And the moment I step back into the spotlight, I’ll have no choice but to address the rumors. I don’t usually care what people think of me, but this hits differently. I just don’t have the energy or fight in me anymore.
I continue to watch over Borris. He plays with a puppy, confused by its spurts of energy but also trying to keep up with the little guy.
My mind drifts back to being on the back of Dante’s bike. It’s been so long since I've ridden that I almost forgot about how invigorating it feels. The free and thrilling drift of the wind whipping at my hair. It reminded me of distant memories with my father. Of a time when I was a little girl, and all the things he taught me on the farm, most of which I’ve forgotten by now. I only visited the farm two times after my parents divorced. The last time I was there was twenty years ago, after he died.
I try to recall what my father looks like. I remember mousy-brown hair, strong hands, and a soothing voice. I remember him as being my hero, but everything else I’ve forgotten.
I have photos somewhere. I think at my mother’s house?
I look at the time on my phone. It’s four in the afternoon, and I have no particular interest in going home or facing Dante yet.
There’s just something about him that unnerves me. Not that I think he’ll chop me into tiny pieces or anything, but also… maybe?
“Come on, Borris,” I call, deciding to do something I didn’t think I’d willingly choose anytime soon—visit my mother especially because she’s one of the main perpetrators of trying to coddle me.
My mother is out when I arrive, but one of the house staff lets me in, despite the fact that I have a key. It’s not that I dislike returning to my mother and stepfather’s home. It’s simply that they value materialistic things more than I do. I wanted to explore the world on my own two feet, instead of being held tightly to an expectation within their inner social circle.
They live in a big mansion, like she always wanted. I recall her urgency and demand, arguing with my biological father about the things she dreamed of having when they only knewdebt. My mother came from old money, and marrying for love and adjusting to a humble life were hard for her. I only found out that detail in my late teens, because as a child, I thought we had everything we needed. I find it ironic that I forget the finer details of my father’s face, but I recall their arguments about money.
The mansion is beautiful, but this life my mother built with my stepfather always felt too polished. My stepfather is an influential plastic surgeon, and I suppose being raised around beautiful people quickly made me understand that it didn’t necessarily translate to their personality or level of sincerity.
I walk into my childhood room; it's decorated in an array of dark purples and black. I smirk, grateful that despite my grunge aesthetics as a teenager, they kept it as it was. I look up to the rock band posters, almost laughing at how hot I found the lead singer—because he’s wearing a mask.
Borris jumps on my deep-purple silk blankets as I walk to my closet, which still contains more clothes than I ever knew what to do with.
I loved my life, loved being spoiled, but there was also a deep yearning to explore the world on my own, which is precisely what I did the moment I graduated.
When I came back to New York, I'd decided it was time to get my own place. After trying a few different places over the years, in between traveling the world for my exhibitions, I'd finally settled in my current apartment. It's where I'd lived with Lorraine, and it had felt like I finally found a place to call my own. If anything, maybe it was only because I had her to return to.
I turn on the light in my walk-in closet and admire the clothes. A few I set aside, having forgotten about them, but I had every intention of bringing them back to my apartment. I step into another closet, this one I used specifically for shoes,handbags, and jewelry. I ignore all of them and drop to my knees to a bottom drawer on the right-hand side. When I open it, I find the black box I came here for.
Another sneeze escapes me, reminding me of my aching bones, and I head back out to Borris, who is nearly passed out on the bed, exhausted from playing with the puppy earlier today. I smile at him, scratching the back of his ear as he gets cozy, and open the box.
I laugh at the first photo of Lily and me in middle school for some dress-up party. It’s the first time I ever did both of our makeup, and it shows.
The next one is of me in high school, riding Maisy, the white filly my mother bought for my thirteenth birthday. I'd missed living on a farm, and my mother had grown tired of hearing about it, so they'd bought me a horse, and I enjoyed that for a few years until the novelty wore off, at which point I found myself interested in other things—more specifically, painting, girls, and boys.
I smile at a picture of me and my first girlfriend, Clara. We only dated for a few months. Then next was Billy. He asked me to prom, and before graduation, I dumped him because I didn’t want to be tied down with my upcoming travels.
I’ve been nothing if not flaky in relationships, and have never wanted anything serious. All these years later, not much has changed.
My hand freezes on the next photos, the ones I came here for. They’re in a small envelope, and I pull out the first one, a sad smile pressing on my lips. It’s of my father and me. He was sporting a moustache at the time and wearing his large-brimmed hat. I was sitting on the small four-wheeler he bought me for my sixth birthday, only a few months before my parents told me they were getting a divorce.
I chuckle as I look at the leather jacket I’m wearing in the photo. I remember he had it tailored, bedazzled with a gemstone llama on the back, because I loved them so much. I search the box to see if there’s another photo of the back of the jacket. I’d forgotten about that, and have no idea where it ended up.
“Sweetheart, I didn’t realize you were visiting,” my mother says from the doorway, and I look up at her, offering a small wave. Her gaze lowers to the box, and her lips turn down as she dumps her shopping bags at my door. Despite having the house staff who could put them away for her, she’s always enjoyed admiring her purchases and putting them away herself.
“What are you looking at?” she asks cautiously, and the tension between us from the way we last spoke to one another flares up. When she sits beside me, looking over at a snoozing Borris, I pull her in for a hug. She seems surprised but puts an arm around me and looks down at the photo on top of the pile.
“He was such a striking man, wasn’t he? Do you remember that jacket? You never wanted to take it off. I wonder what happened to it.”
It’s funny how some things you love so deeply get lost along the way.
Much like my mother’s love for my father.
As a child, I never understood how love wasn’t unconditional, but as an adult, I now understand the many things that can pull people apart. My mother was born into money, married for love the first time, then remarried into money again. She once told me love doesn’t always conquer all. That security and freedom are even more attractive, and she always only wanted what was best for us.
“Do you ever miss him?” I ask.
