Page 160 of Saint Céline
I knew it right away. So did she.
Anya looked at me. “Do you want this one?”
The question came out gently.
I wanted to say no. I wanted to say burn it. I wanted to say Katherine had worn it to dinner the winter before she died and told me the colour washed me out, but gave it to me anyway because my closet needed more neutrals and less desperation. Instead, I took the blouse from her and folded it myself.
“Yes.”
Anya’s face softened, but she did not argue.
We finished packing. My whole life fit into three suitcases, two tote bags, one laptop case, a carrier Miss Astoria refused to enter, and more cosmetics than I cared to count.
Sophia looked at the bags. “This is too little.”
“It is plenty.”
“No.” Her voice stayed soft. “For a whole life, it is too little.”
I did not know how to answer because my life had always been too little until someone else added to it—Katherine’s clothes, Thad’s plans, Vincent’s locks.
Vincent carried the heaviest suitcase down the hall without making a show of it. The hallway stayed quiet except for one door that cracked open, then shut again. News would spread by nightfall. The girl with the suspiciously dead best friend, the father who called her the wrong name, the professor, the rich ex, the secret. I kept my chin up and my coat buttoned. Céline Martin walked beside her friends. Selena Martin carried Katherine’s blouse in a suitcase. The girl who had let her best friend fall to her death carried Miss Astoria’s carrier because the cat screamed if anyone else held her.
At the curb, Vincent’s car waited, black and quiet. Anya stared at it.
“This car looks like it abducts people very politely.”
Vincent opened the trunk. “Only when necessary.”
I glared at him.
Anya pointed at me. “See? That is exactly why I hate him.”
Sophia touched my elbow. “Ride with us.”
“I should go with Miss Astoria.”
“The cat can ride with us too.”
Miss Astoria screamed from inside the carrier, agreeing or complaining. It was hard to tell.
Vincent looked at me and said nothing.
If he had asked me to ride with him, I would have refused. Because he stayed quiet, the choice stayed mine, and choices had always been one of my weak spots.
“I will ride with Sophia and Anya,” I said.
His face did not change. “All right.”
That irritated me more than anything. I wanted something to push against, something to prove this was still a fight and I was willingly making these choices. Instead, he shut the trunk and drove ahead.
I sat in Sophia’s passenger seat with the carrier on my lap and Anya in the back, threatening to livestream my location every hour. The drive took twelve minutes. I counted them because counting kept my mind from sliding back to everything else.
Sophia parked behind Vincent in the private garage under his building. The concrete smelled cold and clean. Even the garage felt expensive.
The elevator opened straight into a small vestibule outside his apartment. Anya stepped out first, looked around, and said, “I hate this.”
I laughed.
