Chapter 3 #2
“Yes, but I’m still doubting myself. While she was screeching at me, I kept seeing Jessica through a lens that didn’t fit.
I kept thinking that maybe she’s being so nasty because she’s worried about her daughter, and she just wants to get her back.
I mean, I know for a fact that Jessica despises Audrina, and she’s only worried about what it will do to her image if something terrible happens to her.
If she was—” I hesitated and swallowed the lump in my throat.
“If Audrina was hurt or arrested, it might go public because her parents are both pseudo-celebrities here in San Francisco. People in her social circle would wonder why Jessica never mentioned she had a daughter in the first place. And as soon as any photos of Audrina leaked, they’d realize Jessica was hiding her away because she was embarrassed, and it would ruin her image of being a good mom.
” I took another sip of my coffee. “I know all that for a fact, but I kept thinking that Jessica was only being horrible to me because she’s worried for Audrina. I was giving her too much credit.”
Donovan nodded thoughtfully. “And that is why you didn’t gut her like a pig and dance in her heart’s blood when she was screaming at you.”
I paused, frowned, then shrugged. “Sure. That’s why. My point is I’m still not confident in how I’m assessing situations. I’m still trying to get back to the person I was before, but there’s a lot of anger I have to process first, and it’s hard to get a handle on it.”
“I understand.” Donovan leaned back in his chair, the picture of languid grace and power.
“The lady Bronwyn said I have to process my anger at my parents. But I do not feel any anger towards them, because it is my duty to obey them. She insisted that it was there, just buried deep. I must draw it out and wrangle it into submission.” He drained his little coffee cup and slammed it down on the table. “Cecil. Another.”
Cecil, dancing around one of my four ovens, moving so fast I could barely see him—cutting a hunk off an enormous wheel of cheese and stirring a little pot on the stove at the same time—huffed out a chuckle. “You’re the boss, boss.”
Donovan nodded towards me. “You must do as Lady Bronwyn says. Draw out your anger and wrangle it into submission. Focus it on those who wronged you.” His deep emerald eyes suddenly glowed with a dangerous intensity. “Then we will flay the skin off your ex-husband’s body.”
“Ooh. Save it for me, I need a new winter coat.” Cecil spun a spatula in the air and flipped my sandwich in the pan.
Butter sizzled, wafting a gorgeous scent towards me.
“Vincent’s an asshole, but he’s a gorgeous asshole with great skin.
Although, wait until the bite marks I gave him heal.
I don’t want any holes in my new leather. ”
I suppressed a smile. “Let’s call that Plan B. And besides, it’s not him I’m angry at.”
Donovan pounded a fist on the table. “Chosen! You must take your vengeance. Otherwise, how will you process your anger?”
I eyed him suspiciously. He was being uncharacteristically expressive. “Have you ever had caffeine before?”
“I have deliberately ingested many poisons in my lifetime. I am immune to most toxins. Now, answer me. Your husband betrayed you. You must vanquish him at some point since you have forbidden any of us from taking his head on your behalf.”
“Well.” I gnawed on my lip, trying to put it into words.
“Of course I’m angry at him. Vincent made me believe I was mentally unstable, and it completely destroyed my confidence.
Now that I know I was right all along...
” I trailed off, finally voicing the thoughts that had been niggling at me.
“I’ve been really angry at me. I’m angry at myself for doubting me.
I’m pissed that I let myself get hoodwinked.
That’s what I’m feeling right now, Donovan.
I’m not mad at Vincent. I’m mad at myself.
I don’t think I can let myself process the anger I feel for Vincent until I’ve dealt with how mad I am at myself. ”
“I understand.” The table started juddering; Donovan was restlessly jiggling his leg up and down. “Is this what your epiphany is about?”
“In part, yes. Cecil’s smoking reminded me about something. See, I used to smoke?—”
“Gah!” Cecil threw a spatula at me. “You hypocrite!”
I plucked the spatula out of midair and set it down on the table. “And I used to love it so much. There’s nothing quite like having the first cigarette of the morning with your coffee. The pleasure I used to get from having a cigarette after sex, in that hazy, loved-up post-coital glow…”
Donovan leaned forward, his eyes darkening.
My belly burst into flames.
A long moment passed as I struggled to reign in the hot feeling in my core.
I blushed and looked away, trying to focus.
“My point is, I used to love smoking. Having a glass of wine and a cigarette, going out for a cigarette break, waking up and having a coffee and a cigarette. That deep inhale of your first drag.” I rubbed my chest. “It’s so satisfying. There’s nothing else like it.”
“Yasss,” Cecil said, flipping the sandwich in the pan again.
“But, when it became common knowledge how bad smoking is for you”—I leaned out of my chair to direct my words at Cecil—“because of cancer.”
He snorted. “I can handle a few tumors.”
“And heart disease.”
“I have no heart!”
“And wrinkles.”
Silence.
“Bitch,” he muttered under his breath. He stomped over and dropped another little cup of espresso in front of Donovan, who picked it up and threw back the whole thing before I could pluck it out of his hands.
“Go on,” Donovan said, smacking his lips.
“I gave up smoking,” I finished. “It was the hardest thing I’d done so far in my life.
I ached for it; I missed it like crazy. I pined for cigarettes like a woman misses their lover while they’re at sea.
Then, almost a year to the day after I gave it up, Vincent passed me his cigarette at a dinner party.
I’d had a few wines, and I took a long drag without thinking. ”
Donovan leaned forward. “And what happened?”
I grimaced, remembering what it was like. “I almost vomited. It tasted like I was inhaling a burning rope. My lungs felt like they were being violently assaulted, and it smelled revolting, like a musty old drunk flopped over in a dive bar. It was disgusting.”
“So, this… cigarette. Was it defective?”
“No. That’s my whole point. I’d brainwashed myself into thinking I enjoyed smoking because I was addicted to nicotine.
Cigarettes had always been that awful, and when I realized that, I was furious with myself.
I’d brainwashed myself into thinking that I loved smoking, when in reality, it was all a lie.
Smoking is disgusting, and it always has been. ”
I hesitated. “It’s the same with Vincent. He was my drug. I loved him so much—I was addicted to him. And because I was addicted to him, I let myself be brainwashed into thinking that he was perfect.”
“When in reality”—Cecil sashayed in front of me, brandishing a plate—“he’s a giant man-baby and a cheating jerk.”
“Well… yeah. My point is, I’ve been mad at myself for being fooled by him, because my whole life, I’ve always been so good with people.”
Donovan’s intense gaze seemed to be reaching an extreme pitch. The table juddered restlessly as his legs bounced up and down. “And now you remember that you were fooled by something else you loved.”
“Yeah. I’m not sure if it helps to realize that, or it makes everything worse. I was always so sure of myself, and now, there’s two prime examples where I was totally wrong.”
“Love and nicotine. It’s a helluva drug!” Cecil sang out. “And I’m not giving up either of them.”
“The point is, I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m not the old Susan, and the new Susan hasn’t figured herself out yet.”
“I know who you are.” Donovan leaned closer, his eyes blazing and knees still jiggling. “You are the Chosen. The One of Every Blood. You are the woman of Prophecy. Your destiny is laid out in front of you like a carpet of roses watered in the blood of your enemies.”
I sighed. “Donovan… go and do some pushups or something.”
He leapt to his feet. “That sounds like a good idea, Chosen. I am suddenly invigorated.” He bounced down into a plank and began to lower himself down and push up, following an insanely fast tempo.
Cecil snickered, shimmying over to place a plate in front of me.
“You’re an asshole, Cecil.” A mouthwatering aroma floated up from the plate—melted gruyere cheese, a thick slice of ham, and doorstop-sliced sourdough with a golden crust. “But I’ll forgive you.
” I lifted the sandwich and took a bite.
The crunch of buttery toast gave me tingles, an unexpected autonomous sensory meridian response.
Melted gruyere and bechamel sauce oozed over my tongue, dancing with the salty slice of ham. I moaned.
Donovan hesitated. He lifted one hand from the floor and kept going, doing one-handed pushups. “Chosen. While I think it is a good thing that you are comparing your husband with a carcinogenic substance, I do think you should do what Lady Bronwyn tells you.”
I was lost in a fog of pleasure from my fancy French grilled cheese. “What’s that?”
“Forgive yourself,” he said, barely even panting as he switched sides to do one-armed pushups with his left hand.
“That is what she instructed me to do, and I assume she would tell you the same. Despite me trying to correct her, she insists that we are not gods, and that we are fallible. You are allowed to make mistakes. What is important is that we learn from them.” He hesitated for a second.
“Cecil, I have a list of books that you must acquire for me.”
I ate my croque monsieur and tried not to watch him. “You really dig this therapy thing, don’t you?”
“She is harsh but correct. We are not gods.”