Taking Turns (Turning #1)(12)

“No,” he said.

In the same firm tone he had told Bric no.

I got out and came inside. Sat here on my bed. Alone in this massive four-thousand-square-foot townhome feeling cold, and alone, and empty, and discarded. Staring out at my view of Coor’s Field, lit up, but empty. Kind of like me.

It didn’t work. Rochelle’s plan didn’t work. And I wonder where she is now? I wonder, after hearing how upset Quin was, if he’s looking for her?

I wonder if she got away?

I can’t, for the life of me, understand why she’d give them up.

The whole scene was… surreal.

I could hear them on the other side of the closet. Quin was loud. I had no problem making out his words. Bric was soft. I didn’t hear much of his conversation at all. But Smith… Smith was neither loud, nor soft. And I had to strain. Try very hard. But I did hear what he said.

He was done with Rochelle.

The alarm is still wailing at me to get up, get ready for work, get on with my day.

If things had gone differently I’d be calling in sick this morning.

I sigh and stand up. I stretch my legs, which are cramped and stiff from sitting here in the same position all night. And then I walk into the closet and start taking off the clothes that Smith chose for me.

I hang the dress on a wooden hanger and hook it on the back of the door so I can have it dry-cleaned and returned. One by one, I remove the jewelry, placing it all very carefully into the velvet-lined drawer in my closet. I look at that gold collar with longing, feeling the soft brush of Smith’s fingertips as he fastened it around my neck.

It gave me a moment of hope. That it might be a symbol. Or a claim.

“No,” I say out loud, repeating the single word Smith uttered to me in the car.

No. It is not to be.

I get in the shower and clean up. Wash Rochelle’s make-up off. Wash my hair, and then condition it. And let the hot water run down my body and ease my mind and my aches. My many, many aches.

When I get out, I dry off and put on a soft, white robe. I settle in on the vanity bench in front of the mirror, and try not to look at myself as I dry my hair and apply new make-up.

I dress like an automaton. The outfit is still wrapped in the plastic the dry cleaners in residence placed it in. Everything I need is there. The soft pink scarf, the cream-colored silk blouse, the tan trousers, crisply creased. The only thing missing is the cropped pink jacket with tan piping, because it’s been given its own plastic bag and hanger.

I slip my feet into a pair of nude-colored Louboutins, don’t bother to check anything in the mirror, and then walk down the two flights of stairs, past a whole other floor of empty, but professionally decorated and furnished bedrooms and bathrooms, until I get to the kitchen.

I feel numb but I am used to this feeling. So I make the single-serving cup of coffee, put in the two packets of artificial sweetener, add one teaspoon of half-and-half, and clamp the lid on my travel mug.

I am happy to be going to work.

It’s a mantra I say often. But it works, because it’s true.

Work is the gallery. Work is people whom I have to direct and interact with in order to check off the tasks on my daily list. Work is art installations and maybe, if I’m lucky—and today, I am—meeting with the new artists who will be on display for the next show.

I have a lot to do today and calling in sick would’ve been a bad idea. But Rochelle showed up yesterday afternoon and said it was time. This was my chance. Did I want it?

Yes.

Yes, very badly.

I will never see her again, I know this. So she will never know that her plan failed.

I am happy to be going to work.

But I don’t work tomorrow. Or the day after. We are only open Thursday through Saturday. It’s Monday today, but Mondays are not open to the public. It’s just a meeting day.

How will I get through the rest of my empty days knowing that I have nothing to look forward to?

I call my father on my way into my three-car garage. I have a reserved parking space in the parking garage near the gallery, so I’m driving today. It’s damn cold outside and it’s going to snow this afternoon.

“Chella,” he says, neither happy, nor sad. “What are your plans today?”

“Oh, you know,” I say in my fake-cheerful voice. “Just gonna meet Matisse today.” I even smile into the phone as I start my C-class Mercedes. That is kind of a big deal.

“The artist,” he deadpans. “That’s nice. Are you seeing the doctor today as well?”

“No,” I say, starting my car. It’s so cold in here, a puff of thick steam exits my mouth when I talk. “I was just there yesterday.”

“On Sunday?” I can practically hear his eyebrow lifting up. “Don’t bother lying to me, Marcella. I’m not your keeper. I’m just asking.”

“I’m checking in to say hi, that’s all.”

“Well, I’m very busy today. I have meetings all morning. And I’m sure you’re busy too, so we’ll talk another time.”

“OK, Dad.” I fake a laugh. Like his dismissal is so typical and doesn’t bother me at all. “I will. We’re still on for Christmas?”

My heart thumps several times before he answers. “No,” he says. “I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to make it home.”