Mess You Made

55.

Malibu.

A week goes by and everything feels settled. As much as it can be, I suppose. I didn't expect the sight of Alvaro to throw me off so much but I started staying up at night just to keep an eye on Marci. It sounds irrational but it was an urge I couldn't itch or satiate, a certainty that wouldn't settle unless I had my gaze on her or a hand on her crib— and it got increasingly irrational until Cristian put a stop to it.

It's been a few days since then and I don't look as much like a walking corpse now that I don't need a palm on Marci's stomach to ensure she's breathing at three in the fucking morning— I shake my head at myself, breathe out, because it sounds fucking manic to me now and I know that. I can hear how ridiculous it sounds.

The notation I'm writing breaks off when my pencil's nudged and I look up from my lap. I blink at Baby and she stares at me, stood on the couch next to me, tongue out of her mouth. I thought I'd give her some attention tonight— since she's always traipsing around the neighbourhood. I don't think Rafe has had much time to be with her and she gets violent or upset after a while of not being in Rafe's company.

I mutter something about her getting fat before picking up a few more treats, and letting her eat them off my palm anyway.

Try to focus on my ballet notations of La Sylphide. Haven't notated in a while and I got nervous that I'd forget but every notation is still in perfect alignment, and so it gives me a strange peace— she's still with me, ballet. She's further away. We don't know each other well anymore. I'm just ensuring that the distant tether is still there, as fragile as it might be. Not all hope is lost.

I keep one headphone out of my ear as I listen to the Act 11 soundtrack. Marci's asleep in her new crib, but I'm the only one home for now.

I haven't been home alone much in the past week. I'm used to the quietness, used to being alone in this house but Cristian's tightened the reins— I get driven home from every shift by him or Miguel. If he has to be at the shop, he times it for when I'm at my shift, or I stay at the shop with him.

Tonight's been the only night where I managed to convince him I'd be fine and there's only about fourty minutes where I'll be alone anyways, before he finishes up on the car he's working on and heads home.

It's the first day in a while were I haven't seen Miguel. He has meetings today, all lined up one after another so he's stuck in some office building in Grand Central. His agents are meeting with him again to finalise contracts he signed so he couldn't pick me up from my shift— which was fine, and not as big of a deal as he made it out to be. It stressed him out more than it bothered me and he had to stay put. His meetings were of much more importance so I took the subway home and picked Marci up from Sierra's house to get her to sleep on time.

I manage to finish off the notations, resting the notebook on the table and stretching my hand. After giving Baby some affection, I lift myself up, tug Miguel's oversized tee down to my thighs— head towards my brother's room with the open door.

I walk quietly into the dark and watch the rise and fall of her breathing. Cheek smushed to the comfy mattress of her new crib, her curls everywhere and my whole heart in her pocket. I run a hand over her hair— think about what she'll be like when she's older.

Cristian's demeanour, or mine. His resilience. Sierra's tenderness. I hope she gets that. I hope she gets all the best bits of the people that adore her and even if not, even if she somehow gets the darker, more flawed bits of us, she could never be anything except adored. It is forever unconditional. My love of her. Nothing can taint it. I hope she learns that too.

I hear the front door opening then. I lift the blanket over Marci's body so she's comfortable— walk out of Cristian's room, shutting the door halfway behind me, "I think she likes the crib, Cris—