Page 77 of Wanting Wentworth

Me: Holy shit, are those pizza rolls??

Silver: DO NOT TELL DAD!

Our father, Davino Fiorella is the most decorated chef in history. Food is his religion. If he knew his favorite was a junk food junkie he would probably throw himself off the Brooklyn Bridge.

Me: Snitches get stitches. Lol

She sends me a couple of knife emojis followed by another text.

Silver: I’ve been meaning to text you… how are you holding up?

Me: Lilah told you?

Silver: No. Hollywood Buzz told me. Lexi Chase is crying all over the place about how you were the one behind the wheel. Someone needs to shut her up before I decide to fly to LA and do it myself.

Even though it’s not even remotely funny, I bark out a laugh because Silver would actually do it—and more than likely, Delilah and Jane would be right behind her.

Me: My lawyer’s working on it. Just… don’t do that.

Waiting a beat, I type out another text.

Me: Does Dad know?

I hate that I care what he thinks.

That I still, after all the damage he’s done, don’t want him to be disappointed in me.

Silver: If he does, he hasn’t said anything to me about it.

I don’t know if I’m relieved that he hasn’t been paying attention or pissed off for the same reason.

Me: are you going to ask me if I did it

Silver: I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask me that.

Before I can think of something to say, she sends another text.

Silver: Gotta go. Someone is knocking. I think it’s Jane. I love you. As soon as This is over and you get to come home, We’ll have dinner. <3

Remembering Delilah’s plan to ambush her and take her clubbing, I say a quick prayer that neither one of them ends up in trouble because I’m usually the one who bails Delilah out and I’m in no position to play rescue ranger.

Me: I love you too.

After I hit send, I text Damien.

Me: Don’t come up here tonight. I want to be alone.

Switching my phone off without waiting for a reply, I throw it back in the drawer and slam it shut.

Going downstairs, I make one of the three things I know how to cook—scrambled eggs and toast—for dinner. Loading my plate, I stand at the kitchen counter and stare at the place Kait sat all day, studying, while shoveling eggs and slightly burnt toast into my mouth.

After I’m finished, I rinse my plate and put it in the dishwasher and wash my hands before turning on every light I can find downstairs. Making my way to my makeshift studio, I sit down at the table where I have my supplies spread out. Flipping through the 11x13 art pad that I’ve halfway filled since I’ve been here, to my current work in progress.

Careful not to smudge its predecessors, I find the piece I started this morning. It’s of Kait. The way she looked sitting in front of me on the dock, right before I started drawing her tattoo. Her shoulders bared to the sun. Long wisps of hair dancing in the breeze. The soft curve of her jaw, angled toward me without showing me her face.

It's not the first drawing I’ve done of her.

My portfolio is filled with them. Not as finely tuned as a finished picture but that’s okay. These are for later. For when I’m gone. So that when I want to draw her again, I can remember exactly what she looks like.

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