“She’s a ball of energy, growing more every day. I can barely keep up sometimes. She sings with the same freedom and inhibition you used to have. Not sure she carries a tune as well, but she’s young.”
Angelique had once filled my days with music. She had a passion for musicals and sang all the scores, knew every part. No matter the role, male or female, her contralto rang with a clear vibrance and power that was meant for the stage but was wasted daily in the shower or kitchen.
In fact, Cosette was named after the young girl inLes Misérables. It had been Angelique’s final request.Call her Cosette.So, with a broken heart and the horrific image of Fantine dying in a hospital as she begged Valjean to care for her daughter, I named the baby Cosette. How could I refuse such a request?
The wind rustled the sagging branches on the weeping willow, sending them swaying and sweeping the ground. Cosette returned and placed several rocks and twigs among the chrysanthemums, arranging them just so. She had found a blue jay feather but seemed reluctant to give it up. Clutching the shaft, she delicately ran her finger along the vane with a quiet introspection unsuitable to a toddler. I often wondered where her mind strayed.
“You can keep it.”
Smiling, she tucked it into her coat pocket. An instant later, she seemed to think better of it and removed the feather, placing it beside my flower. “C’est pour Maman.”
Cosette took my hand. “Tell me a story.”
As I scavenged through memories, seeking a pleasant time from the past that was worth sharing, my pocket vibrated. Relief I didn’t deserve flooded my system, followed by guilt and shame.
I tugged the device from my jacket and checked the screen.
Work.
Finally. The escape I’d been waiting for.
2
Kobe
I collapsed on thecouch with a groan. “I’ve never been more grateful to have a day off in my life. Please run my phone over with your car so it never rings again.”
Elifet chuckled as he aimed for the kitchen. “You should know better than to say that shit out loud. Do you want a beer? I didn’t get snacks, but I figured we could order pizza at halftime.”
“Beer would be great.” I dug the TV remote out from under a mess of debris on the coffee table and flicked through the channels until I landed on the Cincinnati Buffalo game I’d been waiting for all week. As a detective with the Ottawa Police Department, I rarely saw two days off in a row. My partner, Rue Hayashi, and I had managed to clear up a handful of backlogged cases, giving us a rare moment to breathe.
Although our houses mirrored one another, Elifet lived a more extravagant lifestyle with a big screen TV, soft leather couches, a full bedroom set, and carefully selected accessories that seemed frivolous and unnecessary to my more minimalistic existence. Itwas why Sunday afternoon football happened at his place more often than not, despite us being next-door neighbors.
In twelve minutes and eleven seconds—according to the time ticker at the top of the screen—my friendship with Elifet would turn caustic. The expected rivalry would last approximately three hours—pending overtime—before we reverted to our comfortable, good-natured camaraderie. The contention worsened when our favorite teams played one another, and I’d been a hardcore Buffalo fan since I was old enough to understand football.
Elifet didn’t have a preferred team, per se, but he rooted for anyone who wasn’t Buffalo, to spite me, no doubt, but it was all good fun. No one walked away with hurt feelings. Our jobs kept us busy, so we treasured the rare times we were able to hang out.
Elifet returned with two sweating bottles of beer and handed me one before collapsing on the couch, close enough that our knees knocked. The compression of cushions brought our shoulders together, and Elifet swung an arm around me, casual as always.
“Hey, Moonpie. Looking mighty fine in an oversized hoodie and joggers.”
“Fuck you. Some of us dress for the weather. Besides, I thought we were watching the game. Get off me.” I playfully shoved him, but he refused to budge.
“I can think of better things to do than watching your shitty-ass team play.”
“Are you smack-talking already?” I quirked a brow, elbowing him harder. “That will get you nowhere.”
Elifet laughed, ruffled my unruly shag of hair, and shuffled to the other side of the couch. “Suit yourself, Buffalo. The offer is null later.”
“No, it’s not.”
Elifet chuckled. The man was a panther, long and lean with honed musculature he liked to flaunt by wearing the least amount of clothes he could get away with, even in the colder months. He was of mixed Haitian and British heritage with warm brown skin and coiled black hair that he wore several inches long. It gave him a playful edge that only complemented his vibrant smile.
Although Elifet’s family had emigrated from London when he was eight, he still clung to a mild accent, laying it on thicker when he thought it might work to his advantage—particularly when he was trying to pick up at the bars. People were oddly attracted to sexy men with accents. I pretended to be immune.
In nothing but loose basketball shorts, Elifet stretched out, setting his bare feet on the coffee table and draping an arm along the back of the couch. Relaxed and carefree, he carried quiet strength and confidence that I envied. He had the perfect job and the perfect family, both things I lacked. As an extrovert, Elifet was sure of himself and never gave a fuck what other people thought.
I longed for his poise and sureness.
