Page 10 of Souls and Sorrows

I should go home. I’m not thinking straight.

But home is a studio apartment at the bottom of my nonna’s building, decorated with the same expensive furniture I’ve had since I was a teenager. It’s cold and empty, and going there means facing myself in the mirror.

Tonight, there isn’t a single part of me that wants to do that.

Jealousy and anger don’t leave, and they’ll still be there if I go home. The bitter emotions sit in the center of my chest, waiting for action. Tucking my hair behind my ears, I reach around and yank off my sash, letting it fall to the ground. The wig follows.

My thoughts of Vitus and the stranger at the club halt, dissipating as I solidify my decision to be here right now.

I leave my doubts behind as I ascend the stairs and approach the door, raising my knuckles to rap against the glass.

A minute passes, and I think maybe he isn’t home. Or maybe he’s avoiding me.

But then a lock unlatches, loud on the quiet street, and the door swings open.

He isn’t standing there where anyone can see, but off to the side, in the shadows. As if he’s been waiting for me, although this is the first time I’ve been here on my own.

Tilting my chin up, I reach for the storm door and pull it open, stepping inside. My eyes catch on the nameplate above the wall-mounted mailbox, and I scan it slowly as I pass before shutting myself inside.

Tallerico.

3

I’d liketo say my internal clock goes easy on me when it’s under particular strains of stress, but that’s never been the case.

Rest fucks with my routine, and routine is paramount for keeping life tidy and neat, even when the outside world is anything but.

So, despite the fact that I feel like I was slowly fed through an industrial-sized meat processor after my night with Palmer, I find myself perching on the side of my bed at four in the morning anyway, yanking on a pair of gray sweatpants and tennis shoes.

Half an hour later, my head throbs incessantly with each fall of my feet against the pavement, and I try to concentrate on working through the strain of my muscles over my regrets from last night.

I lost track of how many shots Palmer and I wound up taking around the same time I let Ariana Ricci out of my sight. When I returned to the table, my brother was seated in a random man’s lap, and I slid back into the booth, grabbing the first drink in my reach.

Anyone else probably would’ve followed her out of the building. Part of me felt like that was her expectation too—when you’re renowned as the most beautiful creature on the planet, I’m certain you get used to being chased.

But I have never been in the mood to chase. When I run, I prefer not to have a destination or target and instead let my legs carry me until the real world falls away.

I’ve been doing it since high school; between extracurricular activities and unpaid internships my father signed me up for, alone time was a scarce commodity.

Solitude became a forbidden luxury I had to steal away at odd hours to indulge in. I’d slip out of Primrose Manor—the sprawling estate my family bought upon moving to Aplana Island, off the Massachusetts coast—early in the morning to run a few miles. The shock of my feet on the ground absorbed the weight of my problems even if only in spirit.

Even if my problems seemed to be minuscule in comparison to those of the rest of my family. The trauma that affected my parents and siblings to their very core appeared to have sidestepped me entirely, and I always wondered if it was because of the running.

As if my inability to remain still, even for a moment, perhaps let me evade certain disillusionment and disappointments. While everyone else was focused on Primrose Realty and how to further our father’s success, I distanced myself and found time to plan my own.

And as an adult, I’ve cultivated what was once an uncommon good and turned it into my lifestyle. After my three-mile run, I turn around at the Boston city limits and lap back to my apartment—the penthouse of one of the district’s oldest oceanfront buildings. It’s equidistant to Cupid & Associates and the ferry and only a few yards from the dry cleaners, a local grocery, and the bank, meaning that when I’m not in court or the office, I don’t have to stray very far.

I punch in the code to the gate and then jog through the underground parking garage to get inside. Sweat drips down my forehead, and as I hop into the private elevator, the brutal ache throbbing behind my temples spikes, unamused by my attempt to quell its violence.

The elevator chimes as it reaches my floor, and the doors open immediately into the penthouse foyer. Cream-colored walls bow out in an octagonal shape with wide archways leading to the living room and halls that border the back patio.

When I walk into the gourmet kitchen, I’m not at all surprised to find my sister sitting at the breakfast bar, eating Greek yogurt from the container. She smirks as I cross the room to the cabinet above the sink and shake four ibuprofen from a bottle.

“Rough night?” Lenny quips, turning the spoon over in her mouth.

I swallow the pills dry and face her, leaning against the quartz countertop.

She snorts, shaking golden-brown locks from her shoulders. “Well, if it helps, you don’t look half as bad as I was expecting.”

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