s event. My glass of rosé is perched precariously on one of the many piles on the table while I riffle through the thick binder next to me.
It’s been a few days since that bizarre morning with Connor. He’s been radio silent since then and I only have the palm reader to thank. My response was to push the errant thoughts of what transpired that day far down somewhere where I don’t have to stumble on it anytime soon. It’s second nature, like a muscle I’ve trained to do my bidding.
The thought of him being spooked is almost laughable though. He’s always been hot-headed but to go so far as to pull a gun on an innocent bystander? What a ridiculous show of power.
I’ve conveniently omitted telling Sunny about it. I don’t like keeping secrets from her. But it hasn’t prevented me from doing just that for most of our friendship. The guilt of keeping so much from her nearly knocks my breath out of my lungs when I linger on the thought for too long. But these secrets are different. I’m the only one who needs to bear the memories of what I’ve done.
Then there’s the secret I share with Connor. The one I’ve been keeping for over two years now. But the reason I’ve kept that one hidden from Sunny has a lot more to do with pride—and absolute mortification. The thought of hearing her tell meI told you sowould be enough for me to wither up and die. I wish what I’m keeping from her could be as simple as us hooking up once or twice. That was never the problem. Frustratingly, it was the best part of that damn affair. But I’d stab Connor in the heart before I would ever come close to admitting that to him.
Pompous asshole.
My phone rings from under a pile of strewn papers and I curse under my breath while looking for it, hoping I’ll find it before the call ends. My hand finally lands on it and I fish it out, feeling slightly victorious. I notice it’s a blocked caller ID, but don’t think much of it since I have a panoply of businesses, venues and suppliers calling me at every hour of the day.
“Hello?”
“Penelope…”
My free hand shoots out as if trying to defend against an unidentified threat, knocking my wine right off the table. The glass shatters on the floor, mirroring the shattered pieces of my mind as the name that’s been long dead echoes in my ear.
“Who is this?” I say, trying to keep my voice as steady as possible. But a slumbering part of me knows. I could trace his face in the dark with just the sound of his voice.
I should hang up.Just fucking hang up.
But I’m utterly frozen, victim to the seconds creeping by, waiting for him to speak again.
“Has it been so long that you do not recognize the sound of your own brother’s voice?” Frederick says tauntingly.
I’m suddenly so nauseous that I fight the pool of saliva accumulating in my mouth threatening to turn into bile. I swallow hard, desperately trying to collect myself but my whole body is shaking. My reaction is visceral. Every single memory I’ve been trying to keep captive under duress is let loose. I don’t know if I’ll survive this resurgence when I’ve gone so long without looking at any of it.
The commune.
My sisters and brothers. My mother.
The cilice cutting into my skin.
My too-young body in a wedding dress.
The blood seeping into the cracks of the floorboards. My father’s dark eyes suddenly lifeless.
