Page 45 of Our Elliana
“It’s been a long time ago now. And mostly, it wasn’t an outright attack or slur, or not any I’d worry about at this point. It’d be more like people telling me not to get my hopes up. That becoming a successful business owner was a hard row to hoe. That someone like me better have a plan B. Stuff like that.”
I’d heard so many comments like that over the years that eventually it became an incessant droning in my ears. I turned it around, though, and used that bullshit to motivate me.
“When did you receive that first card?”
I think back. “About two months ago.”
“Two months?” Noah asks, concern crinkling around his eyes, and I’m struck by how take-charge he’s been on this outing. I’ve never been around him acting so confident or stepping up to take such an unwavering leadership role. Even in the midst of all this insanity, I notice. And I appreciate it.
Nonetheless, this has been awfully damn horrifying to cope with, and all I want is to go home.
Maybe Andre senses this because his next words seem meant to tie all this up. “Diego, are you through with us?”
“I am. Keep your phones on you, just in case, though.”
“Elle baby, don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll order a new window and display case first thing tomorrow morning,” my bestie vows, tapping something into his cell phone, but the store can’t be left open like this.
“What about tonight?”
He shows me his screen. “I’m arranging to get some plywood over the hole until we can fix it back correctly. I’ll handle it. You go on. I’ve got this.”
“You’re sure?” I feel abruptly exhausted, but while Andre might be my manager, ultimately Blingblang is my responsibility.
“I’m sure. Trust me.”
I break free from the barrier of Tristan, Noah, and Jackson to go give my BFF a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Afterward, I depart with my men, stationing myself behind the wheel, only to get a case of the shakes so bad that I’m afraid to drive. That’s never transpired before, and I feel embarrassed that it’s happening now.
“Elliana, why don’t you let me drive?” Noah requests of me, but I just stare out the windshield, the image of that broken window taking over all my brain’s higher functions. “Elle? Did you hear me?”
“Huh?”
“Can we swap?” he pries, watching me like he might an injured stray. Wow, I’m such a wreck.
“Oh, sure. Of course.”
He steers us home, and once inside the house, the guys go around locking and double-checking every window and every door. It makes me feel safer but also uneasy at the same time. Everything that occurred tonight at the shop still feels unreal.
As they’re doing that, I enter the kitchen and begin to hunt down some ingredients. Yes. Up there in that copper wire basket. Fresh Granny Smith apples. Then there’s the flour in the pantry, as well as brown sugar, oats, cinnamon... And oh yeah, nutmeg. I go to the fridge, retrieve a stick of butter, toss it in a bowl and throw it into the microwave to soften.
I rarely if ever use my kitchen, especially now as I consider this domain to be Tristan’s. But these groceries do belong to me, and it feels good to touch them, to pour three-quarter cups of them into a large container and mix it all together by hand. Not that I cook. Oh, hell, no. But on incredibly rare occasions, I do bake. Like now, for example.
“What are you doing?” Tristan asks me the moment he discovers me here.
“Baking. Thought I’d make an apple crisp.”
“But if I knew you wanted an apple crisp, I would’ve made one for you.”
“I know. And I appreciate it.” I continue to fold the butter into the pile of dry ingredients I’ve already assembled.
“Did I miss something?” Deep gouges erupt between Tristan’s eyes and around his mouth as he studies me, not in puzzlement but in apprehension.
“Nope.”
He continues to hover. “But—”
“Tristan,” I interrupt him. “It’s nice of you to ask. But I need to stay busy for a bit. Is that all right with you?”