The windy city of Charleston was rolling through the tinted windows of a sleek and black Bentley Mulsanne, darkening the antique spectacle of antebellum houses, aging pine and cobblestone streets to the distant perception of its passenger; whose chapped lips vented a flavored puff of smoke—strawberry, as far as Helena could tell—that welcomed the air to fragrant decadence.
She peered through the whirling vapor, crinkling her nose, perhaps not only at the smoker but also at the twenty-four-year-old irony of it all. Pierre seemed to catch her criticizing glare, and the deep chuckle he let loose interrupted the excess mist coming out of his mouth, “We can all be hypocrites sometimes, you know.”
It wasn’t an insult. Anyone else would have taken it as one, but Helena didn’t.
“I suppose that is fair,” She quietly spoke, her tone so devoid of dryness it almost tricked Pierre into thinking that today might be a flurried illusion. But then her hand ventured south, past her fears, electrifying him with the truth and the feeling of her hand seeking solace within his own and her anxious touch told him a lot, and he hardly knew which apology to listen to first.
So he didn’t, and just returned the favor.
His embrace was either old or new, though it couldn’t help but be both to Helena. When he scooted closer and held her tighter, she smelled his new cologne and felt the same checkered coat he’d slip on each breezy day. His arms drew her in, the perennial gesture reminding her of all the mistakes she managed not to make.
“Everything is fine now, right? It all must be fine now.”
“Not yet.”
“He agreed to meet me. He knows full well he will be seeing you too,” Pierre sighs, his voice slightly hoarse; the ugly aftermath of cancer sticks, “Helena, we’ve talked about this. You don’t–we don’t dig up the hatchet and stab ourselves with it.”
Helena worked to form a sentence, her gaze almost narrowing before she allowed his words to sink in deep just so they could float up again. Instead, she looked away and bit her lip, trying to concentrate on a passing street sign until a force, a timid one, switched the scenery so she could look at him directly. Ten seconds stretched like a hundred, as she learned that his eyes had become a metaphor, diverse from the traces of insomnia that curdled her guilt. Her constraint challenged his, as her fingers slowly framed the shape of his face, discerning each isolated crease that faintly spoke his age.
“It hurts, Pierre.” She breathed, the corner of her eyes dampening though she wildly insists they shouldn’t. “But it’s ridiculous.”
“You’re okay, belle fleur. It’s okay.”
“I did this,” Helena muttered, “You could’ve been happily forty six.”
“You can be happily forty-seven and onwards,” He assured, softly pecking her temple. It made her heart flutter before it breaks, as it devastatingly felt right. “With me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I’m so sorry I can’t run past a red light again to cross the lane, to tell you that you did nothing wrong and I didn’t mean to wreck what was left of you.”
“I know,” Pierre repeated again, a little more firmly this time, his eyes shutting close whilst he planted a kiss behind her ear because he missed and loved her. She didn’t stop mumbling, since she haven’t changed the slightest. The same outspoken, sticks-out-like a-sore-thumb Helena. She’d give you a feast, and leave the leftovers for herself and would even dare to share.
YOU ARE READING
𝐓𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰
Romansa❝I'm sorry I wasn't your yesterday.❞ Elsa's life was deprived of happiness. Not until she found two strangers; one whose smile can heal any broken hearts out there, and one who was mesmerized by her instead of the stars. Elsa's life was deprived o...
