Page 55 of XX Love Affair

She was dreaming. She had manifested Irene because of the thoughts she had in Francesca Blake’s coat closet. This was what Helena got for opening her heart and doing some self-reflection. Retribution.

“You okay?” Delia asked when Helena sat down.

“Not really.”

Delia turned her attention from the other woman at their table. “Something happen?”

Helena’s gaze flickered around the room. Irene was too petite to easily see in the crowd, but she might be out there, somewhere. “My ex is here.”

To her credit, Delia didn’t ask any more questions. Instead, she said farewell to her seatmate and gestured for Helena to follow her outside. No matter how much Helena wished she could disappear behind Delia and not be seen by anyone, it was impossible. Even with Delia standing straight and Helena slumping, her hair shielding her face, she was still too tall. She stuck out too much. The things she usually liked about herself.

Now she wanted to be small. Invisible.

Why am I letting that bitch get to me like this…

She wished her thoughts stopped at Irene. But they went back further. The other assholes she had encountered on her journey of self-expression. Mr. Smith, the English teacher who said she was so much more mature than the other girls in her school. Her own parents, who never touched her inappropriately, but were also never emotionally available to their only child. Not until it was too late and the resentment had stewed in her bowels.

Mr. Smith. Irene. Delia.

What was she doing, going home with yet another suspect of trouble?

Yet Helena didn’t know anything else now. She was always putting her safety in other people’s hands, convinced – no, adamant – that she would be fine, that she could get herself out of any bind. She didn’t need help. She was young and dumb. That made her invincible.

Could it be that I’m… not?

She got into Delia’s car, careful to not look to the sidewalk in case Irene’s specter was there. The engine turned on before she realized Delia was in the driver’s seat. Soon, they drove toward Delia’s apartment.

They drove right past it.

“Where are we going?” Helena croaked.

Delia’s fingers danced upon the steering wheel. “Where I always go when I’ve had to face my unsavory past. Don’t worry. We’re not overdressed.”

Helena tried to relax in the passenger seat. Yet there was too much uncertainty. Too much fretting that she had been making a big mistake all along.

The car kept moving. She kept dissociating. Such was the life of Helena Pierce.

Chapter 18

“Ithought you said we wouldn’t be overdressed.”

Delia signed them into the underground speakeasy that wasn’t anywhere near as chic as it thought it was. This was the kind of place that all the normies knew about, that college kids snuck off to on the weekends, that friend groups coalesced at when they wanted “to do something different, something trendy.” Helena had been entranced by these places when she was fifteen, but since tasting what high society had to offer? It felt like child’s play. The kind of place for other people who were easily amused.

I wish I was easily amused.

“We’re not overdressed.” They walked past the host in his pressed trousers, red necktie, and green silk vest. All that was missing was a cliché fedora and a pocket watch. “Not where we’re going.”

They didn’t need the host to take them to a back room that they had all to themselves for the next hour. While the low-resolution jazz tunes played through a crackling speaker, Helena sat beneath the air conditioner and was grateful to have brought her sweater. She wrapped it around her shoulders and perused the small drink menu. She wasn’t hungry, but she was thirsty.

Two mocktails on the table later, Delia removed her jacket and made herself comfortable, body turned toward Helena on the bench they shared. The room was small and intimate for up to four people, but even with two, Helena felt almost too close to Delia, who held a lemon basil soda up to her mouth when she asked, “Wanna tell me about this ex who has you out of sorts?”

No. Helena maintained her demeanor although she floundered inside. “For all I know, I made her up.” She laughed. “She was kind enough to extend an invitation for me to join her at her favorite hotel chain, though. She really thinks she’s going to suck me back in like that.”

Delia put down her drink. “Who is it?”

Why do you care? That was once again the wrong thing to ask. Delia didn’t have a tone that implied she was jealous or angry. She wasn’t concerned, either, which Helena appreciated. The only thing worse than anger would have been condescending concern.

“Irene Feist. From San Bernardino.”