Chapter 34

I must've looked like a ghost because I certainly felt like one. The old man had had enough after I hadn't got out of my room for three days. It was hard to blame him. My nightmares had probably woken him once or twice, and I had refused to talk to him during the day. So he did the only thing he could.

He called my brother.

Charlie must have dropped whatever he was doing to come here as fast as possible. The first thing he did was get me out of bed and into the shower.

"You stink," he said.

I had no energy to fight him. Besides, my brother was strong, a male carbon copy of myself with his mane of light brown hair and lanky build. After the shower, he made me sit on the edge of the bathtub to brush my hair. I accepted it mutely, too exhausted to even speak. My whole reality felt fractured, as if cracks were appearing everywhere, making it difficult to retain things.

My grandfather told everyone I'd needed a break and was on vacation. I didn't know what he thought was wrong with me. He'd probably noticed how on edge I'd been in the days since meeting Laurent Lambert, but I doubted he'd expected this much of a severe reaction to come from it. Maybe, he thought it was a remnant of losing Harry and getting myself beat up. I didn't know.

My brother already seemed to know why, and it wasn't until I noticed that my sketchbook was gone from my room that I understood. Anyone looking at it, really looking at it, would realise.

After a week, when Charlie and the old man had left me alone one evening, I got out of my room and went down to the garden. Winter was approaching, so the trees were naked, any shrubbery reduced to a bare-boned skeleton. It was how I felt. After my mother had died, everything else around me went away. The depression had been so bad that I didn't leave my room for nearly a year. Even with the help of therapy, I'd only slowly come out of my shell again. In the end, my art had saved me. But now?

I trudged back inside, searching and searching, until I found my sketchbook in one of the drawers in the living room. It was like my hands were possessed, turning the pages until I got to the last one.

Emmanuelle.

My Emmanuelle. A sob stuck in my throat, but I couldn't let it out. How could I sketch now? Paint? She was forever interwoven with my art. I could never touch a brush again without thinking of her. She would remain in mind—even if I could never touch her.

I pressed a hand over my mouth to stop the sobs, letting the sketchbook fall to the ground. It was unbearable. How did you let someone go, if that someone had become a part of you?

As if in a trance, my feet carried me to the living room cabinet. I got out the tall bottle of whiskey and put it on the table. Then I went into the kitchen to grab a glass.

I was still staring at it when my brother stepped into the room an hour later, the old man behind him. A corner of my mind was appalled at the fear and pain in their eyes at finding me in front of the bottle. Perhaps it was that shock that finally broke through the haze of pain. I couldn't do it, couldn't become my father. I would never be able to look at myself in the mirror again.

"Could you pour this away?" I begged Charlie.

It was the first time I'd spoken to him since he'd got here. He took the bottle and went into the kitchen. Afterward, he sat down at my side, and it wasn't until my shoulders started to shake that I understood what he was waiting for. When big, violent sobs finally forced their way out of my throat, my brother drew me close and held me tightly.

I cried for a long time. I cried until there were no tears left, and I felt drained and empty. But that night the nightmares stayed away, and the monsters were finally silent.

***

"You look terrible, Sam."

I looked at Casey over the rim of my tea mug. We were sitting in a café, the first time I'd really got out since Emmanuelle left, and my best friend's gaze was imploring.

"What happened? It's like you vanished into thin air. I was really worried when you didn't call me back, and your grandfather turning me away when I showed up at your door didn't help either."

It wasn't surprising that she was worried. I'd been lost to the world for two entire weeks. I was only slowly starting to resurface.

"I'm sorry, Case. I wasn't well."

"What happened?" she asked again. "What on earth happened?"

"She left to go to France. To work with Laurent Lambert. We … broke up." I could say these words now without breaking down, the sharp pain accompanying them an old companion.

Casey ran a hand through her blonde hair before leaning back in her chair with a sigh. "You know, when we booked that private viewing, he specifically asked me not to tell anyone. I swear, I had no idea he was scouting for talent."

"It's not your fault," I said gently.

"Then why does it feel that way? She would have never come here if not for me and my gallery. I pushed you to open yourself up to her, too." She slapped her hand on the table. "Why did she even break up with you?"

I examined the small indentations next to her hand. Someone must have grown bored and carved them into the surface of the table. "I think that she was very scared. Far more scared than I ever suspected about reliving a mistake of her past. She was scared of getting hurt."

"And this doesn't hurt?"

Oh, it did. Like a physical wound that was split wide open and poked mercilessly whenever her name came up.

"I can't decide for her which pain is worse. What's worth the risk. And I can't change who she is. I wouldn't want to anyway."

Carefully, I took a sip of hot chocolate, eyes glazed on the foam on top of the brown liquid. There wasn't much I could do about my appetite, but at least I could keep down food now.

"Aren't you the least bit angry at her?"

I looked at my old friend, feeling very tired inside. How could I explain my feelings? I hardly understood them myself. I wasn't angry at Emmanuelle, not really. I felt pain. There would always be this hole inside me now, right next to the one of my mother. Still, I would never change a single thing that happened. Never. Even if I had the power to erase her from my thoughts, I never would.

"It was special. She is special, Case. She is so much more than what she reveals to the world. Not just devoted to her art, but passionate and thoughtful and kind. She carries a fire in her soul. Maybe sometimes it scares even her how strong it can burn." I traced the indentations in the table with my hand. "She always saw me for who I was. Most of the time, I didn't even have to say a single word. She simply knew. And she saw it all. The good parts and the bad parts, and she never flinched. The way that she loved me helped me love myself a little more. To see more of the good in the world. To believe that maybe, there is such a thing as fate, after all."

"That does sound special," Casey said and laid a hand on top of mine. "I just wished her art hadn't been more important to her than you."

I sighed. That wasn't fair to say. I didn't even think it was true. Emmanuelle had her own demons. Ones I had underestimated simply because she'd always seemed so strong and confident. But it had been my mistake not to realise, even after what Remi said, that her past had left its scars. It was a screwed-up case of irony that after I'd finally found the courage to open up, it had been Emmanuelle's fears that had spelled our doom. While I'd been so focused on learning to trust my feelings again, I had forgotten that she needed to trust them, too.

I gave Casey a tiny smile because she meant well. "It's all still very raw. Let's just leave it, okay?"

"Of course. That's fine. I'm just glad you're talking to me about it." She rubbed my hands. "There was actually something else I wanted to tell you about." A sardonic chuckle escaped her. "Our dear friend Ms Jackson."

"What ever happened to her?"

A morsel of real curiosity reared its head. We'd gone through too much with Jackson for me not to be interested in her fate.

"After I spoke to a couple of other artists that she managed, I notified the NAIA. It's just a non-profit organization, so they don't hold any real power, but I can tell you that Jackson lost the entirety of her clients practically overnight purely by the power of the grapevine. I'm pretty sure that won't be the last of it either. She better hire a damned good lawyer, otherwise they'll chop her ass up in civil court."

"You reap what you sow, huh?"

"Absolutely. She's made her bed." Casey took a thoughtful sip. "I guess you never really know a person's true colours."

Hearing about Jackson getting her due lifted my spirits. "Well, I think I can look inside your head well enough."

"No, you can't."

"Okay … let's say you have a free evening at home," I said and held her eyes with a smirk. "You think about two martinis, a Doris Day movie, and sharing a box of yogurt ice cream with your cat."

"That proves nothing!"

I laughed. It still sounded a little rusty, but it was genuine. And it felt good, too.

When we finally left the café, Casey gripped my arm. "Please take care, Sam, and call me anytime, day or night, doesn't matter."

I nodded, and she hugged me tightly before I got into the car.

The streets meandered past, the December snow covering the city in a thick white blanket. Right now, only sprinkles of tiny snowflakes were falling. I wondered if time would cover up my regrets and my pain in the same way that the snow did for the landscape. I missed her. Every day I missed her. Sometimes I wondered if all the things that reminded me of her reminded her of me too.

Over the previous weeks, Emmanuelle and I had exchanged sporadic text messages. There hadn't been any phone calls, and I was glad. It was the only way I'd been able to hide my terrible state. That bottle of whiskey had been rock bottom, but I was still just trying to process and deal.

Since I wasn't able to drown my sorrow in alcohol, the only thing I could do was take one day at a time.

That evening Martha cooked for us, and it almost felt like the four of us were a proper family. Listening to her lilting Cajun English was soothing, and the way the kitchen smelled like spice and vinegar lit a tiny spark of pleasure. It had been sweet to hear her ask Frank if she could invite her daughter and her family to the house for Christmas. The old man's wide smile had said it all. It showed that life moved on. Slowly, but irrevocably.

"I'm going to visit the gravesite tomorrow," Charlie said to me at one point. "You want to come?"