Page 22 of Crossed
She smiles tightly, following as we head toward the door.
When we reach it, I look down at Genevieve, fastening my peacoat and donning my gloves while Jeremiah holds open the front door. “Will you be present for the Holy Mass?” I already know the answer.
She laughs, a light, tinkling sound. “Oh no, Father. I don’t leave the monastery.”
My eyes flick over the lines of her face. “Pity.”
“You know how to reach me.” She inclines her head and I smile, enjoying the subtle show of subservience, even when I know I shouldn’t. “But just a gentle reminder, this place is aprivatesanctuary away from all the noise. We like to keep quiet about its whereabouts.”
“I understand.”
Once we’re back in the car and I’m not hurling questions at Jeremiah, he’s quiet, almost pensive, and I wonder if he’s always this subdued or if it’s because of me. I can’t find the will to care either way, my mind already drifting off to places it shouldn’t, wondering if I’ll be able to slip away without anyone noticing who I am or that I’ve gone.
Even if theydidnotice, I hardly doubt it would stop me. And now that I’ve been to the Green Mountain Monastery, I have a place to hide away and heal if the whip cuts too deep.
Whether Sister Genevieve wants me there or not.
Chapter8
Amaya
“DO YOU EVER MISS IT?” I ASK DALIA, PLOPPING down into the light wood chair of the dining table and wrapping my hands around the mug of hot tea.
We’re having a drink before she makes dinner for Quinten and I leave to go to work, which is something we try to do every day. Just a chance to check in and have some private girl time.
Unfortunately, the apartment is small, so sitting at the table in the middle of the square kitchen, surrounded by chipping pale green cabinets and mismatched dish towels, is as private as we get.
It doesn’t matter. I love these simple moments. I like to think of it as replacing the bitter memories my mom and Parker infused in this apartment with new ones.Betterones.
Dalia blinks at me with her doe- brown eyes from over the rim of her own cup. “Miss what?”
“Dancing.”
She shrugs. “Nobody can dance forever, you know?”
I know she’s right, even if I don’t like to think about it. “Yeah.”
Her answer is the same every time I bring it up, but for some reason, I keep asking, like if I push enough, she’ll change what she says and admit the emptiness that flits through her gaze is from losing a piece of her when she lost the ability to dance.
Dalia and I met through our boss, Phillip. Well, I guess only my boss now. She was the best damn performer there, and when I first came in to be a cocktail waitress, barely knowing how to balance on bare feet let alone platform shoes, Phillip linked us up. We hit it off right away, and she’s been the only person in my life I’ve truly been able to call a friend. She sparkled in the spotlight, and I admired her, envied her even, because she always seemed to know exactly who she was. Even more than that, shelovedwho she was. A long lean body, russet-brown skin, and a large chest, she was a favorite at the Chapel. And then, one night, a drunk driver sideswiped her while going eighty in a thirty-five, and they had to use the jaws of life to cut her out of the car. She hasn’t been the same since, and neither has her right leg, which was shattered on impact.
With no job and no money, she was shit out of options. So I had her move in with Quinten and me. Free room and board if she’d watch him while I brought in the cash for us both. There’s not much space, barely enough for Quinten and me, with a small living room and one hallway off the kitchen, but there are three bedrooms, and the one that was my mother’s was just sitting unused. I couldn’t really force myself to go in there, so having Dalia take it over was cathartic in more ways than one.
Dalia swears up and down that she’s fine, that she’s happy. But despite what she says, every time I leave to go dance, I have to swallow down the guilt.
“That’s why it’s good you work so much now,” she continues.
“Save up everything you can, Amaya. Make that money and then put it away for when you need it.”
Her words drop on my shoulders like slabs of concrete. God, I fuckingwishI could put away enough money to have some savings, but that’s just not my reality. I could have it rain down in the thousands, and Parker would still make sure I don’t keep enough to stay afloat.
Not unless I agree to being his.
But I can’t tell her that because nobody knows about my shady dealings with Parker. He’s my dirty little secret, with grit that burrows into my pores and is impossible to wash clean.
Besides, knowing Dalia, she would never let sleeping dogs lie, and I don’t need her trying to solve my problems like they’re her own.
“It’s annoying that you always ask me that, you know? About dancing, I mean,” she snips.
