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My full gut twisted for many reasons, and I took another drink to calm it down.
“She isn’t Chandelle, and you shouldn’t have broken into her house in the middle of the night to bring her here. It still shocks me her father survived that night.”
“I told you he wasn’t home.” I took yet another drink.
“And you do know if you send her home, you’ll have to let him live? She needs someone to help take care of her.
“She’s quite independent.” I shrugged, more alcohol swishing down my throat. I topped up my glass, offering more to Ethan. A shake of his head told me he was done drinking for the night.
“She’s got no wheelchair or means to get up and down the stairs back home.” He looked sympathetic now.
“I can take care of that.”
“You really think she’ll want anything to do with you if you kill her father?” Ethan stood, hands grappling at his dirty dishes, collecting them on his way out. “She won’t. You know that.” He stopped at my side, his shadow darkening all my thoughts.
I didn’t look at him. My gaze drifted between the drink I swirled and the glowing moon outside.
“It would be over between you two. No chance...and deep down, I know you well enough to know you don’t want that. How this started doesn’t have to be how it ends. Maybe in some twisted way, the universe is giving you what Chandelle promised...her heart.”
He left, leaving me alone with too many thoughts and half a bottle of alcohol, and I used that bottle to drown them all.
I woke with my head on the shiny table, my empty glass shaming me as I lifted my heavy head. Nonna pattering around in the kitchen had interrupted sweet dreams of the past...of a life I once had. But the girl I shared those memories with wasn’t the one who held my hand in my mind’s eye.
Before I knew it, I was halfway up the stairs, with the Campari bottle gripped tightly in my fingers. I took the last sip as I rounded the top. Nonna’s little noises made their way up here, but they weren’t coming from behind Feebee’s door, where my gaze was locked.
Some kind of magnetic force pulled me forward, and I didn’t think about excuses, reasons, or consequences as I opened the door, sneaking in quietly. The lights were out, but the backyard light offered a little guidance.
She had a nice view from this room...my favorite view. The lake, the trees, nature...beautiful nature. A cruel taunt, as she’d been cooped up inside for weeks.
I brought the bottle to my lips again, feeling slightly annoyed when only a single droplet landed on my tongue. I turned from the window, my black shoe kicking something over.
She’d used one of my canvases...one of my gifts. I lowered to my haunches to examine the fallen painting. Luckily, it was dry, and the attack of fluffy carpet fibers could easily be brushed away without causing ruin.
Her design was beautiful, the perfect image of a broken heart. I felt its pain as my fingers dipped into the crack, all made deeper with artistic tools and sharp skills.
Feebee was the kind of artist I wanted. Someone with talent and emotion, putting both of those things into her art pieces.
I smiled, looking over to her on the bed, sheets pulled up to her throat, hiding whatever she wore beneath. I put the painting down...wanting to see more of her...needing to see more of her, and I made my way over to her.
She lay on her back, legs stretched out, her head tilted to the side, with her hair covering so much of her pretty face. I wanted to move it. To touch her. I wanted so many things that confused the fuck out of me.
And I felt sick with guilt because of them.
Feebee
Had alcohol fogged his vision, or was I a better actress than I thought?
He thought I was asleep as gentle fingers pushed back my hair. My eyelashes fluttered, lowering closer to my cheeks so he wouldn’t see my deception.
I didn’t see him suck air in, but I heard him exhale as he drifted away, trailing the posts of my bed, the voile between his fingers. I felt colder without him. Lonely as he reached the door.
Silent wishes prevented him from turning the door knob. Another wish brought him closer. The bottle in his hand never made it to my bed as he slipped from his suit jacket, leaving all his concerns in the tweed pockets, now on the floor.
He sunk down beside me, not touching me. He made himself comfortable on a soft pillow.
I wish I knew what he was thinking. That silent wish was granted when a pen and Post-it left a note on my bedside table. It was barely readable in the dark, the red pen granting a small mercy on my eyes.
You have no idea what you do to me.
