The moment Mille took her last breath, it would all be gone.
Emotion clogged my throat.
If I already felt lost from the mere idea of losing her, how would it feel when she was gone?
“So, after you make good on my dying wish for a hot French guy to teach me about STDs and whisper sweet-nothings in my ear,” she said with a wink. “And after you sing La Vie En Rose to me, I need to give you something.”
I practically choked on my tears. “I think the drugs have gone to your head.”
“Although, over the past few months I’ve smoked a lot of grass in cancer’s honor, my mind is clear. It’s the clearest it’s been in days. So now is where you say, Okay, Millie. I love you. Let me make some phone calls and get to work on one of your dying requests.” She pulled the oxygen mask to her face, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
I shook my head in feigned exasperation. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that? I’m going to miss your crazy nonsense more than you could ever know.”
She lifted the mask from her face. “You just keep me around for my weed hookup.”
I threw my hands in the air. “It was one time! One time and only because you’re like the queen of peer pressure! If you weren’t eighty-two years old, and I hadn’t already graduated college, I would have sworn I was living a real-life, after-school special.”
Her giggles echoed inside of the mask, condensation fogging up the clear plastic.
“There is a box under my bed for you. Open it when you’re ready. And I need you to promise that someday soon, you’ll start living for you. No more surviving, no more putting everyone else first, I want you to do what Brooke wants to do. And Goddamnit, I want you to sing more. Your voice is too beautiful to keep all to yourself. No regrets. Okay?”
I smiled. Millie was always on my ass when it came to singing. I loved music, I loved creating music, but I wasn’t a fan of being the one in the limelight. Sure, I’d occasionally sing French songs for Millie and entertain my nephew Teddy with goofy lyrics, and sometimes, I’d even sing while I was in the studio to help an artist understand what I was suggesting, but I never got up in front of a crowd. Never. It caused too much anxiety for me. Standing on stage, with the bright lights in my direction, made me feel too bare, too vulnerable.
“I promise I’ll be able to say, Non, Je ne regrette rien.” No, I regret nothing. I responded with the name of her favorite French song. It was just barely ahead of La Vie En Rose.
I saw her smile behind the oxygen mask she held in front of her face, giving her lungs another much-needed break. I gave her a few minutes, taking my time grabbing my guitar from my bedroom.
Once I made my way back to Millie’s bedside, I sat on the edge of the bed and adjusted the guitar in my lap. This moment was painfully bittersweet. I knew it was probably the last time I’d play for her. My heart ached from the finality of it. I hated that this felt like goodbye, but I knew I needed to savor this time. One day, in the too near future, I’d need comfort from the memories moments like this created.
“I need to say one more thing, and then I’ll play, okay?”
She nodded slowly, her brow raised in curiosity.
“You changed my life, Millie, mine and Ember’s. If it wasn’t for you, I don’t know where we would be. You filled so many voids in my life. You were my mother, my grandmother, and my best friend. Thank you for everything. Thank you for loving me.” I cleared the emotion from my throat.
One small tear slipped down her cheek. She mouthed, “I love you, Lilah Belle.”
“I love you too,” I mouthed back. I wanted to breakdown. I wanted to sob like a baby, but I steeled myself, staying strong for her.
Taking a deep breath, I relaxed my shoulders and focused on my guitar. My pick strummed across the strings, and the first chords of La Vie En Rose filled her bedroom.
Millie rested her head on the pillow, her frail body relaxing into the bed.
I closed my eyes, sang the lyrics, and for once, I didn’t sing softly, I sang to be heard. I let my voice serenade my favorite person in the entire world, knowing this was my last opportunity.
When I reached the chorus, my eyes glanced down at her, soaking her up. She looked beautiful, eyes closed, and a soft smile cresting her mouth. Her presence radiated peace. It was the most relaxed I’d seen her in days.
I knew it was the song itself that gave her comfort. Of course, Millie loved to hear me play, but La Vie En Rose had a special place in her heart. The words, the soft notes, always transported her mind somewhere else. I had a feeling it was somewhere very special, a time and place in her life when she really did see life in pink.
Dear me . . . Millie . . . the man on the fucking moon . . .
I still feel like an asshole as I sit here, writing whatever words flow through my head. And I feel like even more of an asshole because I’m still not sure who I’m writing this journal for. It reminds me of the year I spent in therapy after moving in with Millie.
Judi, the social worker who handled our case, insisted that therapy was necessary for me, not Ember, just me. Even after Millie became my legal guardian, and Judi knew I was in a loving and stable home, she still made therapy a mandatory requirement for my grandmother to maintain her full rights.
I often wondered what made her believe that I needed a therapist, and my little sister didn’t.
Maybe it was because Ember was so much younger than I was when everything went down?
Or maybe she saw signs?
I’ve always been one who wore my emotions on my sleeve. I’d like to think I’ve gotten better at hiding things as I’ve grown older, but I can only imagine what my ten-year-old eyes showed. Lord knows, there had to be signs. Hell, I’m sure there are still signs of the trauma my wonderful childhood bestowed upon me. (Thank you, Mom and Dad. Your awesome parenting skills have given me enough baggage and bullshit to last ten lifetimes.)
After one year, Millie let me stop therapy.
And since I never revealed anything that would raise a red flag, Judi didn’t push it.
From the moment I stepped into my therapist Annie’s office, I had sworn myself to secrecy.
Never say anything to her that would make Millie sad.
Annie often reminded me that whatever we talked about in our sessions remained between us, stayed within the tiny four walls of her office, but I refused to trust that. I refused to trust everyone besides my grandmother and my sister.
So after school, every Tuesday and Thursday, I’d sit with Annie, chatting about homework, my little sister, and life with Millie. I only told her the good stuff, the happy stuff, the stuff worth talking about. Everything else stayed locked tight.
As a little girl, I imagined all of my secrets being pushed down inside a tiny glass bottle, and every day I’d push the cork further into that bottle, making sure all of the scary nights and horrible memories were hidden deep inside it, where no one could find them.
Millie used to search for that bottle.
When I was ten years old, I remember shopping with her for summer clothes.
It was a good day.
Millie, Ember, and I had walked every inch of the mall, laughing and enjoying the afternoon together. We stopped at a store with bathing suits in the window, and next thing I knew, we were inside looking through the racks. Millie said summers in Laurel Canyon were hot, and she was convinced that Ember and I needed something to swim in. I was happy, smiling even, and didn’t have a care in the world.
Until I caught sight of a two-piece with pink polka-dots. I hated that suit. I hated pink polka-dots. I hated everything the color and design represented.
I started to cry. I couldn’t catch my breath. I remember sliding to the floor and holding my hands tightly over my eyes. I wanted to scrub the pictures out of my brain, but they just kept flashing like a movie, playing on a loop. Playing and re-playing and then starting all over again.
It was a vicious cycle of smothering pink polka-dots.
A
cruel rotation that choked me from the pain my nerves remembered.
Millie tried really hard that day to search for my secret glass bottle, but I didn’t let her find it. I was too scared for her to feel what I felt. No one should have to hear or see or even think about that kind of pain.
But my grandmother was so intuitive.
She just knew something wasn’t right. And Millie, being Millie, explained to me in the most perfect way that everyone’s pain has a color. That day pink polka-dots were added to my personal pain color spectrum.
And even at 26, I still haven’t worn anything with those spiteful fuckers.
I doubt I ever will.
Jamie is the only person I’ve ever told about Ivan. Not Ember. Not Lindsay. And not even Millie. He’s the only one that really knows what Ivan and pink polka-dots mean.
Millie, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry I never told you the truth, but I don’t regret it.
More Later,
-B
P.S. I hope I get to see Dylan soon, and I’m well aware of how pathetic that sounds.
A few days pass without seeing Dylan. He’s been busy keeping things running while his dad is away. At first, I thought it would be good to get some distance, but I’m finding it’s only making this longing that aches deep in my belly stronger. I miss him. It’s beyond crazy, but I can’t deny that text messages and brief phone calls aren’t enough to soothe my discomfort.
Lindsay and I have kept busy, checking off items on Millie’s bucket list.
5. Go antiquing at Les Puces St. Ouen. This is Paris’s version of a flea market. Do NOT leave until you buy at least one thing.
6. In Paris, wine is cheaper than water. Grab a bottle, a baguette, and pop a squat along the Seine. Enjoy a day drinking in the city while enjoying life for a few unhurried moments. No cares. No fears. No worries.
7. Le Champo in the Latin Quarter is the oldest cinema in the city. Go see a French movie there. Afterwards, walk along Champollion Street, stop someplace for coffee and just reflect.
8. Luxembourg Gardens. Sunglasses, a book, and a blanket are all you need to soak up the sun and enjoy the day.
Yesterday, we went antiquing at St. Ouen. American flea markets have nothing on the Paris version. I accomplished Millie’s demand of buying at least one thing. My hands were filled with several bags, jam-packed to the brim. Eclectic paintings for Ember to hang in her shop, wooden toys for Teddy, and several vintage dresses for me.
After shopping until our legs could hardly move, we finished the night at the cinema, catching a screening of an old French film. The film was called La Règle du jeu. Apparently, it’s known for being banned on its original release as too demoralizing. The movie slid from melodrama into farce, from realism into fantasy, and from comedy into tragedy. It was so different from than anything I’ve ever watched. Honestly, I still don’t know what I think of it.
Today, Lindsay and I are enjoying a lazy afternoon at Luxembourg Gardens. It’s amazing how this place encompasses such large stretches of open space within a cramped, bustling city. Wide walkways are lined by cookie-cutter trees. Rows and rows of blooms fill sculpted flowerbeds, their floral scent drifting past us with each soft breeze. And fountains, statues, and the city’s skyline looming in the distance add a stunning contrast to the beautiful foliage. It looks like someone plucked these gardens right out of a movie set.
Our blanket is spread over emerald grass. Sunglasses shield my eyes from the midafternoon sun. And Lindsay is sound asleep beside me, intent on napping the day away. I’m passing the time re-reading a book I know like the back of my hand. Occasionally, my eyes drift away from the pages and take in the people enjoying the gardens—couples stroll hand-in-hand, children throw pennies into a fountain, and sunbathers stretch out on the pristine grass.
My phone pings. I set it above the worn pages riddled with dog-ears and wrinkles, and find a text from Dylan.
‘I’ve got a question that’s been bugging me since we were at the wine bar . . . ’
I smile, it’s inevitable, and I don’t even try to hide the goofy grin spreading like wildfire across my lips.
‘What question might that be?’
‘What’s your full name?’
I should have known he’d eventually ask about the full name thing.
‘Ugh . . . ’
‘Just tell me. Pretty please . . . ’
He’s begging. How can I say no to that?
‘Delilah Brook Morning-Rain Sawyer.’
‘Hell of a name for a kid to learn. I can relate, Dylan Alexandre Bissette. So . . . what’s on the bucket list agenda today?’
‘Luxembourg Gardens.’
‘Are you there now?’
‘Yes. I’m currently stretched out across a blanket, shoes off, sun in my face, and reading my favorite book.’
‘I want your life. Can we switch places?’
I stifle a giggle, trying not to disturb Sleeping Beauty.
‘Paris is spoiling me. I could get used to doing this every day.’
‘It’s my favorite city in the world.’
‘Even better than London?’
‘Yes. But don’t tell anyone I said that.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Sitting in a meeting. It’s all rather stuffy and boring. My father owes me big time.’
‘When does he get back? He’s in London right?’
‘Yes, he’s in London. And he’ll be back tomorrow. Thank God.’
Figuring Dylan is too busy to be bugged with text messages, my eyes focus back on my book. Within a minute or two, I get another message from him. My nose crinkles as I read it.
‘Send me a picture.’
‘A picture of what?’
‘Of you, enjoying the sun.’
I start to refuse, but think better of it, snapping a quick pic of my bare feet resting on the white blanket the hotel concierge let us borrow.
‘I didn’t forget about your pervy foot fetish . . . ’
‘HA! I’m only pervy like that for YOUR feet. It’s like getting a peek at Tinkerbell’s toes.’
‘Ugh. Tinkerbell? Really? First Jesse and now you . . . ’
‘It suits you in only the best way. Your little toes are red today. I like it.’
Does the man miss anything?
I snap a quick picture of Lindsay’s peaceful face and send it.
‘Lindsay painted them before falling asleep. She can nap anywhere.’
‘Send me another, but of you this time. I want to see your smiling face.’
I shake my head as if he can actually see me.
‘No way, buddy. You’re lucky you got the first pic. I’m a strong anti-selfie advocate.’
‘Oh, come on, Brooke. Just one pic. I’d say you owe me for that impromptu photo shoot . . . ’
‘You’ll never let me live that down.’
‘Nope. Get to flashing, love.’
‘That sounded dirty . . . ’
‘I know. Now, do as you’re told.’
“Demanding bastard,” I mutter to myself. God, he’s impossible to deny. I attempt to take a quick pic, but my selfie game is not strong. Not in the least.
Snap. Look. Delete.
Snap. Look. Delete.
I complete that circuit about a dozen times. Not one photo is worthy of sending. Why do I always have the weirdest expressions on my face? It’s like my mouth is intent on ruining every shot.
‘Bloody hell, stop taking a million pics. Take one. Then, send it. I guarantee I’ll love it.’
I glance around, paranoid. Is he hiding in the bushes?
‘That’s not what I’m doing.’
I hurriedly scan through my saved photos, sending the one of him from our paparazzi incident on the métro.
‘I was actually looking for this.’
‘Sure you were. Christ, I’m handsome. No wonder you couldn’t keep your camera off me.’
Laughing, I try to deflate his ever-growing head.
‘B
ag the ego, cocky. You’re not that handsome . . . ’
‘But I’m handsome, yes?’
‘Yeah, I guess in an average, doesn’t really stand-out, but not too hard on the eyes kind of way.’
It’s so far from the truth it’s not even funny. Dylan is the guy a woman looks at once, twice, and then three more times because she can’t believe he’s real.
‘Well, my eyes need a picture of a not-even-close-to-average, painfully beautiful woman. I’m not letting this go. Send the pic, or I’ll be forced to leave this meeting and head to Luxembourg. Once I’m there, I can’t be accountable for my actions or the lengths I’ll go to get what I want.’
Damn, that was a mouthful and so incredibly hot.
‘You’re so demanding.’
‘You have no idea, love.’
My mind drifts to thoughts of Dylan and me, wondering what that perfect mouth of his could do. And his fingers, holy hell his long fingers, I can only imagine the havoc they’d wreak all over my fevered skin. Skin heats, nipples harden, and my body aches in response.
I dislodge the filthy fantasies, and give into his demands. Fingers tap the screen, snapping one picture. I guess for selfie standards, it’s not too bad. The sun is behind me, my golden curls are in disarray from the breeze filtering through the gardens, and a small smile rests across my mouth. It’s not Lindsay’s version of model ready, but it’ll do. I send it before I can second-guess.
‘Happy now?’
‘Deliriously so . . . You’re beautiful.’
‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re a little sweet on me, Dylan Bissette.’
‘I’m ten seconds away from leaving this meeting so I can kiss that little smirk clear off your face. If that’s your idea of being “a little sweet on you,” then yes, Brooke Sawyer, I’m definitely that.’
Dylan gives the best compliments. Who needs drugs when I’ve got him? I could stay high off of his words for days.
‘If I was the kind of girl who swooned, I’d be all sorts of starry-eyed and swoony right now.’
‘Making you swoon is my new life mission.’
Forget (Changing Colors Book 1) Page 15
