Page 65 of The Confidant

“I will back you up no matter what you choose, siren. I promise. But I can’t sit here and watch this play out without saying something. I want you to be happy. Always. Not doubting how amazing you are.”

“I,” my voice trails away as thoughts run through my head. “I need to think about this.”

“Alone?”

The tight, helpless sound of his voice makes it seem like a done deal that I want him gone.

“Mais, no,” I frown at him. “You’re going to sit there and let me cuddle you the whole time. Find something to watch on TV if you get bored.”

“Addie,” my name is weak as I crawl into his lap and get comfortable.

“You hush now,cher. We’ve both had a wringer of a day, and we need a breather.”

He lets out a shaky breath as his arms wrap around me, tight enough to hurt. I don’t complain. I need it. Maybe he does, too.

Chapter Twelve

Adelaide

Two weeks pass in the blink of an eye.

Damon got a new job down the street, promising to come in when I need him. I’m sad to see him go, but I get it. Bills to pay and a girlfriend to spoil. That doesn’t make the feeling of abandonment go away, though. It isn’t rational, but it’s another wound when I’ve gotten overloaded with them.

Without Damon’s steady distraction, I stare at my phone too much. I promised myself I wouldn’t drive anyone crazy by calling anymore. I’ll wait for them to get in touch with me. That doesn’t stop me from wanting to. It’s a rough road pretending I’m not waiting for a single text from one of them. Another wound to add to the pile.

I’ve been debating starting therapy again. This time, to help me sort out the complex emotions my family has started bringing out in me. Now that Poe has pointed it out, I’ve been going back through my life with a new filter. Or maybe I should saywithouta filter.

All of the subtle and not-so-subtle issues that I’ve had in my life. The lack of attention from Maman. And when she gave it to me, it was to be punished. I tried my best to stay on her good side by being quiet and doing well in school. Dying my hair and wearing those damn contacts. I hid myself away while silently begging her to love me again.

It earned me nothing. Any good moment I had in school was overshadowed by my siblings' achievements. Sometimes, Maman didn’t even sign my report cards.

Within a few years, I started to slip up. A kernel of resentment that I thought I squashed out long before popped up and refused to go away, with a hint of rebellion to add some spice. That tiny flair of anarchy wasn’t the beginning of the end. It was an escalation of what was already happening.

That little spark gradually grew into a tiny flame over time. My own hooligan stage, just like Asher’s, without the law-breaking.

I wanted to hold onto my accent as the one thing about myself I liked. I love Louisiana. I love everything about it. I wanted to keep something that made me happy. The bio wasn’t the only one with an accent. Maman couldn’t shed hers, so why did I have to struggle so hard? I wanted them to see that. To rebel against Dad’s influence in another way. To take back control of things and make them ours instead of his.

They chose to wipe it out entirely. As if getting rid of any hint of him would make everything all better.

It was my first independent decision, and Maman latched onto it. The blond hair and darker eyes weren’t enough anymore. I had to prove myself, and I failed every single time.

Looking back has made me realize how blind I’ve always been.

I’ve been leading myself down a path that she’s made for me when I thought I was stopping her at the crossroads.

Every single time I tried to determine my own course was an issue. Every time I watched my family bow their heads and accept whatever Maman said, that anger flared higher. We all knew she was wrong. Why was I the only one speaking out anymore?

I thought they were the clueless ones who needed protecting. It turns out they learned early and watched me acting like a fool for their own amusement.

Then my drawings weren’t good enough.

Never as good as Suzette’s, the painter of the family. We have two different styles that don’t match up. Hers are flowing colors that bring peace. Mine are sharply detailed, vibrant, in-your-face screams.

Body art. Self-expression. That wasn’t a way to speak without words to Maman. It was a brand that marked me as evil.

Despite the rebellions, I gave in on a lot of decisions. Not all, but most.

Like the fact that I can’t call Joseph Pa like everyone else can. Maman’s fierce expression, the one time I tried to do it, would have stopped me, but she had to nail it home with words.

---