saudade
(n.) a nostalgic longing to be near something or someone that is distant
MILA
Four months later
Warm, humid air breezed into the studio from the open terrace doors, rustling the sheer curtains. Below the veranda lay a white sandy beach, crystal-blue water, and palm trees swaying in the wind.
Belize was gorgeous.
A paradise on earth.
Though even here, my thoughts wandered across the Atlantic Ocean. I wondered what Russia looked like in the summer. My imagination pictured the country covered in eternal ice and snow. Still, Moscow called to me while paradise’s breeze caressed my hair.
“Chop, chop!” Flora clapped her hands in the air, her tribal-patterned poncho rising to show the leotard beneath. “Carlos is going to be here in ten minutes, and you know how much he hates to be kept waiting.”
The stylist standing behind me rolled her eyes and spritzed my blown-out curls.
When I arrived in Miami four months ago, I’d returned to my childhood home even though Ronan had given me enough money to purchase a small condo if I wanted to. But I was compelled to do something before I left The Moorings forever.
Stepping through the front door, I found an empty house and lots of dust. Every piece of furniture sat in the same place, but the memories left behind were silent, like they’d left with Borya and the maids.
I ran a line through the dust on the banister as Khaos and I ventured up the staircase. Reaching my room, I wound the ballerina in my music box, setting her on one last lonely pirouette. Then I dropped my papa’s birthday present from the balcony. The box cracked, the tune ended with a final sad note, and the dancer stopped spinning forever.
She never wanted to be a ballerina anyway.
I reached the door to leave but paused when I saw a small card lying in the dust-free square where the music box had sat. It was the business card the model agent slipped me on the street years ago. I’d hidden it after my papa refused to allow modeling of any kind and then forgot about it.
I picked it up and put it in my pocket.
Modeling was supposed to be a hard industry to get into. Although, I’d either gotten very narcissistic or divine intervention had stepped in. Because here I was now, modeling a campaign for a vegan product. I only went to go-sees and accepted contracts from humanitarian-conscious companies and designers—which my agent hated—but apparently, this new spark in my eyes worked out great for me.
Months ago, I believed I would be engaged to Carter—or even married at this point existing as a jaded housewife. I wasn’t sure how Carter got the memo none of that would be happening, but when I ran into him last week picking up some takeout, he’d dropped his tacos as if the sight of me gave him a heart attack and immediately took off in the other direction.
It wasn’t exactly the reaction I was expecting . . . but it would do.
No Carter. No working in the sex industry. And no living on pennies. All of those fears had evaporated, but I was still consumed with doubt of another kind.
I closed my eyes as one of the makeup artists applied mascara to my lashes.
“Good god, no!” Flora exclaimed. “Were you not briefed today?”
The artist frowned. “Yes. We’re going with clean looks.”
Flora’s brow rose above her sixties-style round glasses. “What about black mascara on a blonde says ‘clean’ to you? It says ‘slutty club girl’ to me. She already has a slutty vibe. We don’t need to exaggerate it.”
Slutty vibe?
Flora waved a hand at my face. “Fix it. Just fix it before Carlos shows up.” Then she flounced off to harass someone else.
Twenty minutes later, I wore an athletic one-piece swimsuit and stood on a terrace giving a perfect view of the ocean.
Click . . . Click . . . Grumble.
“We need sexy,” Carlos snapped. “Not ‘I’m saving myself for marriage.’”
Okay . . . I was “slutty” a moment ago. Not to mention, it was hard to feel sexy with a milk mustache, holding a pint of almond milk.
Click.
“No, no, no.” Carlos rubbed his temples. “Please tell me you’ve had sex before.”
Sometimes, I questioned this career, but overall, I loved promoting my vegan lifestyle and that the substantial income gave me the means to truly make a difference somewhere.
“Yes, I’ve had sex.” A few times . . .
“Good sex?”
“Yes.” Heat rushed up to my neck because I knew where he was going with this, and I really didn’t want to go there. “But can I ask a question?”
“No.”
I asked anyway. “Why does an almond milk advertisement need to be sexy?”
He sighed irritably. “Sex sells, darling.”
“I’m just thinking of the kids here . . . Wouldn’t they want to send their parents off to buy this milk if I looked happy drinking it instead of, well . . . horny?”
Carlos gave me a dry look. “You are lucky you have the perfect look for this shoot. Or I’d toss you off this terrace so fast.”
I sighed.
“Now, think of the best sex you’ve ever had.”
Ugh.
Exhaling deeply, I closed my eyes and thought of inked hands next to mine on the shower wall. I thought of Ronan’s mouth on my neck and the fullness of him inside me. His hand collaring my throat. Vse moya. The way he held me. How he smelled and tasted. I remembered. And it hit me with a ball of fire that erupted inside me.
I opened my eyes.
Click.
Silence settled on the terrace while longing tore through me. I hoped Carlos got the shot because I didn’t want to be here anymore.
“Wow, girl . . .” Carlos murmured. “We definitely got it. But now we all want to hear the story.”
Everyone stared at me while my heart slowly ripped in half. I dropped the pint of milk and walked offset. Grabbing my bag, I exited the studio and sucked in a shaky breath of fresh air, heading to the villa I shared with a couple of models during the two-day stay.
I wished Khaos was with me, but some ridiculous pet quarantine laws had ended that idea, so he was staying with Emma, who still volunteered with me at the homeless shelter. And I really hoped Khaos hadn’t eaten one of her cats. I was about to call her when my phone buzzed in my purse. I dug it out.
Papa: The Miami house is being put on the market. If there is anything you would like to keep, you should do so by next week.
That was the first correspondence I had with my father since he’d walked out of the hospital. I meant it when I’d said we shouldn’t be in contact. The relationship always brought me down in a dark way rather than up, and these four months without his presence had lifted a massive weight off my shoulders. It was the right decision. Regardless of who my mother was as a person, I couldn’t look at my father again without seeing her lifeless body and the sibling inside of her I’d never meet.
Me: OK.
The next morning, I flew home to Miami.
I’d rented an apartment in the downtown area but had yet to furnish it with anything more than a mattress. I knew I wouldn’t be staying in Miami, but I was unsure of where I belonged yet.
In my heart, I knew.
I had a lot of time to think these past four months, and I now understood with a certainty where I belonged and what I wanted. Though I hadn’t heard a word from Ronan since his last note. Insecurity had wedged itself in my chest with the belief he didn’t have the same feelings anymore and that maybe it really was proshchay.
I’d rather live with a little hope than with outright rejection.
A cabbie picked me up at the airport, and I gave him the address to Emma’s place, anxiety taking over. Emma had told me everything was perfectly fine on the phone last night, but there was a nervous edge to her voice and lots of hissing in the background. I definitely needed to figure out a better place for Khaos to stay when I was away.
Absently gazing through the window, the sight outside raised the hair on my arms, and I blurted, “Stop here.”
The cabbie thought I was crazy by the look he cast me through the rearview mirror, but he pulled over on the side of the road and let me out after I shoved some cash into his hand.
I walked across the street and onto the grassy plot of land where the carnival looked to be setting up. The carneys gave me odd glances while they worked on half-mast tents, unloaded amusement rides, and crammed massive stuffed prizes on the game shelves.
The trailer looked exactly the same as it had six years ago: sun-faded exterior, an ominous red door, and purple beaded curtains.
With conviction, I walked up the warped metal stairs and knocked. There was no response, so I knocked again. Curses and grumbles came from inside, and then the door flew open, revealing Madame Richie dressed in a nightgown with a lit cigarette in her hand.
“Vat do you vant?” she snapped.
“A refund,” I demanded.
With a roll of her eyes, she stabbed a finger at the crudely designed sign taped to the trailer that said, “No Refunds,” in bright red letters.
“Goodvye now.” She tried to shut the door in my face, but I kept it open with my foot.
“Your sign should have a disclaimer saying once you go in, you’ll never get out,” I growled. “You’ve haunted me worse than any horror flick I’ve ever seen. Worse than Saws.” She didn’t blink. “And I’m demanding a refund. Right. Now.” I was breathing a little harshly after that speech, but this confrontation had been a long time coming.
“Haunted, eh?” She inhaled on her cigarette, slowly blew out the smoke, and let the door fall open as she ventured inside the trailer. “Come in. We discuss this refund.”
All I wanted was my dang fifty bucks back as if its return would erase her presence in my life, but it seemed I wasn’t getting it yet, so reluctantly, I ended up following her inside.
Madame Richie took a seat at the round table in the corner and assessed me with a long look. “Ah, I do think I remember your face.”
I stared at her, unimpressed. “I would hope so. Because I won’t forget you for the rest of my life.”
“This is doing vonders for my ego.” She seemed genuinely pleased as she gestured to the chair across from her with her smoking cigarette. “Have a seat.”
I hesitated. This woman was a ghost who’d followed me around for years, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to sit down with a phantom.
Her dark, painted-on brow rose. “You vant refund. You sit.”
The last time I stood here, I was a naïve fourteen-year-old cheerleader. Madame Richie may have given my young brain something to soak up like a sponge, but I wasn’t the same girl anymore. And I wanted my refund, damnit, so I slid into the chair across from her.
“You vill have to remind me vhat I foretold for you.”
“You said I would find the man meant for me and that he would take my breath away.”
She blinked false lashes. And then she laughed, head thrown back in pure amusement, cigarette perched between her fingers. Her laugh didn’t disturb me this time. It raised my ire as she laughed so hard a tear ran down her cheek. Because the suspicion I always had flashed in front of me like a neon sign.
I clenched my teeth. “I knew it! I knew that was one of your generic responses.”
Suddenly, she sobered, though still fighting her amusement as she wiped the tear away with sun-wrinkled fingers. “I plead the fifth.”
“Of course you do,” I grumbled.
She ashed her cigarette into a coffee cup. “I cannot offer you refund. But since I have distressed you, I can give you another reading.”
I scowled. “Are you crazy? Why would I want another reading when the last one wasn’t even genuine, and it also ruined my life?”
“How do you know it vas not genuine if it has distressed you so? It may have been fate.”
Fate. Please. Madame Richie just got lucky.
She inhaled, and smoke whispered from her lips with the words. “That is the deal. Take it or leave it.”
I wanted closure from this visit.
I wanted to leave without her laughter over my head.
“I suggest you take it,” she said. “I do think I see great things in your future.”
Madame Richie was dangling a carrot on a string. Or rather, a piece of dog poop. But I guessed I was in such an awkward place in my life, I was interested to hear what generic foretelling she would come up with.
“Fine,” I answered, but then I narrowed my eyes. “But no laughing. Not a single chuckle,” I warned seriously.
It was clear she wanted to do exactly that, but she held it in by pressing her thin lips together. “Let us begin then.”
She moved the cloth-covered crystal ball to the center of the table and pulled off the cover with a flourish. She sure knew how to play the part.
She took a long look at me, then peered in to the ball with concentration. Tilted her head. No smoke appeared like it did last time. She probably didn’t have time to prep her parlor tricks since I’d arrived unexpectedly.
Lifting her head, she inhaled on her cigarette and deadpanned, “You are pregnant.”
I stared at her drily. “If I was pregnant, my stomach would be nearly as big as a basketball right now.”
She pursed her lips. “Could be small baby.”
“No.” Ronan’s baby? Yeah, right.
“Vorth a shot.” She shrugged.
She moved the crystal ball aside. “I do not see much now, so let us try the cards.” I didn’t know why I was still here, besides the fact I wanted her to work for the torment she’d caused me.
Madame Richie shuffled the tarot cards, the cigarette dangling from her lips. “So vat do you vant to know?”
Déjà vu on steroids slipped over my skin like electricity, raising the hair on the back of my neck. She asked me the exact thing six years ago, though instead of answering my question with something legitimate, she gave me a tiresome response about finding a man. I decided to ask the same thing again.
“I want to know what my purpose is in life.”
She raised a brow as if she found the question entirely bland, picked a card from the top of the deck, and set it faceup on the table.
I stared at it, my stomach on the floor.
The Devil.
A puff of Madame Richie’s cigarette smoke circled the card, a little humor in her voice. “Vell . . . this is interesting.”
Calmly, I got to my feet and headed to the door.
“That vill be fifty dollars,” she hollered after me.
