Even if my bullshit meter was screaming over that corny as hell line.
“I took the liberty of having Pierre whip you up a proper breakfast since I know you didn’t have time for that before you got here,” Justine practically sings as she floats down the hall,gliding into the kitchen as her linen sundress whirls around her ankles.
Setting my bag on the floor, I hop up on one of the barstools next to the makeshift island in the center of the room, the kitchen itself larger than the loft portion of my apartment—which is pretty freaking big—and currently being used as the restoration HQ.
The island isn’t an original part of the house, but it’s become a necessity while restorations are taking place, serving as a table for the crew to sit and hash out blueprints or whatever. And to eat the massive meals Pierre provides, which is another one of their personal touches that boosts morale.
“What’s with Lurch?”
She cracks a smile and looks toward the hall with a shrug. “Extra security. I guess some teenagers broke in a few nights ago and got all the way to the third floor before the police showed up.”
I nod and watch as Justine reheats the breakfast, chattering on the whole time, and cleaning as she goes. She’s so pretty with her deep bronze skin shimmering in the sunlight, and her dark brown hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. Justine is so beautiful, so full of life, and looks like a damn model in her twenties instead of the almost fifty-five-year-old woman she is. And her carefree, whimsical attitude only adds to her appeal.
No wonder why Pierre is so lovesick every time he sees her.
In an effort to humor the only woman who ever attempted to mother me, I try to eat the meal on the countertop, but my stomach turns and flips with each small bite, and I have to swallow ridiculously hard to keep anything down. The smell alone has me struggling with the overwhelming need to evacuate what little was already in my system, and putting more in is not a great idea.
Justine starts singing to herself as she floats around the kitchen, and the corners of my mouth pull up slightly when she laughs about something Pierre did earlier, this incredible woman trying desperately to fill the uncomfortable void that now stretches between us. I watch her twirl, and suddenly my mind is wandering down memory lane, back to when I first met Justine, that day all those years ago that would restitch my path and weave the thread dangerously close to too many others.
I was barely eighteen when Justine found me, alone and trying desperately to make ends meet. I graduated from high school early but couldn’t afford to pursue my passions in a formal setting, so I did what I could on the streets of the Main Quarter. Every single morning, I set up a spot on the side of the street with my oil paintings and guitar, doing whatever I could to make a few bucks or earn a hot meal.
Then one day, Justine showed up in a whirlwind of colors and sparkles looking every bit a magical, powerful fairy queen, and offering an outrageous amount of money for one of my mediocre paintings of the Mardi Gras festivities.
I was never proud of that type of thing, we both knew my paintings were garbage, but the tourists ate it up, and it was one of the only ways to make some cash.
Justine had argued with me, shouted at me for wasting what was clearly mytrue talent and passionon the streets of abeautiful but dangerous city. Then she threw the money in my guitar case and stormed off, leaving the painting behind in an irrational fit of rage.
She started coming by every day after that, every day for almost two years, making sure I was eating or at least had money to do so. Justine eventually talked me into moving down to her cafe that specialized in eclectic knickknacks and spiritual antiquities. Then she hired me to work the register, pending I sellreal artfrom the shop as well.
It was because of Justine that I was able to get off the streets and on my feet, and shortly after, she introduced me to the men who would become my band, my family, my entire heart and soul. And indirectly the monster who would take every ounce of my soul and destroy it.
My heart still aches when I think of those days.
“Leonor? Hello? Are you finished, child?” I look up to find Justine staring at me, that look of concern creeping back into her features.
“Sorry, I’m not that hungry. I ate before I left.”
I stand and grab my bag then take off up the servant’s stairs behind her before she has the chance to call me on my shit. Justine would never consider what I had at home ameal, and I’m tired of arguing with her about everything under the sun.
Pushing the loose pieces of hair that escaped my bun behind my ears, I walk into bedroom number seven—each of them are numbered, and the house is split into grids in order to help the crew—and blow out a breath becausehow is this my life.
Unrolling my brushes and tools, I quickly set up my workstation in a very meticulous and deliberate way. It’s one of the few things I still have minimal control over while I spiral downward.
I take my position on the stool, put in my ear buds and let the music take me far away from this place, wondering what it would be like to do more than just survive.
Or finally stop trying at all.
I liftmy head slowly from the portrait of Mrs. Beatrice Bissonnette I’m working on as my heart starts slamming into my rib cage.
I’m no longer alone.
I canfeelsomeone’s presence in the doorway.
My stomach is in my throat, my throat that is so tight I can barely breathe.
I can’t move, can’t speak.
I can’t even turn around.
