Page 101

Well, I drank and puked the minibar. And I’ve forgotten zero of the pain or the dumbass move I pulled. I brush my teeth and flip open a notebook to pray to the only thing that makes sense, Kris. She has to be out there somewhere. You can’t be that bold and vibrant, then nothing. I believe she became a part of the whole and now it burns red fucking hot because she’s there. It’s been six years since she flamed this world and lit up mine.

Kris,

Hey, it’s your favorite soap opera. What the fuck do I do now? The bathroom floor is cold on my ass through this white embroidered nightgown. I bought it because it reminded me of the ones we bought in France back when you were fucking alive. You were the only other person on this planet who ever got me from the beginning.

You were big enough to handle me. Now, I’m a hysterical crier. I don’t know what to do.

I’m going to peel myself off this floor and crawl into the fluffy good bed and hopefully pass out until things are fixed.

Miss you, bish.

Xo

Lizzie.

BETTE

I toss and turn and think of Kris, but the bed has a sharp spot. Not flat or lumpy but sharp, and I keep waking up when I roll over it. Kris took every opportunity and chance, and I’m paralyzed by not taking a chance on the one thing I want in life. I fought for the wrong thing.

I say out loud, “I’m an embarrassment to your memory.” I roll over and wince again. I turn the light on to eliminate the sharp thing and when I rip back the covers, it’s like a beacon, daring me to follow—the Eiffel Tower key chain with one solo key attached.

“This is it, right? I don’t care if it’s three in the morning. I’m doing it.” I stand up and step on something pointed. I hop around for a second, in fucking pain. I look down and it’s my key chain.

I look up as if Kris is looking down. I flip her off. “I got it! Enough. No more pain. You’re right. I’m going.”

I’m a flurry of activity, grabbing my trench coat and cramming my feet into the closest shoes. It’s only when I’m on the street I realize they’re the painful but pretty Chanel heels and I don’t have a wallet or my phone. But I don’t need them I have the key to my fucking future in my hand. I know exactly where I’m going for the first time in my life.

I run as fast as I can. I hope he’ll understand the urgency. Or he’ll call the police and lock me up.

The streets are quiet and familiar. The sparkle of the streetlamps are lighting a path as if it’s the only way to go. My lungs are starting to burn a little and I ignore the stitch in my side. I’m running and the shoes are definitely filling with blood, but it doesn’t matter. All that pain is nothing compared to the pain of losing him. I’m ready to face this, whether it goes badly or not. My guts feel like this is wrong and scary, so it must be right. Because they’ve always been wrong.

I careen around the last corner and our house sits at the end of the block. It’s the beginning of who we were supposed to be.

I cross to my spot and grin at his messy hair and my heart will never recover. He’s standing in one place, painting in our dream apartment where he said he’d create a studio all those years ago.

I wipe my eyes and rush across the street, and this time my eyes are filled with joy, not sadness. I bang on the door and wait. I bang with both fists again. But I know the way back to him now, so I put the key in the door, and it creaks open. The dazzling foyer, the black-and-white harlequin pattern floor, gives me chills.

I ditch my shoes and quickly climb the gleaming white marble staircase. The key works again and I walk into the third floor apartment. His things punctuate the space and it dawns on me, he didn’t just come here. His mother has a key, he’s lived here for years, maybe.

My heart pounds as I enter the kitchen, and run my hand over the same giant kitchen island. I cling so hard to the idea that this is ours. I’m here and I’ll never leave his side, if he doesn’t run.

* * *

I climb the stairs quietly, not sure what he’ll do. I push the door and it creaks open. His eyes instantly turn to me. He’s covered in paint but doesn’t seem surprised to see me. Did his mom tell him she gave me the key? The citrus musk of that boy I loved so long ago and the man of my dreams standing before me has me dumbstruck.

“C’est moi. Je suis rentré.” I simply say it’s me and I’ve come home. There’s silence. I’m so anxious and breathless and my stomach is in knots.

My breath catches as I stare at him, barefoot in paint-splattered jeans and a grey Temple t-shirt that’s seen better days. There’s all the colors of the world speckled on his shirt and I can’t help but stare at this fabulous, sexy man.

We stand facing each other for moment. His blue-grey eyes lighting up, then hardening like quicksilver to stone.

He leans back on the wall with the city light spilling over him. He’s breathtaking.

“Took you long enough to find me. What can I do for you, Bette?”

I blurt out without any thought of what I was actually going to say, all my rational explanations gone, “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry.”

He says nothing, so I keep talking as he places his brush down and moves a small table filled with a palette and paints to the side.