by Celeste, B.
If I didn’t bulk at his statement, it was a miracle. The more I thought about it, the more I realized he wasn’t wrong. I’d spent a lot of time with her, teaching her things, just like a father figure would. When the man had seen my expression, he just chuckled. I wasn’t sure why, but he did. I wasn’t about to explain I didn’t have kids and never thought about it either, because what did that say about me toting around a young girl that wasn’t mine?
I couldn’t help but lean toward Della, my eyes pinning hers until she squirmed. “Tell me, Della, how would you use my house?”
She visibly swallowed, her eyes going to my lips for a microsecond longer than normal. Whatever thoughts were crossing her mind were dangerous because her cheeks darkened right before she averted her eyes. “Your kitchen,” she whispered. I blinked, not all that surprised by her answer. “It’s too pretty not to be used,” she continued, looking over her shoulder at the marble countertops and stainless-steel appliances.
Out of everything her active imagination could probably conjure I couldn’t help but tease. “You’d…cook?”
“Sure. Why not?”
It was hard not to grin. “Two minutes ago, you were swearing at me for calling your friend an asshole.”
“You called him a piece of shit,” she corrected instantly.
“Same difference.”
Her eyebrow twitched, a telling sign that I was getting under her skin. The chuckle escaped me before I could stop it, breaking her irritation and making her stare instead. “I’ve gotten better at cooking over the years,” she diverted. “Breakfast is my favorite to cook, though, so I prefer learning how to make different things. Even though Sophie told me I could just hire somebody to do it. She forgets I don’t live like her anymore.”
I was surprised by a lot of things she said at times, but now it was namely that her Aunt Sophie would even suggest she use money to hire somebody for a skill that women were supposedly meant to master. I was glad Della didn’t let her aunt brainwash her into believing anything. Sophie had an abundance of money because of her husband, and before that was well-off because of her family. She didn’t know a time when you couldn’t shake a Benjamin at somebody to get them to do work where she could have done it herself. Shit, I’d bet the money in my wallet that she didn’t even know how to boil water. “Why breakfast?”
Her eyes returned to me, bright blue like her father’s—almost cerulean. I’d remembered when she was little how much she complained about not having her mother’s eyes because she loved the gray color. I had to admit, Elizabeth’s eyes were unique. Like melted silver. Della wouldn’t be herself without her soulful baby blues though. “You can do a lot of different things. Eggs, pancakes, waffles. I prefer making sweeter things, like dessert plates. Remember those salted caramel pancakes I got during the trip me, you, and Dad took? We went to—”
“Denny’s,” I mused in fond remembrance. I’d had a similar stack that were meant to taste like cinnamon buns after she convinced me to order them just in case she hated hers. The ones I’d gotten were her favorite, but she wanted to branch out and was afraid she wouldn’t like the ones she opted to try. As always, I caved and agreed while Anthony shook his head at us. It never took much to be persuaded by the innocent-eyed doe when she wanted something. “Sophie had a conniption when you told her how excited you were to go there.”
She sighed lightly, a wavering smile on her lips. “I never understood why Aunt Sophie was so against going to places like that. It’s my personal favorite when I’m hungo—” Her words abruptly stop, like she realized what she was saying wouldn’t be something I approved of.
“When what?” I questioned slowly.
Her bottom lip drew into her mouth as she avoided my gaze. I knew the answer though. It wasn’t like I didn’t have eyes and ears on her. She went out, not frequently, but enough. She drank, again not often, but sometimes she’d walk away with a hangover and wind up at Denny’s to cure it at two in the morning with her friends.
“Please, do finish,” I prodded, setting my coffee down and cocking my head.
She managed to stifle a sigh, brushing her fingers through her long hair that rested in tangles past her breasts. “Like you don’t know. You were the one who told me greasy food helped hangovers.”
“And coffee,” I pointed out with a grin.
“Anyway, I like Denny’s. We should go there sometime since you spend most of your time eating out anyway.”
Her words went straight to my cock, making me bite back a groan when my mind took me to a place it shouldn’t have, one that involved the spot between those thighs of hers. There was no way to adjust myself without her noticing my hand disappearing under the table, so I shifted in my chair and cleared my throat to try focusing on anything else. “I do cook, you know.”
“With what food?”
Grumbling, I finished off my coffee and pushed the cup away. “What are you planning to do today? You’re going back to school on Monday, correct?”
Her eyes stayed locked on her coffee. “Yes. My professors are all expecting me bright and early. I’ve caught up on most homework, so it shouldn’t be so bad.”
Studying her while she stared off, I tried figuring out if she was as all right as she pretended to be. She was always too strong, too stubborn, for her own good. “It’s okay not to be okay, Della. Your professors won’t fault you for holding off considering the loss. The entire state is grieving. You can too.”
Her nose twitched, probably thinking the same thing I was about just how much the state was mourning the loss of her father. Maybe if he had made better choices, the statement would be accurate. “I need to go back. School keeps me busy, and I’m almost done. Dad wouldn’t have wanted me to take a leave of absence. We had…I had everything planned out perfectly.”
We. Anthony talked about her future more than she did. Her degree started in business just like ours, but her heart wasn’t invested. She loved to paint, to draw, to be creative. Once upon a time, she danced—the very thing that got her into Bentley U. Everything about her was about the creation of something beautiful. It was webbed into her existence for everybody to see it in how she walked, talked, and acted. The business world would eat her alive the second she stepped into it regardless of who she was related to—or exactly because of it. Tight skirts, high heels, and cleavage-revealing shirts wouldn’t save her from that scrutiny like it did for some successful women because her blood was considered tainted from the scandal.
“Perhaps it’s a good idea to start planning what would make you happy instead.”
Her eyes narrowed in on me. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Standing, once I knew my dick wasn’t tenting my pants, I grabbed my empty coffee mug and brought it to the sink. “Nothing, Della. I just know what you want to do, and it’s nothing you planned with your father.”
“That isn’t true.”
I simply hummed, not offering a verbal reply. Her chair scraped back, and she appeared next to me, her lips pinched down. “It’s not true,” she repeated.
One of my shoulders lifted. “Fine. It isn’t true then. What do I know? I only spend nearly every day with you.” There was an edge to my tone that passed disbelief, which I knew she could pinpoint easily.
“I get it, okay?” Her tone was softer, quieter than mine. “You’re trying to make a point. I get it. That doesn’t mean I want to believe it.”
Which point, little Della? my eyes asked hers when I turned my head.
The one we both avoid, hers said back.
I straightened when she set her full cup next to me. “Thank you for the coffee, but I should get back to my place.”
Rolling my neck, I reached for my phone to call Dallas, only for her to shake her head. “I already texted Ren. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
My nostrils flared.
“Don’t start,” she whispered. “He’s all I have, Theo, whether you like it or not. He’s a good person.”
My open gl
are wasn’t lost on her.
I wanted to tell her she was wrong. She had me too, we both knew it. But the second those words left my mouth it would change everything. It’d mean more than an innocent declaration of family—of familiarity that we were accustomed to over the years.
She didn’t need that.
I didn’t either.
Not after what I did a year ago.
So, I let her leave.
Chapter Three
Della
The mirror is not the enemy.
I repeated that to myself at least three more times before walking over to the shower and turning it on. The steam would do its job with time, fogging the glass before I peeled off the clothes that hid what I struggled seeing. Some days were better than others, but I could feel the edge of a relapse forming as anxiety bubbled in the pit of my stomach. Truth was, I didn’t hate my body. Not anymore. I learned to like it with time and therapy, but it didn’t change the days that made me see my imperfections highlighted in my reflection whenever I passed it.
It took months after starting therapy before I could turn my head when walking past storefronts to see what graced the windows staring back. A girl too thin who felt too large, worried about what the media would say when pictures floated around, or when people would turn and whisper at formal events. I would never be cured from the thoughts that plagued my mind whenever I went clothes shopping and found clothing too snug or too loose. There would always be faults—cellulite and stretch marks and things my eyes narrowed in on with an embarrassing amount of obsession. There would be days when I couldn’t fight the urge to loathe a piece of me that didn’t deserve the kind of self-hate I’d inflicted when counting my calories, then eventually my ribs when they showed because of how badly I treated myself.
But I tried and that was what mattered.
Running my hand on the piece of ripped paper with elegant scroll I’d taped onto the edge of the mirror, I took a deep breath and forced my gaze on my almost naked complexion, half hidden by the steam on the glass. Be better.
The shower I took was longer than normal, and I knew my aunt would be displeased considering I’d be undoubtedly late for our Sunday brunch. I, however, didn’t have enough energy to care. I knew my limits and needed the time to myself to prepare for everything that came with the outing. Sophie would gossip about her so-called friends and their families, making believe that she and Andrew were far better than the scandals that happened in her social circle, and belittle me for my posture, what I put onto my plate, and how I didn’t call her back when she called yesterday.
She was the last person I wanted to talk to after getting home from Theo’s house. If he were anybody else, I’d have to worry about her chastising me about what happened at the party. Thankfully, he wasn’t the kind of person to rat you out. At least, not when things like this occurred. There were few times he spoke up about what I did in my life. The only time he chose to intervene, when I wished he hadn’t, had left us with a wedge between whatever friendship we’d formed over the years. Though Sophie, and many other family members, had told me I was silly to even call it that.
“Don’t be naïve, Adele. Theo is not your friend. He’s your father’s. A man like that has no use of a girl your age.”
Perhaps it was those words that left me huddled in my room for days after he told my father that I’d been starving myself—that I’d been purging, exercising too much, moody beyond help. If what my aunt said were true, Theo wouldn’t have even bothered to tell my father of my choices he disapproved of. Looking back now, I saw that wasn’t true. He cared, perhaps more than anybody, considering nobody else was willing to speak up about what I was doing.
The missed meals.
The extra hours of exercise.
The covered mirrors.
Throat thickening, I looked at the pricks on the wall where tacks held a sheet over the large vanity mirror once upon a time. Theo had done me a favor by telling my father, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt.
“What are you doing, Della?”
“Are you out of your mind, Della?”
“You could kill yourself, Della!”
I could have. Theo was right. And while that was never my end game, it was a very likely possibility when I finally looked at myself in the mirror after he’d torn the sheet off in his rampage from weeks of me shutting him out.
“Tell me what you see,” he’d demanded. When I didn’t offer him a reply, he turned to me, spine straightened to full height, and told me what he saw instead. “I see a girl who has fallen too many times to the predators of the world who want nothing more than to tear her apart, but I know that girl is much stronger than she believes. One day, that girl will become a woman who wears her confidence proudly. Want to know why, Della?”
I’d known he was going to tell me why regardless of if I wanted him to or not, because those dark blue eyes were fierce with an intensity that racked my soul as I stood in front of him and the mirror in nothing but pajama shorts and a tank top that had emphasized just how little remained of my body.
“You will fall, fail, and break over and over in this world. But you will also rise, succeed, and put yourself back together because only you can. That doesn’t mean there aren’t people here who want to help—who aren’t willing to make a few threats to those worthy of the breath. Understand, Della?”
What I’d understood that day was that he wanted me to fight—for me, my father, and even for him. He would never say those words though because he knew better than anybody that I wouldn’t be able to love myself if I didn’t try for my own wellbeing. The important thing was that he wanted me to do my best, to fight, and I did.
I did, over and over, and fell just as he said. I failed. I thought negative things, found myself counting my calories, and skipping meals then saying I’d “forgotten” because I’d been busy. Sometimes it wasn’t even a lie. I’d be in the studio painting and would lose track of time until somebody found me. That was when I’d realized I’d lost a day in the kind of art I felt comfortable in.
My own.
Unlike my skin, my art was something I found unconditional love in. I could express myself in the way I captured silhouettes on canvas and paper exactly how I wanted, but never wishing I could be who I created. Ripley, my therapist, always told me she was worried I’d lose myself in temptation again, wanting to be the things I made of acrylic and oil, but that was never the case.
My art was an escape I so desperately needed, but one I found reality in through the soft curves of fuller thighs and blemished skin of reddened faces. What I brought to life was salvation, society needed to know it wasn’t alone in a fight so many fought against themselves.
Flaws.
Imperfections.
But it was easier to tell my peers that they shouldn’t judge themselves for eating too much or too little when my own demons picked apart my every move.
Blowing out a timid breath, I walked to the mirror with a white towel wrapped around me tightly and raised my palm to the fogged glass. I counted to three before swiping away until my bare skin greeted me, my hair falling in tangled waves past my shoulders and over my average B-cup breasts.
When I wiped away the steam to reveal the rest of my body, I froze…
Then dropped the towel.
That doesn’t mean there aren’t people here who want to help—who aren’t willing to make a few threats to those worthy of the breath. Understand, Della?
I whispered, “I understand” to my naked reflection.
My lips pinched at the hour mark of brunch, my plate half-full and my tea untouched. It smelled like lavender, Sophie’s favorite but not mine. I hated tea but she insisted I just hadn’t gotten the taste for it yet. Something told me that wouldn’t happen anytime soon.
“…when you were going to start dancing again. I told her that surely you’d do it by the next recital in the fall. You were the top of your class, after all.”
Eyes widening over the conversation
I had tuned back into, I gripped the fork in my hand a little too tightly, until the silver stung my fingers, as I poked at the quiche on my plate. “You know I don’t dance anymore, Sophie. It wouldn’t be a good idea for…obvious reasons.”
Her manicured hand waved in the air as if I were simply joking. “Jamie isn’t nearly half as talented as you are, but her mother insists that she’s getting there. Same with that Atwell girl. What was her name again? Lauren?”
Clearing my throat, I dropped my fork onto the tablecloth. “Good for them. Jamie is a sweet girl and Lauren is…talented. Just because you don’t like their mothers doesn’t mean you need to wish for either of them to fail.”
The way she blinked at me made me want to squirm, but I held my ground. Chin tipped up I locked our gazes until she looked away first. “I mean no harm by stating facts, of course. You know how much your mother always loved going to see you perform. I just think it’d be a good idea to at least try getting back out there.”
She made ballet seem like dating, and I couldn’t stop the snort from escaping me in time. Her eyes narrowed at the unladylike sound, but she didn’t call me out on it like normal. Even she knew that bringing up my biggest trigger was risky. “I danced because she wanted me to, but I know myself well enough to know I’m not strong enough anymore. Maybe it would have been different if she were around, but it’s not.”
“We’ll get you a trainer—”
“Sophie.” I sighed, shaking my head. I wished Aunt Lydia were here to be the voice of reason, but she always had other places to be for these brunches. Lucky woman. “I wasn’t talking about physical strength. You can’t use my mother every time you want to get your way either. It isn’t fair.”
Offense took over her face, her hand going to the expensive gold chain around her neck that Andrew bought her for her birthday last year. I was sure she’d actually gotten it for herself using his credit card like she normally did. “I wasn’t doing that at all. I simply want what’s best for you. You can’t stop doing what you love just because…”