“You look like your papà.” The words escaped me, soft, yet also so harsh in the sunlit room. The sins of the night never did sound so good in the day.
He blew out a breath of smoke, his eyes lighting with a flicker of dry humor. “Jesus.” He shook his head. “Is that what brought you here last night?”
Strobe lights. Dirty bathroom tile. Blow. A drip of sweat down my back. Accepting a white pill from a baggie. Nothing.
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
“Well, whatever it was, I hope you got something from it, Gianna. Because we’re both going to hell.” He put his cigarette out on the windowsill and left the room.
I closed my eyes and tried to finish the puzzle, to piece the rest of the night together. But all I encountered was blackness. A blackness that whispered for me to fall asleep and not wake up, ever.
A box of chocolates tied with an apologetic red bow sat on our bed when I got home that morning. The same bed my husband had fucked my best friend on from behind.
I climbed into the sheets and ate every one of them.
Days passed, a blur of colors and feelings and a secret eating me alive. It was all upside-down, like viewing the world from a merry-go-round as it spun, head and hair hanging off the steel platform.
They were bad days. Cold. Lonely. High.
Antonio had shown his face only once. He came to bed late and fell asleep instantly. I’d stared at the ceiling until the sun streamed through the blinds, the bed dipped, and his presence disappeared as easily as it had come.
Soon after, sleep took me under.
A bright light flicked on, and a draft hit me as the comforter ripped away. I made a noise of protest but choked on it as ice-cold water poured onto my face.
“Levàntate!”
I sputtered as the water kept coming and jolted to a sitting position. Wiping my eyes, I opened them to see Magdalena standing at the side of the bed with a large mixing bowl in hand.
A shiver rocked my body, and I choked up some water.
“Are you crazy?” I gasped.
She dropped the bowl and ran a hand down her simple white uniform. “Sí. Pero no tan loca como tú.”
An ache pulsed behind my eyes. I was soaking wet and agitated, and my words came out harsher than I intended. “You know I don’t speak Spanish, Magdalena.”
“Porque eres demasiado tonta.” Because you are too dumb.
I knew that phrase only because she believed it was a great response for everything.
With a groan, I fell back onto the wet sheets. “I don’t know who thought it was a good idea to hire you. You’re disrespectful, and, quite frankly, a bad maid.”
The sixty-year-old turned her nose up. “I am not a maid. I am a housekeeper.”
I was sure they were the same things, but I didn’t have the fight in me to argue with her.
“Then go housekeep somewhere and leave me alone.”
She smoothed a streak of gray hair back into place. Looked at her nails. “You have a party tonight, querida.”
“No,” I protested. “No party.”
“Sí—”
“I’m not going to a party, Magdalena,” I said, adding, “I don’t have anything to wear.” At least, nothing my soul won’t bleed through.
“Nothing respectable, no,” she agreed, eyeing me with irises as dark as chocolate. “It’s for cancer. Una cena benéfica.”
My stomach and heart dipped. “A benefit for cancer?”
“Sí. Antonio called and ordered for you to be ready by eight.”
Ordered?
Under different circumstances, such as a benefit for sea turtles—my second favorite charity—I would tell him to go fuck himself. But, the truth was, I loathed cancer, and my husband had a lot of money.
“Fine, I’ll go. But only to write a big check.”
I got to my feet and gave the empty chocolate box a kick as I walked past. It disappeared under the bed with the rest of my demons.
“Bueno. You have been lazy all week, señora. It is not attractive.”
Heading into the walk-in closet, I aimlessly pushed clothes on hangers aside. “Thank you, Magdalena,” I responded, “but there’s no one here I want to attract.”
She dug through my underwear drawer. “Because Antonio’s sleeping with Sydney?” A lacy thong hung from her finger. “What color do you want, querida? Red is good.”
The vise around my heart squeezed.
“I see whoever taught you to clean taught you sensitivity as well,” I said, adding, “Nude, please.”
“I do not clean.”
“Exactly,” I muttered, walking past her with a loose black top cut off at the midriff and a matching high-waisted skirt I’d made from an old Nirvana t-shirt. With thigh-high boots, it would be perfect.
I set the outfit on the bed and headed to the bathroom.
Magdalena followed after me. “I knew she wasn’t a good friend for you from the beginning. Something in her eyes. You can always tell by the eyes. I told you, but you did not listen.”
I fought an eyeroll. Magdalena loved Sydney and always told me I should act more like her, that my husband might love me if I did. My housekeeper was a habitual liar, a little crazy, and still the most normal person in the house.
I wished she actually had warned me. Maybe then, it wouldn’t hurt so badly.
My throat tightened, and betrayal burned the backs of my eyes.
I grasped the edge of the sink, yellow-painted fingernails stark against the mess strewn across the counter. Dollar bills, the glint of a 9mm, pink blush, a baggie, and a dusting of white powder.
I stared blankly at my reflection in the mirror.
Ashy-blond hair straight from a bottle dripped water down olive skin. I met my reflection’s gaze, my soul staring back.
You can always tell by the eyes.
Magdalena turned the shower on. “You stink of depression, querida. Wash it away, and then I will do your hair.”
I stepped in the shower.
And I washed it away.
Boots clicking on the marble floor, I waded through floating silver trays carrying champagne flutes that glinted beneath romantic lights. A mini orchestra played in the corner of the ballroom, a low, easy beat allowing monotonous conversation to be heard above it.
I was numb in the heart, but trepidation flickered to life in the center. I’d ignored Antonio’s order to meet him at the club so we could arrive at the benefit together, and, instead, had come alone.
I didn’t want to see him. I didn’t want to feel.
And those two always came together.
I had almost reached the donation table when my plan to get in and out before my husband arrived went down the toilet.
“Gianna, you are as beautiful as always.”
My eyes shut for a second. I turned around, a coy smile tugging at my lips.
“Aw, you’re cute, too, Vincent.”
The twenty-nine-year-old and owner of this fine hotel laughed. “Cute, what I’ve always aspired for.”
In acquiescence to not getting out of here soon, I grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray. “Well, you pull it off magnificently,” I replied, my gaze taking in a group of Vincent’s acquaintances who congregated behind him.