Mess You Made

51.

Miguel.

Prada single-breasted wool and mohair suit. They all collectively bought me the new one for graduation. First pair of Louboutin's to go with that Luca bought me. Oxford's. He's always been the one to gift me shoes for as long as I can remember now and I've been barred from wearing any sort of sneaker so I've resorted to old man suit shoes but at the very least, my brother ensured they have red bottoms.

I don't know if it's some sort of white flag. I couldn't ask him because they were just left on my bed when I exited the shower. It lingered, somewhat unspoken, that the $1000 shoes were some sort of peace treaty. Fuck it. I'm afraid I can be bought.

That night when I thought I was going to tell Luca what happened, and what I did— it lingers. He hasn't brought it up again and I don't think I could even muster the words anyways but we've been oddly okay? Relatively okay given that all we've done for months is act like we'd rather drop dead than be in each other's company. Better than we've been in a while, even if we barely speak.

We both woke up earlier than everyone else this morning. I usually would've walked out and let him be, but he was having his weird fucking ground almonds and oats because his diet is strict for boxing. Sat alone in the morning haze of the apartment.

I didn't leave. I just sat with him in the kitchen and he met my gaze for a moment. Don't know if he did it on purpose— switched the TV channel from boxing to ESPN for basketball. I ate my bagel before going for my run. We didn't speak much but the silence— better than before.

Graduation's soon, and the entire family is gonna be in attendance. Bit of a new issue has arisen, though.

"I'm sorry—" I kick my legs up on the table in front of the couch, gesturing a hand to the jacked 6'3 guy, stood in our lounge room like some Bond villain, "Who the fuck are you?"

Strange morning.

Ria whacks my shoulder from where she stands behind the couch, both of us watching on. I throw another chip in my mouth from the packet sat on my stomach, eyes on him skeptically. I'm used to strange shit around here. This? Strange as fuck. Threatening my masculinity a bit. He's jacked.

I spare a glance at my brother and he's not watching on happily either, more unhappy than myself from across the room, behind the other couch. The sleeves of his black formal shirt rolled up to his elbows. Cheekbones sharp with a bruised bottom lip except I honestly can't tell if it's from training or his girlfriend.

The tense expression is nothing new but he also looks like that before he's about to punch somebody's head clean off impulsively so it's a bit of a nervous, uncertain line we're walking on.

"I told you." Violet breathes out like she's trying to calm herself, pulling on some white slingback heels paired with the white dress from Vivienne Westwood. Epitome of elegance today. Hair in soft, bouncy waves down her back and skin glowing like she's always been speckled with stardust.

She rights herself on her heel, standing straight, "He's Colton."

"Right." Luca says tightly, eyes narrowed where he stands, "Your chauffeur."

Violet gives him a light look, "No—"

Luca rolls his jaw out, impatient, "Yes."

"He used to be our driver. He protected us as kids when required." Violet says, about to speak again. She's being very extra tentative with Luca right now. Very tentative when she brought Colton up. Because he punches first and thinks later— don't think anyone needs to clarify that by now.

"And now he's your full-time bodyguard?" Ria says slowly.

"Woah, woah." I sit up, staring up at our ballerina, "What the fuck?"