Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
“Out!” she says again, eyes blazing brighter than before. “Before I come over there and slam the door in your face.”
“Fine!” I shout.
“Fine!” she shouts back.
I storm out of the guest room, slightly comforted by Bea’s fire, but only slightly. She isn’t broken, but that doesn’t mean Kai didn’t do his best to get the job done. He’s been doing his best to break her down for years, subtly dinging her confidence every chance he gets, until my once fiercely independent, outrageously talented sister seemed to think she couldn’t live—or make music—without him.
But she can.
And she will.
And if Kai tries to stop her?
Well, that’s a decision he’ll regret for a very, very long time.
Or a very short one…
Twelve
CHARLOTTE
Something’s wrong.
Very wrong.
I know Nix well enough by now to clock that a text like the one he sent around noon isn’t good—Can we talk? In person? I’m spiraling and could use some advice from someone I trust to keep a level head. If you don’t have time this afternoon, I totally get it. But maybe tomorrow? I don’t have practice, so I could meet you whenever, wherever. I just… I don’t know who else to ask. I’m afraid my guy friends might react the same way I am right now, and that wouldn’t be good.
I texted back right away, assuring him there was no need to apologize and offering to meet him here at three, in a place where we’re pretty much guaranteed privacy.
High tourist season is over, and even the “spooky NOLA” lovers gathering for the pre-Halloween festivities rarely make it to Metairie Cemetery, though I don’t understand why. Yes, it’s more off the beaten path than Saint Roch’s or the Lafayette tombs, but so much quieter and cooler, and every bit as lavish.
The tombs are like tiny mansions, topped with ornate sculptures and marble carvings, arranged along pathways shaded by ancient oak trees that have been here as long as some of the cemetery’s residents. I have a great, great-something aunt resting in the far corner, tucked into a gorgeous stone sarcophagus on a pedestal surrounded by a marble shell protecting her from the worst of the elements.
As a child, my family used to swing by for a visit every once and a while, bringing her daffodils from our yard in the spring or Mom’s roses in the summer. I was always proud that the inscription on her tomb said her full name—Marjorie Henrietta Dupont-Delaney, beloved wife and mother, the very soul of charity. Most of the tombs simply listed the deceased woman as “Emily, Wife of John” or sometimes, even worse, just Mrs. John Whatever, her identity completely erased by her marriage.
But for a long time, wives and children were considered the property of the “man of the house.” It’s why there are still so many laws forbidding even adult children from severing a father’s paternal rights in favor of adoption by a stepfather or other adult who’s had boots on the ground during their childhood.
My friend, Christopher, had to go to court our sophomore year of college and fight to be free of his bio dad, even though the man hadn’t paid child support in years, and being adopted by his stepdad was the only way Chris could get affordable medical care.
The world is deeply fucked.
And unless something changes pretty drastically, it likely will be for quite some time, a fact that feels heavier today for some reason. Maybe it’s the fact that the summer heat is back, infusing the humid air with the sickly-sweet scent of flowers rotting in cast-iron vases by the crypts.
Or maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Teddy.
About how I knew better then.
And how I know better now.
As I pace back and forth near the Millionaire’s Row entrance, my stomach twists and cramps. I was looking forward to showing Nix the pyramid tomb, my favorite when I was a kid, but the longer I wait here in silence with the dead, the more I can’t help seeing that I’m repeating the same pattern.
Just with better abs.
“Not fair,” I whisper, the words carried away by the first breeze to move the leaves since I got out of my SUV twenty minutes ago, just as Nix texted to warn me that there was a wreck on the highway and he’d likely be late.
Nix is a lot more than a nice set of abs. He’s smart, funny, hardworking, sexy as hell, and already values me in a way Teddy never did. If that weren’t the case, he wouldn’t be turning to me for advice.
I like Nix. I really do. I like him a lot.
But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s too young or that we’re at completely different stages in our lives. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m looking for a partner to bring love and companionship to my middle age, while Nix is in his prime “ready to settle down and start a family” years. He hasn’t expressly stated that he wants kids, but most men his age do.