Chapter Eighteen Bianca
Chapter Eighteen
Bianca
Bianca’s decision not to return to New Orleans hadn’t come easily.
It gnawed at her all night at Remi’s. As much as she wanted to be at Abuelita’s home during this time when she felt so broken, the truth was, she was exhausted.
She was tired of pretending to be strong and in control, when clearly she wasn’t.
The cancer treatments would cause her to feel weak and vulnerable.
The fact that she’d hurt her best friend in the entire world, well, that caused her the most angst.
As much as she wanted Dr. St. James to administer her care and treatment, her body said otherwise and made the call for her. The idea of another flight was more than she could bear.
So she stayed.
Staying meant compromise—going to someone new, someone local, who could continue her treatment plan.
Someone she didn’t know, and who knew nothing about her.
A stranger who hadn’t known her history, nor what she went through during her first bout with cancer.
Dr. St. James promised to coordinate everything, to connect her with a local oncologist in Napa, someone with the same treatment protocol.
It made sense medically, but emotionally …
not so much. But Bianca, exhausted, let herself say yes.
She couldn’t stay in Napa, not near Remi, who had warned her to stay away.
There was so much that remained unresolved between them.
There were too many words between them, some spoken in anger, others never said at all.
And Bianca didn’t have the strength to hold her own pain while carrying the weight of someone else’s disappointment—not right now.
So she rented a beach house on Bodega Bay, at least an hour away, something modest, tucked above the dunes. It was a place where the ocean could speak for her when she didn’t have the strength to talk. A place far enough from everything to give her room to breathe.
When she arrived there were no grand entrances, no flurry of text messages, just a Lyft from Napa to Bodega Bay.
A pair of dark sunglasses barely hid the dark circles beneath her eyes.
She touched the keypad on the door, stepped into the house with her suitcase in tow, and looked around the space.
The smell of saltwater drifted through the open patio door, the sheer white curtains blowing in the wind to a rhythm of their own.
She made her way through the house, taking note of how much thought had gone into bringing the beach inside to this space, and how comfortable it was.
The two bedrooms in the back each opened to small decks—perfect for early morning coffee or late-night glasses of wine.
She took note of the kitchen. It was small, but open and airy.
It would work, and besides, she wasn’t sure how many meals she’d be preparing—maybe a cup of broth here or there, something to help settle her stomach after the chemo.
Her treatments would make her feel fatigued and sick most days.
She was thinner, paler. Her signature lipstick was absent, and her hair pulled back into a haphazard knot.
After settling in, she placed the teakettle on the stove, made herself a cup of hibiscus tea with honey the way she liked it.
She collapsed onto the couch with a quiet sigh.
With the television muted, she watched from the large window as the waves crashed against the shore.
The house was eerily quiet. It pressed down on her chest like a weight.
Bianca lay on the sofa, her hands curled around the mug of tea.
Her head ached from the kind of pain that broken relationships brought with it.
The truth was that cancer hadn’t broken her.
It was the guilt that had done her in. The stillness gave her no place to hide, at least not from the memories or the choices she’d made.
And especially not from the face she couldn’t stop seeing when she shut her eyes—Remi’s, the moment Bianca realized she knew the truth.
Remi had always been the anchor in their friendship—practical, grounded, fiercely loyal.
Bianca had often been the messier one—impulsive, prone to tangents and making risky decisions.
Remi had loved her through it all. She had supported her when Harry left, not realizing the real reason behind his leaving.
He knew the truth. He had overheard a conversation between Bianca and Gerard, an argument about whether their spouses should know the truth.
It had taken all her physical strength to keep Harry from rushing over to Remi’s and Gerard’s home in the middle of the night to not only confront Gerard but to beat the living shit out of him, as he put it. He deserved it, in Harry’s opinion. And Remi could do better, as far as he was concerned.
Harry cried when he learned that the beautiful girl who had called him Daddy for the past sixteen years of her life was not his biological child.
“She’s mine anyway,” he said angrily, voice raised in a way that Bianca had never heard.
“You two won’t take that away from me. I will fight you with everything in me. ”
Bianca didn’t dare challenge him. She had too much to lose.
Her mind drifted to the night that had haunted her for so many years.
Remi and Gerard had thrown one of their holiday parties.
Gerard had cooked up a feast as usual, his specialty—a spread of Creole classics that filled the house with warm, spiced aromas.
Shrimp and grits with just enough heat to make your eyes water, gumbo thick and dark like the bayou, sweet potato pies, and bread pudding.
The fireplace crackled. Guests spilled out onto the wraparound porch, glasses of wine in hand, laughing and dancing under the strings of white lights.
It had been a perfect night. New Orleans–style Christmas songs played on the stereo.
Remi had drunk too much for a woman who was with child—though she didn’t know she was pregnant at the time.
It was what made her sick. Zoe was already growing in her belly, and she didn’t even know it.
Remi had gone upstairs to lie down, completely oblivious to the moment that was about to unfold.
They’d all been drinking that night. There wasn’t a sober soul in the house.
Bianca and Gerard had been left to wish their guests a peaceful night, to clean the kitchen and put food away.
Gerard had been blowing out candles in the kitchen when Bianca walked in and placed the silver ice bucket on the kitchen counter.
She paused, watching him. The one-too-many glasses of Merlot had caused her head to spin.
The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
They both reached for a glass at the same time, the touch lingering a lot longer than it should have.
He caught her eye and smiled faintly, a quiet kind of smile that said thank you for being here, and something else.
Bianca could still smell his cologne, even now—something woodsy and expensive.
The silk of her hunter-green dress brushed against her thighs.
She still remembered the taste of cognac on his tongue.
The way his hands explored her body. The way he pushed himself inside her, with no thought of the consequences that would follow.
The shame burned through her chest the moment it was over. And it burned even now. The truth was, she could’ve stopped it. She should have, but something in her wanted to feel wanted, to taste what Remi had. Bianca wanted to win, even if it meant losing everything.
Remi had looked radiant that night, glowing in a deep burgundy dress that she had chosen with great care.
She was proud of their beautifully decorated home, the people they’d invited.
Bianca had betrayed her that very night.
She had cracked the foundation of everything—destroyed their friendship and so much more.
And now she was trying to patch together the ruins of it, while her body waged war on itself.
Bianca placed the cup on the coffee table and buried her face in her hands. She needed music. Music had always been her healer. It lifted her spirits when she was low, cradled her. Even as a child, when life felt uncertain, music had soothed her soul.
And nobody did it for her like Prince Rogers Nelson.
She had fallen in love with him at a young age, had every album he ever released.
Prince was her guy. She saw herself in his story, in his music.
In a way his unstable childhood mirrored hers.
His parents had separated when he was ten, sending his world spinning.
Bianca had been twelve years old when her own parents left.
The abandonment still burned deep within her.
Like Prince, she had found comfort in melodies when words weren’t enough.
She smiled, remembering the night she dragged Remi to one of his concerts at the Saenger Theatre in downtown New Orleans.
Dressed in purple and sequins—Bianca’s hair in a spiky twist with purple streaks and Remi’s golden tresses pulled up into a ’90s hip-hop style, with two Afro puffs on each side of her head.
They’d climbed into the back seat of Grandma Lorraine’s Caprice Classic, sliding against the white leather seats as she pulled out of the driveway.
“I don’t know what y’all find so fascinating about this Prince fellow,” Grandma Lorraine said in her thick New Orleans drawl, and peered at them in the rearview mirror. “He wears tight pants and high-heel shoes.”
The girls had burst into laughter.
The truth was, Remi hadn’t found him fascinating at all. She was just along for the ride because Bianca had insisted. Bianca, on the other hand, had kept every vinyl, every CD. And when Prince died, she’d mourned like she’d lost family. It was personal for her.
Now, as “Let’s Go Crazy” rang out from her Bluetooth speaker, she danced like she had back then—younger, free, and more alive. She let the music push back the heaviness she was feeling.
She unpacked her suitcase, placing neatly folded underwear into drawers, hanging dresses and slacks in the closet, lining up shoes along the wall.
Then she found herself at Whole Foods, gathering what she needed to nourish herself: fresh vegetables, meats, juices, freshly ground coffee beans.
All the essentials. The treatments would last for weeks.
She was preparing her space and her spirit for what lay ahead.
As the sun began to set over the bay, casting soft orange streaks across the water, Bianca settled into a wicker chair on the deck.
She watched as the waves crashed gently against the shore.
The sliding glass door cracked just a little, for the music inside to drift out.
She held a glass of store-bought wine in her hand—not the kind Remi would’ve approved of, not something worthy of celebration.
But it reminded her of her friend all the same.
And with that thought came the ache in her heart, that hurt in the pit of her stomach.
She wouldn’t get to see Joie come to life.
She wouldn’t walk through its doors or sip from its first vintage, like they’d talked about doing.
She took a sip of the wine, letting it rest on her tongue for a moment.
Remi would’ve teased her for drinking something so ordinary.
And they would laugh about it. They laughed about all sorts of things—their families, their children, about life.
Always dancing. Remi had a way of making everything feel like art, even the everyday things.
Especially the everyday things. Remi was laid-back and cautious, but she always thought outside the box.
She moved through the world with care, but her ideas were bold, untamed, and full of vision.
She had helped in the early stages of Chic Threads. Part of it was her vision.
Bianca remembered that afternoon on Remi’s porch in New Orleans, a pitcher of sweet tea resting on the table.
They were supposed to be sketching out a business plan, with budgets, timelines, and vendor lists.
Bianca had even brought a notebook over.
But then, Remi came out of the house with a vision board and a pack of scented markers.
Bianca had rolled her eyes. “Seriously? We’re not building a bank.”
Remi just grinned. “No, we’re building your dream, sweetheart. Watch and learn.”
And then she’d taken over the porch floor, cutting out pictures of women wearing the latest fashions—bold jewelry, shoes, cosmetics.
She’d scribbled words in big, loopy handwriting: power, beauty, own your space.
At the time, Bianca thought it was ridiculous.
But now that board lived in the back room at her boutique, proudly displayed—creased at the corners, edges curled, but still holding every ounce of Remi’s spirit with it.
She sat there for a bit longer, sipping her ordinary wine, lost in memories of moments that would never come again.