Page 74 of Queen of Nothing

I shake my head.

And I let thoughts of home creep into my mind.

Serena is rough in the kitchen, tossing pans onto the counter, clattering chopping boards, and throwing pots onto the burner.

I drop my head and flatten my palms on my ears.

And I tune her out.

I think about home.

Oliver will have married by now.

I wonder who he married and if he has children.

Dray probably married Asta, since I basically threw a grenade at her engagement with Eric before I left.

He probably replaced me after a few days.

I’m not a pawn on the chessboard anymore.

Also, I did that thing with the article.

I gave Courtney an interview about him.

Gods, I hardly remember it.

A memory bogged down by the sludge of too long on the run in this fucking miserable life.

I want to sink into the feathery embrace of my bed, the one at Elcott.

I want Abigail to wait on me, bring me trolleys of teas and dinners and snacks and sweets.

I want her to pick up the mess I drop on the floor.

I want her to run the best bubble baths I’ve ever known—and can’t figure out how to replicate.

I want my piano.

The Bösendorfer.

I want my fingers to glide over the keys, smell the crispness of the sheet paper parted in front of me, hear the melody dancing around me.

I want to write my own music, follow a melody along the keys that comes from somewhere inside of me.

Then I want for everything else.

My cuticles and nails done. Fingers and toes. Hair trimmed, treated, styled. Massages and spa treatments and facials.

I want to go shopping. With the black card.

I want better clothes. I want to go to nice restaurants again. Go on holidays in Monaco and Saint Tropez. Summer trips on the Riviera.

I run my hands over my face.

Elbows planted on the table, I listen to the hiss and sizzle of food in the pan.

“It’s raining again.” Serena’s voice is interrupted by the sudden loud sizzle of water spilling over a pot and onto the heat of the burner. “You’ll have to pick him up in the car.”