Lavender Haze

Chapter 26

It's been three days since my official detox from River, and I feel like a junkie in need of a fix. I've already googled his name twice today. I don't know what I expected to find. It's stupid and detrimental for my healing process. Doctor Rosenthal said a clean cut was what I needed, but here I am, reading for the twelfth time his Wikipedia page like I might find my name in the footnote, like I don't know every entry by heart already. What's worse is, I logged into Demetria's profile and stalked his Instagram, and found a picture he (read: Ambrose) posted two days ago, one I didn't expect to find.

It was buried between a slew of other pictures from the fundraising gala, second to the last in the post. I almost startled out of my chair when I saw myself in the photograph, huddled in the unlike group. It was a photo some stealthy paparazzo took while Sebastian introduced me to Mona, as his kid was nestled in River's arm, and even so, his eyes strayed to me in the shot, a beatific smile on his delicious lips. My hand is halfway to Mona's, Seb's eyes scanning the interaction with an amused half-hidden smirk painted on his handsome face. Among them, I didn't even look out of place, and the healing scab caused by parting ways with River gushed and oozed open at seeing how easily I could belong in his family. I had to turn my phone off altogether after seeing that photo. River should have never allowed Ambrose to post it. It was reckless and inconsiderate of him, and totally out of character.

I should be focusing on planning Malika and Kylee's wedding, look at flights and other transport options to get Kylee's grandparents here from Wisconsin, but I keep ping-ponging from tab to tab, from the Delta Airlines webpage to River's Wikipedia bio (yes, after putting my phone away, I started using my laptop, like a true junkie), staring at the photo of him and Mila they used for their engagement article, the one where she is dressed in an emerald gown, River's bow tie matching. I wonder who, in that occasion, tied it, and my fingers hurt at the memory of that day in the boutique, my hands around his neck as I expertly knotted his black bow tie.

God, I need to stop this.

Irritated at myself, I click out of Google and check the calendar on my computer. I've deleted the entries about my future meetings with Mila and River, but I still see them, like the ghost imprint a pencil leaves on the page below in a notebook. Just there's no digital imprint, simply my memory.

Tuesday: wine tasting in Soho.

Friday: seating chart planning.

Monday: sub for Mila at dancing class.

"Astrid Clarke."

I blink at the figure suddenly standing in my office, leather Prada boots at her feet, Birkin dangling from her hand, Givenchy overcoat speckled with raindrops, blond waves unbothered by the storm outside. Mila saunters inside my office like she was the rightful owner of the place – and who's to say? For all I know, the Baumans really own the building. My heart picks up its pace like I'm meeting the Grim Riper itself.

Unsteadily, I climb to my feet, hands pressed on my desk to grant me support. "Mila."

Now, more than ever, I regret not having an assistant, a bodyguard, a doorman.

"We need to talk."

Well, she's already invited herself inside, so there's obviously no stopping this. Mila lowers herself on the couch elegantly, like a ballerina dancing at the Moscow Theatre. I'd rather stab my little toe in the bedframe every morning for the rest of my life than having this conversation, but I'm inclined to believe there's no way around it. I watch her as studies her surroundings like River did the first time in my office, taking inventory of the room, the cheap-looking desk and the beaten-up MacBook I've had for too many years (which has served me faithfully until about six months ago, now sporadically dying on me), the padded desk chair (the only thing I've ever truly splurged on), the fresh lilies on my desk and the degrees hanging off the wall. She studies hard and long a photo of my family that we took on a Connie Island outing when I was fifteen. Me already towering over my college-age brother and mother, my dad looming even taller than I did, Rafael blinking at the sunlight by my side. The memory of that day is so fresh, I can still taste the caramelized onions of my hotdog and smell the cotton candy my brother begrudgingly accepted to share with me and Raf, who still looked like a gangly, awkward teen in his Marvel-themed t-shirt and baseball cap. I can still hear the screaming kids and the chiding parents and the yelling food vendors. I can still feel my father's body heat as he held my hair back while I hurled my hotdog and ice cream and cotton candy in a trashcan. I love this photo almost as much as I love the memory of that day, and it's like Mila is soiling it with her judgmental glance.