Page 5

After three years of being told what to wear, who to talk to, and why every single problem in our relationship was somehow my fault, I finally packed my bags and walked away.

I started over.

Found a job at a little flower shop.

Rented an apartment with crooked floors and a balcony barely big enough for two chairs.

Bought myself pink bedsheets because Grant always hated pink.

I even started wearing dresses again.

Pretty ones.

Feminine ones.

The kind he used to accuse me of wearing for attention.

And yet one man in a charcoal suit has me hiding behind an abandoned chapel like a frightened little girl.

I drag a hand down my face.

“Men,” I announce to the statue. “Can’t live with them. Can’t apparently walk down the street without having a nervous breakdown over one.”

Silence.

I glance up.

“You’re a surprisingly good listener.”

Rain patters against the magnolia leaves.

I notice a weathered inscription carved into the pedestal beneath his feet.

I lean closer, brushing away a curtain of ivy.

VIDAR.

Beneath it, in smaller letters:

GOD OF WRATH AND VENGENCE.

I stare.

Then laugh.

“Oh, that’s perfect.”

I look up at his stern face.

“Of all the statues in New Orleans, I find the one dedicated to anger issues.”

I shake my head.

“Well, aren’t you exactly what I need?”

Lightning illuminates the courtyard.

For the briefest instant, something glimmers beneath the obsidian.