I lay down on my bed, itching to draw, but there were things to do first and that just sucked. Real life was constantly in the way of me pretending my problems didn’t exist. Too bad denial wasn’t just a river in Egypt. I was queen of the bad jokes. Great at them. Maybe I could make them for a living.
I scanned through my texts. Some of my so-called friends were starting to inch out of the woodwork. I must be getting great social media exposure with Zeke, or they wouldn’t bother. Besides, I had no idea when I was coming back to New York, so I couldn’t make plans anyway.
Finally, I saw Hope. She had a bunch of questions that were easier to do on the phone and it was too early to call. I texted both she and Bridget that I’d call later and looked to where Kit had sent me another nude photo giving me the finger.
I had to answer him and Justin. It was time to put on my big girl panties and face this.
Kit, I’m sorry I hurt you. I truly am. But you and I are not meant to be together in any world. I see you’re enjoying your freedom, and for the sake of my mental health, I’m going to block you on here and all social media. Good luck in the future.
I didn’t say the things I wanted to. That his parents were crooks, probably laundering money for some criminal organization, and he and I had been pawns in a big game that linked our families for reasons other than love. I said none of that. Kit wouldn’t care. He might even know. I completely understood he was sick, but I was tired of being his kicking post. I’d let him vent for days. Enough was enough.
Next up was my brother. That was more complicated. He was my brother. What was I supposed to do with him?
His texts were a diatribe of hate followed by his begging me for forgiveness. Worry pressed down on my shoulders. As cutthroat as it was, it wasn’t hard for me to make Kit someone else’s problem. He had a big, rich family that would rescue him. Justin had us. My father, who was a hands-off parent to say the least, and my sisters plus me. We were quite the dysfunctional group.
I scanned through the texts over and over, looking for a direction, but none was there. I didn’t even know where Justin was. Had he gone with Kit to Bali? Was he still with them?
I sighed. Justin, I love you.
I hit send and hoped that was the right thing to do. I could be totally off base, but maybe his guilt about what he’d done to me had sent him into some kind of tailspin. Maybe I could alleviate that part of it. I couldn’t cure his drug addiction over text. Truth was, I had no idea whatsoever to do for him. Had Justin ever been to rehab?
I saw an artist the other day who knew Mom. She got really excited that I was her daughter. I sometimes forget that she existed and that she was so talented.
I closed off that text and sent off another one. This one to Michael Li. He might be totally the wrong person, but for goodness’ sake, the company didn’t employ a drug addiction specialist. Maybe they should.
Hi, it’s Layla. He might know. But I’d never texted him before. It seemed polite. My brother is in trouble. He’s losing it over text. If someone is with him, they should get him some help. If no one is, maybe get someone to him. Thanks.
Michael was quiet but always there and nice to us when he did speak. I wondered if he had secrets. How did you become security like him?
I clicked on the email app on my phone and read through what the publisher wanted. They’d sent some suggestions the ghostwriter and I could work on.
My take on fashion through various women of various ages. I rolled my eyes. Such an outdated idea. Women could wear whatever they wanted and at any age. Seriously, if it made them happy, it was their choice. Bikinis, fine. Short shorts, fine. If a woman my age wanted to wear prairie dresses and hiking boots, check, check. Sounded good. No. I mentally crossed off that choice. I was not going to degrade women by telling them there was a time limit on their fashion choices.
The next one was worse. Dressing for the life they wanted. No. No. No.
I threw myself down on the bed. I was already feeling compelled to redress strangers in the bathrooms of clubs. I didn’t want to stand outside of divorce attorney offices and wait to try to fix very real problems by suggesting a different set of pantyhose.
Fashion didn’t fix everything. I was dumb, but not that much of simpleton. None of the others were much better. Well this sucked. If I was supposed to support myself like this, it was going to be a pretty miserable life.
But maybe no one promised me happiness. Did I know anyone who was happy? I thought about that for a bit. Zeke maybe, but I wasn’t convinced he was actually happy. There were too many shadows, too many ways he was fooling himself, and when he opened up, he was clear about that, too.
No. I didn’t know anyone who was really happy.
We all carried ghosts. If I was supposed to live by telling people what to wear, then so be it. I would hate it. If it paid the bills, I’d just be another in a long line of the walking unhappy. Blah. What a thought. I grabbed my sketchbook. There were things that needed to be drawn, and I had to do them.
Had my mother felt this way? Was that why she killed herself? I closed my eyes. Yes, she’d done that. Time for some real truth. I’d start with that.
Chapter Eighteen
Paris was beautiful, always, but somehow, it was even more alive and vibrant when seeing it with an enthusiastic, engaged Zeke Scott. He’d surprised me that afternoon by wanting to take me out.
“My business with your father is ending. I don’t want to raise him any more money. The best I can do is take a little vacation. Few days with you. Come on. Let’s go out on my bike.”
He took me sightseeing. The two of us on his motorcycle. The security Michael had sent in a car discreetly behind us. The poor man had arrived and been immediately put to work. His name was Heathrow, like the airport, and he had a great British accent. When I asked if he was too tired, he’d scoffed at me like the idea was ridiculous, and I’d decided to take him at his word.
I took a selfie with a view of the Eiffel Tower behind us, not for public consumption, just for us. We didn’t need to get to my dad anymore. That ship had sailed. We drove on. Every sight, every view, we stopped and smiled. He was a good sport about my need to document things, and I thought he was pretty much just happy to be out on his bike in the middle of the day.
Ants crawled on the back of my neck the whole day. It must be the security trailing us. I could feel his eyes on me.
We ate dinner at home that night, and he taught me new things I could do with my vibrator. Things I hadn’t imagined doing with it before. It had been a tool to get off fast, not to play with for hours. And he’d finally let me give him a blow job. The taste of his hard, thick cock in my mouth had made me wet and ready. When we’d made love, it had been almost dawn. What was the difference? We weren’t getting up with an alarm.
I woke up, with his arms around me and the sun streaming in the room. I’d never felt better.
That was until we started to run again. I knew I would eventually get stronger. It was the eventually that was the problem. I made it about as far as I had the time before. The mural had changed, and I stopped to stare at it. There was my mother reading a book on the wall. My mouth fell open. This woman had really captured her. It was a magazine image. I’d seen it on the wall in one of our rental houses, framed. But I had no idea what had happened to it since. A capture of it was right there.