Time.” He kissed my cheek. “Goodnight.”
“G’night.”
I kicked off my flip-flops, playing back our conversation in my head. Something about the casual way he had mentioned Ana Marie struck me as odd.
Chapter 7 Ciao, Bella
October 11 th
With the curtains open, I sat at the antique vanity, under the natural light. I leaned so close to the mirror, my nose nearly touched it. The advantage to listening to my father and not staying up all night was that the signs of life were slowly coming back to my face: the puffy dark circles from switching time zones had mostly faded, and the crow wound was slowly starting to scab over. Gross. But at least now I could lose the giant bandag e .
I slathered on an assortment of fancy Frenc h crème s my mother had stocked my dorm room with. She must be doing something right, to stay so young-lookin g . As I breathed in the lavender moisturizer, I wondered if she used the same scent. Too lazy to do much else, I ripped a comb through my tangles, spritzed in some product, and hoped my mop of brown waves would dry in a decent manner.
Black leggings. Grey T-shirt. Shit-kickers.
It was unsettling that my old routine felt only vaguely familiar. When would things start to feel normal again?
I reached for my chain on the vanity and also found the silver medallion from the disintegrating lace. I moved cl oser to the window and held it under the morning light – there was something underneath the burned star. Initials. I breathed heavily on it and rubbed it with my towel, vowing to clean it properly later, in my father’s studio. The letters were difficult to make out at first, but then became clearer: A.S.G., etched in sweeping calligraphy. I flipped it over to see if I had missed anything else last night. There was nothing special on the other side – just the ornate borde r .
Something about the medallion felt old, and I found myself slipping it onto the silver chain next to the sun charm my father had made.
I looped the long, thin necklace over my head. My collar slouched off one shoulder, revealing th e gris-gri s ribbon . Who was A.S. G .?
* * *
I brought my second café a u (powdered) lait with me into my father’s room. He looked depressed, blindly dumping stuff into a large garbage can. I wondered if I should stay and help him.
“Morning,” I said and decided that having to unexpectedly throw away piles of your own work was something an artist would want to do alone. “I’m gonna go for a walk, check out the grocery situation, and swing by Café Orléans.”
“All right, let’s go for a run when you get back, before it gets too hot?”
“Ugh, sure.” It had been months since I had done any real physical activity.
“That’s the spirit, honey.”
I smiled and left the coffee for him on his workbench.
On the way to the front door, I grabbed my bag and reached for my keys. They shot up into my palm.
I stopped short.
Quickly, I looked around to see if anyone else had just witnessed the strange occurrence, knowing full well that no one was there. My fingers tightened around the keys into a fist.
Breath e .
The metal felt warm, and my fingers began to tingle . My heart started skipping as I racked my brain for a reasonable explanation, but nothing came to mind. I felt strangely at odds, like my subconscious was trying to fight back – fighting the part of me that was desperately trying to suppress yesterday’s memories as if they were a bad dream.
Trying not to go into a full-on panic attack, I dropped the keys into my bag and did what any reasonable person would do: ignored it and hustled out the door.
My nervousness transferred from my shoulders down to my feet, which carried me down the block at a non-Southern pace. I misjudged the hop onto the curb and stumbled, but caught myself before falling.
“Adele? You okay?” Felix Palermo yelled, witnessing my spastic moment. He sure had good eyesight for someone pushing eighty. The old man was
“G’night.”
I kicked off my flip-flops, playing back our conversation in my head. Something about the casual way he had mentioned Ana Marie struck me as odd.
Chapter 7 Ciao, Bella
October 11 th
With the curtains open, I sat at the antique vanity, under the natural light. I leaned so close to the mirror, my nose nearly touched it. The advantage to listening to my father and not staying up all night was that the signs of life were slowly coming back to my face: the puffy dark circles from switching time zones had mostly faded, and the crow wound was slowly starting to scab over. Gross. But at least now I could lose the giant bandag e .
I slathered on an assortment of fancy Frenc h crème s my mother had stocked my dorm room with. She must be doing something right, to stay so young-lookin g . As I breathed in the lavender moisturizer, I wondered if she used the same scent. Too lazy to do much else, I ripped a comb through my tangles, spritzed in some product, and hoped my mop of brown waves would dry in a decent manner.
Black leggings. Grey T-shirt. Shit-kickers.
It was unsettling that my old routine felt only vaguely familiar. When would things start to feel normal again?
I reached for my chain on the vanity and also found the silver medallion from the disintegrating lace. I moved cl oser to the window and held it under the morning light – there was something underneath the burned star. Initials. I breathed heavily on it and rubbed it with my towel, vowing to clean it properly later, in my father’s studio. The letters were difficult to make out at first, but then became clearer: A.S.G., etched in sweeping calligraphy. I flipped it over to see if I had missed anything else last night. There was nothing special on the other side – just the ornate borde r .
Something about the medallion felt old, and I found myself slipping it onto the silver chain next to the sun charm my father had made.
I looped the long, thin necklace over my head. My collar slouched off one shoulder, revealing th e gris-gri s ribbon . Who was A.S. G .?
* * *
I brought my second café a u (powdered) lait with me into my father’s room. He looked depressed, blindly dumping stuff into a large garbage can. I wondered if I should stay and help him.
“Morning,” I said and decided that having to unexpectedly throw away piles of your own work was something an artist would want to do alone. “I’m gonna go for a walk, check out the grocery situation, and swing by Café Orléans.”
“All right, let’s go for a run when you get back, before it gets too hot?”
“Ugh, sure.” It had been months since I had done any real physical activity.
“That’s the spirit, honey.”
I smiled and left the coffee for him on his workbench.
On the way to the front door, I grabbed my bag and reached for my keys. They shot up into my palm.
I stopped short.
Quickly, I looked around to see if anyone else had just witnessed the strange occurrence, knowing full well that no one was there. My fingers tightened around the keys into a fist.
Breath e .
The metal felt warm, and my fingers began to tingle . My heart started skipping as I racked my brain for a reasonable explanation, but nothing came to mind. I felt strangely at odds, like my subconscious was trying to fight back – fighting the part of me that was desperately trying to suppress yesterday’s memories as if they were a bad dream.
Trying not to go into a full-on panic attack, I dropped the keys into my bag and did what any reasonable person would do: ignored it and hustled out the door.
My nervousness transferred from my shoulders down to my feet, which carried me down the block at a non-Southern pace. I misjudged the hop onto the curb and stumbled, but caught myself before falling.
“Adele? You okay?” Felix Palermo yelled, witnessing my spastic moment. He sure had good eyesight for someone pushing eighty. The old man was
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