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I rolled my eyes. I was so not a princess. But it was somehow not so bad when he said it. An endearment that could be a sneer. Or maybe it had started as an insult, and now he was using it kindlier.
As per usual, I was way overanalyzing Zeke. Of course, I was still spread eagle on the bed with his saliva inside of me. It might be normal to be so out of sync. I jumped up and went back to the bathroom to clean up again. When I came out, it was time to face my phone.
I’d never hated it the way I did these days. I’d been constantly on it. But now it was like a leash. I wanted to talk to my sisters but tell the rest of the world—namely, Kit and Justin—to fuck off. Maybe I wasn’t being fair to Kit. I’d hurt him, and he was as much of an addict as my brother. I had to somehow remember that.
I lay down on my bed, itching to draw, but there were things to do first and that just sucked. Real life was constantly in the way of me pretending my problems didn’t exist. Too bad denial wasn’t just a river in Egypt. I was queen of the bad jokes. Great at them. Maybe I could make them for a living.
I scanned through my texts. Some of my so-called friends were starting to inch out of the woodwork. I must be getting great social media exposure with Zeke, or they wouldn’t bother. Besides, I had no idea when I was coming back to New York, so I couldn’t make plans anyway.
Finally, I saw Hope. She had a bunch of questions that were easier to do on the phone and it was too early to call. I texted both she and Bridget that I’d call later and looked to where Kit had sent me another nude photo giving me the finger.
I had to answer him and Justin. It was time to put on my big girl panties and face this.
Kit, I’m sorry I hurt you. I truly am. But you and I are not meant to be together in any world. I see you’re enjoying your freedom, and for the sake of my mental health, I’m going to block you on here and on social media. Good luck in the future.
I didn’t say the things I wanted to. That his parents were crooks, probably laundering money for some criminal organization, and he and I had been pawns in a big game that linked our families for reasons other than love. I said none of that. Kit wouldn’t care. He might even know. I completely understood he was sick, but I was tired of being his kicking post. I’d let him vent for days. Enough was enough.
Next up was my brother. That was more complicated. He was my brother. What was I supposed to do with him?
His texts were a diatribe of hate followed by his begging me for forgiveness. Worry pressed down on my shoulders. As cutthroat as it was, it wasn’t hard for me to make Kit someone else’s problem. He had a big, rich family that would rescue him. Justin had us. My father, who was a hands-off parent to say the least, and my sisters plus me. We were quite the dysfunctional group.
I scanned through the texts over and over, looking for a direction, but none was there. I didn’t even know where Justin was. Had he gone with Kit to Bali? Was he still with them?
I sighed.Justin, I love you.
I hit send and hoped that was the right thing to do. I could be totally off base, but maybe his guilt about what he’d done to me had sent him into some kind of tailspin. Maybe I could alleviate that part of it. I couldn’t cure his drug addiction over text. Truth was, I had no idea whatsoever to do for him. Had Justin ever been to rehab?
I saw an artist the other day who knew Mom. She got really excited that I was her daughter. I sometimes forget that she existed and that she was so talented.
I closed off that text and sent off another one. This one to Michael Li. He might be totally the wrong person, but for goodness’ sake, the company didn’t employ a drug addiction specialist. Maybe they should.
Hi, it’s Layla. He might know. But I’d never texted him before. It seemed polite.My brother is in trouble. He’s losing it over text. If someone is with him, they should get him some help. If no one is, maybe get someone to him. Thanks.
Michael was quiet but always there and nice to us when he did speak. I wondered if he had secrets. How did you become security like him?
I clicked on the email app on my phone and read through what the publisher wanted. They’d sent some suggestions the ghostwriter and I could work on.
My take on fashion through various women of various ages. I rolled my eyes. Such an outdated idea. Women could wear whatever they wanted and at any age. Seriously, if it made them happy, it was their choice. Bikinis, fine. Short shorts, fine. If a woman my age wanted to wear prairie dresses and hiking boots, check, check. Sounded good. No. I mentally crossed off that choice. I was not going to degrade women by telling them there was a time limit on their fashion choices.
The next one was worse. Dressing for the life they wanted. No. No. No.
I threw myself down on the bed. I was already feeling compelled to redress strangers in the bathrooms of clubs. I didn’t want to stand outside of divorce attorney offices and wait to try to fix very real problems by suggesting a different set of pantyhose.
Fashion didn’t fix everything. I was dumb, but not that much of simpleton. None of the others were much better. Well this sucked. If I was supposed to support myself like this, it was going to be a pretty miserable life.
But maybe no one promised me happiness. Did I know anyone who was happy? I thought about that for a bit. Zeke maybe, but I wasn’t convinced he was actually happy. There were too many shadows, too many ways he was fooling himself, and when he opened up, he was clear about that, too.
No. I didn’t know anyone who was really happy.
We all carried ghosts. If I was supposed to live by telling people what to wear, then so be it. I would hate it. If it paid the bills, I’d just be another in a long line of the walking unhappy. Blah. What a thought. I grabbed my sketchbook. There were things that needed to be drawn, and I had to do them.
Had my mother felt this way? Was that why she killed herself? I closed my eyes. Yes, she’d done that. Time for some real truth. I’d start with that.
18
Paris was beautiful, always, but somehow, it was even more alive and vibrant when seeing it with an enthusiastic, engaged Zeke Scott. He’d surprised me that afternoon by wanting to take me out.
“My business with your father is ending. I don’t want to raise him any more money. The best I can do is take a little vacation. Few days with you. Come on. Let’s go out on my bike.”
