I blinked at him as the image descended.
Lila on the back of my bike, her leather Property of No One jacket swapped out for a new one.
Property of Nova.
And that image? It didn’t give me hives like it might’ve done years ago.
Instead, I felt a flutter like the brush of fuckin’ butterfly wings inside my chest.
“Hey, um, boss?” a hang-around I thought we called Chaos said as he peeked his head around the door. “Sorry to interrupt, but Curtains said he just go a ping online ’bout some girl called Lila? Apparently, she’s on the Wet Works website gettin’ naked on camera.”
“What the fuck,” I roared as I pushed back from the table and stood, stalkin’ to the hang-around and pressin’ him to the wall with my forearm at his throat. “Bring me Curtains now.”
LILA
I lived in the Booth’s backyard, and I had since I dropped out of university to move back to Entrance. This wasn’t because I had money concerns. I made a whack ton in tips at Eugene’s, and I’d been making money off of my Flower Child Photogram account for years just for posting about makeup or clothes.
No, I lived in the Booths backyard because I’d missed them when I was in Vancouver at UBC. I’d missed Hudson barging into my room without knocking just because he liked to bug me. I’d missed Milo and Oliver, who had moved out, but only into the rundown heritage house two doors down that they’d converted into a series of condos. Milo commuted to Vancouver every day for his finance job because he, too, couldn’t be parted from the family, and Oliver worked for Diogo’s thriving commercial fishing company.
Ares was with us at least once a week too, his quiet presence in the house somehow soothing. He was the only person I still spoke Spanish with, though we never it did it in public. He was almost afraid of his heritage, his words a low Latin whisper he dredged up from deep inside himself. I thought he spoke in our native language more for me than anything else. I liked to hear him read to me from his favourite poets, Pablo Neruda and Federico García Lorca, in the language of Dane’s and my own childhood even though it hurt like pressure on a tired muscle.
We all stayed close because that’s how we were.
We took turns making dinner most nights, one or the other popping in or out for the last meal of the day, and everyone was there for Sunday dinners.
Molly and Diogo didn’t blame me for dropping out of university. Nova had kinda paved the way by dropping out of high school, and they knew me well enough to know I’d find a way to carve out a life for myself with or without a degree.
No, no chastisement from my foster parents.
Instead, when I’d finally packed up all my shit in Vancouver and arrived back at home, exhausted and elated, the entire family had been waiting for me on the front porch with giddy grins on their faces. Hudson had bounded forward to tie a blindfold around my head, and then laughingly, they’d all led me to the backyard.
When they untied the ribbon obscuring my vision, I’d burst into tears.
Because they’d converted the old greenhouse Molly and I kept meaning to utilize into a little house for me.
They kept most of the glass windows in place but replaced the roof, added plumbing, hot water, and electricity. In the end, I had this absolutely adorable green and glass home tucked away amid the flower garden Molly and I had started planting when I was only seven years old.
It was perfect, like something out a fairy tale.
And every time I walked down the cobblestone path to the little cottage, I felt the love my family had for me flare in my heart.
Only, walking back from a long, long day at Wet Works, not even the sight of my house or the Suntastic sunflowers bowing their smiling faces to me in the breeze could remove the frown from my face.
I was exhausted.
Covered in glitter lotion that caused my clothes to stick to my skin like tacky glue, body aching from being on my knees for an hour, contorting in various positions so that the camera could see all of me in all my glory, I was fucking done.
Completely drained, I didn’t follow the sound of laughing voices through the backdoor to the main house. Instead, I unlocked my door, dropped my leather hobo bag to the ground, and made my way through the dark living space into the small bathroom.
I cranked the shower up to nearly scalding and shed my clothes, throwing them into the wastepaper basket so I’d never have to wear them again.
They felt soiled beyond redemption.
I stepped into the steaming shower and tipped my head under the spray, bracing my arms on the wall so my head could slump between my shoulders.