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“Yes, Sir. Face video or pussy video?”
“Face this time. I miss your face.”
“We probably see each other more now that we don’t live together.”
“Video chats are good, but it’s not the same as being able to tuck that curl behind your ear.”
She brushed it back where I wanted it, so it would stop obscuring her beautiful, beloved face.
“Good night, Sir.”
I sighed. “You’re so responsible.”
“There’ll be a video for you in the morning.”
Her quiet, affectionate smile made my heart ache.
We couldn’t keep living like this—apart, living half-lives.
The problem was, I didn’t have a solution.
Chapter Seventeen: Loïc
The evil nothingness sucks at Loïc, dragging him nearer the abyss.
Should he care if it swallows him whole?
Loïc Leduc, Journal 14
Since I’d arrived home, I’d spent my time painting. I didn’t have reference pictures to work from, but when I closed my eyes all of the details were there, waiting.
Martine wouldn’t leave me the hell alone. She followed me around the house, her smooth face disdainful, a mocking gleam in her eye. It was like looking in the mirror, those eyes. She hated me, but I couldn’t guess why.
As a child, I’d imagined that maybe I looked like my father and that their failed love affair was what made her dislike me. Maybe seeing me brought back hurtful memories. When I’d found him, though, I realized we looked nothing alike. He’d known about me all along and hadn’t given a damn, other than to pay Martine a steady stream of money to keep my existence a secret. They hadn’t had a relationship—just a few hookups.
Maybe she hated me because I wasn’t strong enough to stand up to her. Or maybe I wasn’t obedient enough. There were so many questions a dead woman couldn’t answer, not that I’d dared to ask them when she was alive.
I drank so much I had to hire a car to get into town.
Climbing the fire escape to Jack’s apartment, I felt like I might fall to my death any moment, but I’d never had that kind of luck. I swayed as I worked open the window and slipped inside. The apartment was warm, and the cool air that stole inside with me made Jack roll over and pull the covers up around their ears.
Simply being in the same room with them was a comfort. I inhaled the scent of whatever they’d made for supper, the smell making my liquor-filled stomach queasy even as it settled my mind.
I could do this.
Have this.
I could make myself meals, shop for groceries. Minnow had showed me how. But I couldn’t even bother to have them delivered. Mostly, I ate whatever Minnow and Rodrigo served, or the leftovers they pushed into my hands as I was leaving their house. Sometimes, I would forget to eat for days.
I curled up against the wall, deciding not to wake Jack. They had barely stirred, other than to pull up their covers. In the dimness I couldn’t see the color in their hair, but each angle of their face was painfully dear to me.
Their likeness was painted over several doors in my house, the way other people displayed crucifixes.
Jack was my patron saint.
As though they could feel me in the room, their eyes slid open.
“You smell like a distillery.”
