“Hey Isolde,” Lennie calls from the fitting room. “I wanted to say thanks for finding the cathedral. It’s perfect.”
“Yeah, I always liked St. Agnes. I told you the stained-glass is great.”
“How’d you find it?” Lennie asks, the door to the fitting room opening.
When I first got to the city, Hadrian asked me to go to St. Agnes when the sadness pressed too hard against me. I took Hadrian for the type of guy to fuck off to a wellness retreat—if he dealt with his shit in the first place.
One day while walking around the city, I came across it. Other tourists were going in and out of it, so I ducked through the arched doorway. I didn’t expect to find Hadrian there, sitting in the pews. He introduced me to Father Francois, who runs a grief group.
Something wells up inside me as I remember those early—and lonely—days in New York just as Lennie steps out of the fitting room.
My breath stops for a second, the wave of whatever I’m feeling cresting over me at the least opportune time.
Gia gasps.
“That is so much better,” Adeline agrees, toasting Lennie with her champagne.
She’s lost the ballgown made of tulle for a halter style mermaid. It hugs her figure, her thick brown hair elegantly pulled into a chignon. The beadwork reflects in the lights, and she smiles.
It’s a fucking shotin the heart.
My jaw tenses, the muscles tightening as my eyes prick.
She’s so fucking beautiful. The dress is. . .
I bite down hard on my lower lip, blinking quickly, to get a hold of myself.
The door opens, and I’m saved by Natalie.
“Sorry, we’re late!”
Adeline jumps up from the couch, hurrying to her nephew. Gia dashes across as well. Lennie smiles, not bothered by the interruption. But she startles when she spots me on the couch, her eyes widening.
Doing my best to smile, I shake my head.
Understanding the need for privacy, she remains quietly standing on the pedestal in front of all the mirrors.
“Come here,” Gia says to her grandchild.
Clearing my throat, I say to no one in particular, “I need to make a phone call.”
Luis glances up from the A-line he’s examining, eyes narrowing.
“I’ll just be outside,” I explain, rushing away before he can deny the request.
The summer sun doesn’t warm my skin. Though admittedly, I’m not feeling anything other than the dregs of pain beating upon my chest. It pulls at my limbs, my face hurting as I try to stop.
There’s no use.
This is a nice part of town, but I scuttle into an alley, moving out of a tourist group's way.
The tears burst violently. I clasp my hand over my nose and mouth, one hand on my chest. As if I could just suck everything back up.
My throat hurts, and I swallow something thick.
I don’t know why I do this sometimes. Why it hits so hard.
I look around for Sammie’s ghost, my blurry eyes not spotting her.
