Page 62 of Saint

“–So, tell us about this Saint of yours that you’ve been all cagey about,” Dream floated, cutting off Luna as she stuffed her face with crab cakes.

They’d gotten me the vegan version of the dish, courtesy of Homegrown. It was everything one could expect in a crab cake. The heart of palm that composed the meat was much more tender, but it still served as a delicious replacement, and the powdered bladderwrack incorporated into it gave it the perfect seafood taste.

“What do you want to know?” I asked as I tore into my food. I didn’t really feel like discussing Saint, given our current status. The pang in my chest reminded me of who still held my heart captive.

“Oh, don’t play coy, Tori. We want to know who this man is that has your heart in a sieve.”

Thinking of all the wonderful things about Saint made me misty-eyed. He was far from perfect, but he was everything to me.

Wistfully, my eyes shuttered, and I inhaled deeply as I recalled the scent of coconut and sandalwood. When I opened them, three sets of eager orbs were on me. Robyn pushed an open bottle of prosecco in my direction, motioning for me to have my fill.

“Well, settle in, girls. I’m about to share with you a love story of vast proportions…”

Divorce papers arrived in the mail. The waste of trees littered my kitchen island, making a mess of the usually immaculate space. Logged in my mental faculty was the reminder to return the documents to their sender. A signature would not surface them. Their purpose was obsolete. Instead of granting Saint an easy way out of our marriage, he would have to face me. I refused to believe a divorce was what he truly wanted.

Since moving out of his home, my time was split between assisting with the Miller Center and preparing for my spring show. The detour taken with Saint hadn’t discouraged my assistance in launching the center. In many ways, it further provoked it. Saint remained involved in the center’s conception, though he utilized a lawyer or an assistant to proxy his absence. The fact that he refused to face me spoke volumes. The man was deeply in love with me and couldn’t face me or the fact.

I wanted to be angry with Saint’s actions, but my heart failed to express the sentiment. His lack of emotional nutrition diminished my rage, activating compassion in its place.

Already, we’d obtained Paramour city’s approval of the floorplans, and construction had swiftly commenced. Mechanical, electrical, and plumbing were laid out underground. Cement was poured for the foundation, and Luna was contracted to supply lumber. The frame of the center was erected within a month, and we were waiting for the city’s verdict on its inspection. All the documentation for a 501(c)(3) nonprofit had been signed off on and approved. The only thing left was for construction to be completed.

Whether adjusting a design for the show or signing off on a contractual change to the center, my schedule was full. My days began at dusk and ended well past dawn. The tax of energy depleted me, but I was determined to see everything through.

Locating a pen and sticky pad from my junk drawer, I scrawled out my discomposed emotions on a note and slapped it onto the thick pile of divorce papers before shoving it back into the brown kraft envelope.

Liberal with my tongue, I never took issue with speaking from my heart’s depths. The fact taunted me, considering that when Saint asked me about the money, I choked. No, wouldn’t have been there if the money hadn’t played a factor, but I’d grown to love him, and I’d done so unequivocally. Those were the words I’d clogged in my throat. Berating myself for the shortcoming only deepened the hemorrhaging my heart experienced. Despite my initial malfeasant motives, I fell. Deep, raw, and rampant, I took the plunge into love, trusting that he would be by my side.

How wrong I was.

Still, I did what I considered to be right when I left the money behind. My friends would all likely call me foolish if they knew the extent of my situation. “Take the money, heaux!” It would have been Dream’s advice. The poignant fact was the reason why I still hadn’t told them that Saint and I were married. I didn’t take the money, though. Convicted to the belief that actions spoke louder than words, that should have been enough for Saint.

Again, he’d proved me wrong.

Curiosity made a dwelling deep within me as I wondered how far Saint would go to prove his invalid point. After seven months of marriage, I refused to accept that there was nothing between us. This break in our journey was an extension of his fear. He’d been disappointed far too frequently by people in his world. The distance he initiated from me was his way of intercepting the pain he expected to come.

I shouldn’t have left.

The inexplicable mistake I’d made was recognized on my first night away from him. I flipped across my Serta semi-firm king-sized mattress in full acknowledgment of the fact. Like a fish removed from its territory, my mind refused to locate rest. I didn’t belong in South Pointe. I belonged on Paramour Beach underneath the goatee of my man as I inhaled the scent of sandalwood and coconut. That was my home.

“Good morning, Ms. Jacob.”

“Hey, Tori.”

“Morning, Tori.”

A new day graced me, and still, the unshakeable knowledge that I was a shell of myself cloaked me. I went through the motions. Meetings, rehearsals, adjustments, whatever. Time escaped me as I continued on autopilot.

My workday was full. Bursting at the seams, it left no room for aimless unproductivity. Still, procrastination prevailed. Slamming my laptop shut, I gathered my things and headed out of the office.

My mind –the wrong one, not the right– had the notion to pull up to Paramour Beach and demand that Saint take me back. Demand that he speak to me. Demand that we iron things out. My right mind, full of pride and ego, said hell no. If he wanted me, he knew where to find me. I wouldn’t be the sole bearer of this cross to fix us.

My feet tapped against the concrete floors of Demure HQ, reminding me of the homier concrete floors I once frequented. Heavily, I sighed, piercing the air with my woes. The more I considered what Saint should be doing, the angrier I got. Bubbling over with frustration, I turned down the hall and entered the atelier.

My gaze landed on the current pieces outfitted onto the dress forms behind me. I scanned the space, doing a final overview of all the outfits we’d successfully completed. Everything had been prepared for the show, but a few minor adjustments needed to be made. Typically, seamstresses completed the task, but with our show date advancing, each of my hands would be on deck. Directing my focus to a skirt that needed resizing, I fought against the inclination to do something silly.

Like showing up at a man’s home who didn’t want me.

Saint

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