He’d concede to the small, but he demanded that we go somewhere.
New Orleans was where. Just a four-hour drive from Natchitoches, it made sense. My parents had a home in the French Quarter, on Royal Street, but since it was going to be crowded with so many of us, Brando decided to rent the place next door. Eva and Gabriel had a home directly across the street.
To say that everywhere we traveled, we overwhelmed was an understatement.
People strolling along the cobblestone streets gawked at us as our caravan pulled up and unloaded, a few stopping to ask if someone famous was among us. I almost took out Guido’s head with my purse when he replied,“Yes, Scarlett Rose Fausti, the famous dancer. Do you know her?”He and Lou must’ve been getting along; he was being mischievous.
Brando muttered “ficcanaso” toward the crowd, which meantnosy, not liking all of the attention.
Charlotte snuffed up her nose and hightailed it into my parents’ place. The situation with Rachel was one thing; the scene in the room with my mother was another.
Years ago, after seeing such a thing, she’d have either set me up or found out something I’d done, and then run to tell so that my mother would send me away—to keep your mind on dance. I spent months in Russia, France, England, Slovenia, and occasionally, Italy, all in thanks to her lies. Read, issues.
I wallowed in the fact that my sister no longer had that power over me, and for that matter, my parents. The sunlight felt almost euphoric on my skin, the air a sweet taste of freedom, and the horn in the background serenading us with a romantic tune made me want to dance for no other reason that it felt good to be alive.
Brando mumbled something about the look on my face, still irritated with the attention.
“What look?” I asked, as we moved to the sidewalk.
“Like you committed murder and got away with it.”
I smiled even harder and made an evil noise. “That about sums it up. Except, I walked away withmylife. Self-defense.”
His eyes narrowed. I explained what I had been thinking. “You being the hero or the accomplice in this tale,” I said, concluding the summary. His face relaxed, and he took me in his arms and kissed me.
His attention was diverted after a few bags that belonged to his brothers and their wives were hauled into the house. It was easier for us to all stay together; we had plenty of room. Still, he wanted more privacy. Again, he wasn’t getting it.
For my sake, he seemed to let this slide. The slight tick in his jaw told me that he was on edge. The tick got even worse when Violet stormed over, her face flushed, waving her phone.
“Brando Fausti broke the internet!” she said, lifting the phone so that we could see the screen. Brando stood on the other side, somewhere in New York—early winter—buying white roses from a roadside vendor. I remembered those roses. He had given them to me after a rehearsal. He was in a gray shirt that hadAncorawritten across it, our (mine + his) leather jacket, and jeans that made him look…mmhmmfine.
“I know—but hear me out!” She defended her speech before she had even gotten started, seeing the disagreeable look on Brando’s face. He knew what was coming. “This picture has been shared, reposted, whatever, more times than anyone can count! Noweveryonewantsthatshirt! I just got a call from—”
“Violet,” he said, cutting her off. “Are you ready to go?”
“No, but—”
“We’ll see you in ten minutes.”
She huffed. “Why, Brando? You have to tell me!”
“Today is my wife’s birthday. I’m not concerned with much else.”
I said nothing, not wanting to get involved. So many brands wanted Brando and his brothers to represent them, not only him but the Fausti name a draw, but Brando held out. He refused to do any of them.
This was one of the reasons Violet and I had agreed that he needed his own Instagram. Her reasoning was that some of the traffic that found me looking for him would flow back. Therefore, I’d lose some of the comments asking about him and his family.
After he found his account, he demanded the password and then changed it. He posted two pictures of us in farewell and then shut it down. That was the extent of Brando’s social media life.
The hype around him hadn’t died, though. If anything, it made people demand more of him. Reclusive, mysterious, always a hungry look in his eyes…
Brando was right, though. Once social media took hold, it was hard to remove its claws. I had spent the last ten minutes turning over in my mind all of the comments I had read on his page. It wasn’t healthy, and it almost stole my shine.
I refused to allow it to invade my thoughts.
After a quick tour of the house—which was close in style to my parents’, all original brick and wooden floors, updated throughout the years but saving its bones and its iron-railed balconies overlooking the street—we headed out to explore the French Quarter.
We only had a few hours, since our reservations were for dinner, and all of us needed to get back to get ready.
