I doze in and out of a light sleep, waking up every once in awhile to the random sound of my phone going off, everyone who’s ever met my family wanting to pay their respects.
I turn my phone all the way off, not wanting to disturb Mia. She seems to be having as much luck falling asleep as I do, and every time I roll over she’s contorted herself in some new way, wrapping her legs around me or taking all the blankets and throwing them on the floor.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers as I get up to go to the bathroom. “I can go sleep in the other room.”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “You relax. I’m gonna go get on the treadmill.” I pull a pair of running shorts out of the dresser and throw on a tank top.
“It’s not even three in the morning, Serafin,” she says, patting the bed next to her.
“I gotta get some of this out of me,” I say. I don’t know what “this” is, grief, anger, confusion, shock, numbness… running until my lungs burn seems like the best solution.
“I understand,” she says with a sad smile. “I’ll keep the sheets warm for you.”
I pull the covers up over her, and she closes her eyes. I know most of my mother’s nights were spent like this, tossing and turning and worrying about what was going on in my father’s mind. I don’t ever want Mia to have to feel that discomfort. I want her to be able to sleep soundly, knowing everything I do is for her.
I don’t care what it takes. I never want her to have to live through what my mother felt. I don’t ever want her to have to phone in her love for me, or force herself to make it work because that’s what society wants. I want to fill her with as many babies as she wants, but I don’t want that to be the only thing she has to live for.
I walk down the hallway, leaving the door open just a crack, and my heart shatters in a million pieces when I hear her feint sobs.
23
Mia:
I feel like complete garbage and I’m sure I don’t look any better. Jakub gave me the rest of the week off from the agency, but I had to get out of the house for a little bit. I’ve been doing whatever I can to help Serafin make funeral arrangements, but I can’t stop thinking about that conversation I had with his mother.
I know how much he loves her and how much he’s going to miss her, but with every passing hour, I hate her more and more. Instead of making things right with her son before she passed away, she pinned this ugly secret on me. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t even have a conversation with him without getting my words all mixed up.
He’s out of it now, thanks to the never ending parade of guests coming to the house to pay their condolences with shots of scotch, but soon he’ll be sober. Soon I’ll have to confront him.
I can’t hide out in the studio forever, staring at a blank canvas and chain smoking. The doorbells jingle, and I tuck my hair up into a bun, snub out my cigarette, and try and contort my face into some other expression than deer in headlights. It’s probably him, and he’ll probably want to take me to lunch, take me to the museum, take me to a movie, fly me to Paris, and I’ll have to make up some excuse why I can’t be alone with him right now.
I made a promise that after the funeral, I’ll tell him everything I know, but as much as I can’t stand that woman, I’m not going to disgrace her life with drama. I’m above that. She’s gone now, and I’m not going to let her ruin the rest of our life together.
To my surprise, the shouts echoing off the wall are Fabian’s. “Mia, are you here?”
I go out into the main room where all my paintings are displayed, and the blinding light coming through the huge windows makes me squint my eyes shut.
“Serafin will probably kick my ass for saying this… but… you look pretty rough, love.”
“If I look half as bad as I feel, I’m probably a horror show,” I say.
He hugs me like an old friend, and I guess at the end of the day, he is. I’ve known him as long as I’ve known Serafin, even though we never were as close. He’s really grown on me in the last few weeks, mostly because I know how much he loves Serafin. He’d do anything for him.
He’d want to know the truth.
“What brings you here?” I ask.
Before I can say another word, in strolls Phillip the rockstar, a cavalry of strangely dressed women who look way too young to be running around with a thirty year old man straggling behind him.
“Babysitting duty,” he mutters under his breath. “He’s been sitting outside in his car for the last hour. I wasn’t sure if he was planning on harassing you or grabbing lunch next door, but I figured I’d stick around until that weirdo figured it out.”
“Phillip, it’s not every day a rockstar comes into my gallery,” I say, trying to put on my happy face. If the man wants to spend money, I’m not going to turn him down. Sadly, I have a feeling that’s not what he’s here for.
“I just wanted to drop by and offer my condolences,” he says, reaching his arms out to hug me. I roll my eyes hard over my shoulder at Fabian.
“Well, you should be offering them to Serafin,” I say, pulling away. “It was his mother who passed. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.”
Or he’ll be glad to have something to kick repeatedly other than his punching
