I could only see a hint of her profile with the way she was turned, but I caught her ghost of a smile.
My chest ached at the sight. To say I missed her was a cruel understatement, like saying you'd miss your soul after you gave it away. After it was torn from you.
I was empty.
Flesh without blood.
I was not whole without her.
Never would be.
I wasn't a big enough fool to believe that could ever change.
I downed the pills and took a long swig of my coffee. All the while she didn't move, just staring at the box.
"Open it," I urged her. I had no idea if she would. At that moment she was an utter enigma to me.
I still couldn't figure out why she hadn't made me leave yet.
Well, I had an idea, a gnawing, sickening suspicion, but my fear of the notion made me instantly reject it. Denial is a powerful thing.
I tensed when I realized she was actually going to open the gift, leaning forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
She took the Louboutins out of the box without a word, setting them side by side on the counter. "Highness Strass," she said reverently.
"Did you just address your shoes as Highness Strass?"
She shot me a look. "That's their name."
"You know the name of the shoe?"
She actually looked sheepish for a short, endearing moment. It was adorable. It made me want to kiss her silly. And fuck her mindless. But that was nothing new.
"What I mean is, I don't want them," she rallied. "Quit buying me shoes, you stalker."
"Well, you can throw them away, like the other pair, or do whatever you want with them, but I'm not taking them back, and I had to get you something. To congratulate you on landing the big part."
She was back to drooling over the shoes. "Why did you pick these ones, in particular?" She asked it with begrudging admiration in her voice.
I'd done well.
"I had help, from one of our department store stylists. I told her you were deep into shoe-porn, that you only get off on the hardcore stuff." I warmed as I saw that she had to bite back her smile. "And she recommended a few. These ones stood out to me the most."
With a sigh, she set them back in the box, turning to look at me. "What are you doing here?" Her voice was almost gentle with the finest edge of pain.
It was foreign on her, so unaccountably vulnerable, that it made me wince. "I told you earlier. I had a question for you. You didn't answer it."
She waved her hand in the air, dismissing the notion. "What I mean is, what are you doing in town?"
I stared at her, because she knew the answer to that. Still, if she wanted to play pretend, I could do that too. I was, in fact, excellent at it. "I'm here for work. Thought I'd stop by while I was in the neighborhood."
She folded her arms together until she was almost hugging herself and just stared at me.
Her face was tragic.
It was too much. It knocked the wind out of me.
I was undone with a glance. I couldn't even meet her eyes when she gazed at me like that. I looked down at my hands as an unmistakable wave of fear rocked through me.
Her expression told me everything and nothing, but one thing was for certain, she knew something she wasn't supposed to, and all of the rules had changed.
I felt unutterable guilt at the relief that washed over me. It was so powerful that for a moment it nearly drowned out the fear.
But only for a moment.
"Look at me," she coaxed softly. "Look at me and tell me what you've done."
I fled. Found my clothes, pulled them on with clumsy, jerking movements, and got the hell out of there.
She never stirred, didn't turn to watch me, didn't say another word, though it didn't escape my notice that she was shaking like a leaf.
Hugging herself and trembling like she could barely hold herself together.
It was pure hell to walk away.
And absolutely necessary.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"Beauty, more than bitterness, makes the heart break."
~Sara Teasdale
PAST
SCARLETT
I'd heard rumors, and over the years they'd grown more persistent. Whispers about Jethro Davis. It was commonly assumed that he was my father. Even my doubtful grandma had admitted a few years prior that he was the most likely candidate.
I'd never seen the man, but I hated the very idea that I could have a dad so close, in this very town, and he'd never even bothered to meet me.
Never once bothered to see what his daughter looked like. If she was all right.
Never bothered to make sure she didn't end up in a dumpster.
I preferred instead to fantasize that he was someone glamorous, someone rich, maybe even famous, some man who didn't even know I existed, because if he did, nothing could have kept him away.
But then, one day, I ran into Jethro Davis.
The rumors I'd heard about him weren't only about him being my father. A lot of them were about the man himself. The things he did. He was a criminal. A drug dealer and some said worse, that a few people who'd crossed him hadn't lived long to regret it.