“It is?”
“It is,” I nodded, turning to start walking again. “Because I will never, ever be controlled again. By anybody. So I’m good.”
I had a hard time meeting his gaze after that, knowing he was probably wondering what the hell was wrong with me, and what was happening in my head. So I didn’t even try, opting instead to focus on getting back to the candle shop.
A mistake I didn’t realize until I was standing in front of it, with my keys out.
A mistake I never would have made before my abrupt departure from service to the Garden.
“This is your spot?” Tristan asked, incredulous, as he peered through the dust-coated glass, trying to get a peek inside. The awnings were cared for by the neighborhood as a whole, so they were still intact, giving us the protection needed for him to let down the umbrella.
I had my keys out like a dummy, so there was no point in lying.
“Yeah,” I told him. “That some kinda problem?”
He shook his head. “Nah, not at all. Just… unexpected. Which I… should’ve expected, honestly,” he chuckled. “You gonna revamp it or something? You really like candles?”
“I don’t give a shit about candles,” I blurted. “But… yeah. I might revamp it.”
“Why spend the time on something you don’t give a shit about?”
I shrugged. “Why not?”
“Because you could spend it on something you do give a shit about it.”
“But I don’t have anything I give a shit about,” I argued, immediately regretting my candor when I saw the way his expression changed. “I mean… I don’t know what I give a shit about,” I corrected. “I didn’t… I didn’t have a lot of leisure time, before I left my job.”
“Ohhh.” His face relaxed, and he nodded. “That’s right, you did say you were on sabbatical. That’s a lot of change at once,” he added. “Breakup, leaving your job, starting a new thing, getting tattoos, threatening to stab niggas… I’m no expert, but it seems like you’re beasting this whole woman of mystery thing.”
I laughed, shaking my head at his assessment of it all. Of course I couldn’t correct him about the breakup and the job being related to the same thing, but I couldn’t front… it felt good to have someone thinking I was getting something right.
Especially since it didn’t feel that way to me.
“I’m glad you think so,” I told him. “But… I think our food is getting cold.”
“It reheats fine,” he countered with a grin, then bit his lip. “But I’ll let you get to it. Ms. Glad You Think So.”
“Oh, so I’m not Ms. Not Interested anymore?”
“Nah, you’re way too interested for that.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Oh, you think so?”
“Nah, I know so,” he said, letting his umbrella out again as he backed away. “I’ll see you around.” He stepped from underneath the awning, still looking at me, but then shifting back to the store window. “Candle shop,” he muttered, like he could barely believe it. “What are you gonna call it?”
I looked at the window, considering the question for a moment before I shrugged.
“I’ll be sure to let you know, when I know the answer to that.”
Do you really think you’ll ever be more than an asset?
A puppet?
You can’t possibly believe you’ll ever be able to function without someone else pulling your strings.
Stupid girl.
Those were the thoughts that woke me from my sleep in the wee hours of the morning, driving me from the warm comfort of my bed. It was frustrating, really, because sleep was already a scarce resource for me – one I refused to augment with artificial means.
Even if it meant I’d be dragging ass for the rest of the day.
It wasn’t as if I had any place to be anyway.
Phone in hand, I went downstairs, to the workroom that was now pretty empty. After a deep dive of research – the one plus side of my insomnia – I’d gotten rid of all the old expired wax, fragrance oils, old candles and everything else that was no longer usable.
And ordered all new things.
Fresh soy wax flakes and wood wicks that would crackle like a fireplace when burned. Essential fragrance oils, and thermometers and all kinds of other shit.
I kinda needed an obsession – somewhere to focus my energy and attention that was… healthy. And I’d found one.
None of the new things had arrived yet, though.
So, I sat down in the middle of the empty workroom, imagining what it could be, and marveling at the fact that I…. was really about to make fucking candles, of all things.
Chuckling to myself, I picked up the phone and unlocked the screen, dialing my mentor’s number. It was early – or late, depending on how you looked at it – but before she’d sent me here, she’d insisted on something.
If you need me… call me.
So I did.
“Are you okay? Did something happen?” she asked, picking up after the second ring. She sounded breathless, but not in ran to the phone kinda way – a suspicion furthered by a male voice mumbling in the background, far too close for him to not be intimately near.
“No. Not really. I’m fine,” I quickly shot off. “Is this a bad time? Because—”
“No,” she insisted. “Will you get off me?” she hissed, half-annoyed, half-giggling, in a damn-near identical tone to what Charlie had been using with her husband in Pot Liquor last week.
That in love sound that grated at me.
“Are you sure?” I asked, not wanting to interrupt, and also not wanting to hear her go back and forth with her lover about whether or not he was going to give her any peace.
“Yes,” she answered, clearing her throat. “Cree is going to behave himself—”
“Hey Tempest!” he called in the background, and despite myself, I smiled.
He was cool.
And fine.
“Tell him I said hello,” I told Alicia, and she delivered the message before demanding that he really did leave her alone, this time.
He promised.
And then he made her giggle again.
Giggle.
As if she wasn’t one of the deadliest Roses the Garden had ever seen, damn near a legend before she left to re-integrate into “normal” society. We were only Roses at the same time for the briefest of periods, but I, like the other girls, idolized her.
Romanticized her story.
The truth was ugly though.
I only barely blamed her for upending my entire life by bringing the Garden down.
“Assuming you’re still in Blackwood, you’re what, three hours ahead of me? So you should be good and sleep right now, but you claim there’s nothing wrong?”
Her mention of the time difference made me not feel as bad about calling at this time – it wasn’t as odd of an hour for her as it was for me.
“There’s not anything wrong,” I insisted. “I can’t sleep.”
“You called because you can’t sleep?”
“I called because I’m going to make candles.”
There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment, and then a quiet, happy chuckle. “You found your hobby.”