The Rebel's Plot

Chapter 10

I'm halfway through a cup of Earl Grey when the doorbell rings, the sound sharp and jarring in the otherwise quiet morning. Setting down my cup, I walk to the door, curiosity mingling with an odd sense of foreboding.

When I open it, there's no one there—just a small, cream-colored envelope on the doormat, my name written in a handwriting I haven't seen in years. My breath catches as I bend down to pick it up, the familiarity of the scrawl sending a shiver down my spine.

Back inside, I sit down at the kitchen table, staring at the envelope as if it might explode. The sender isn't mentioned, but I know exactly who it's from. I run a finger over the ink, hesitating. This letter has the potential to unravel everything I've been working toward—my new sense of self, my fragile plans for the future.

With a deep breath, I tear it open. The letter inside is brief, but the words hit me like a freight train.

"I know it's been a long time, and I'm not sure where we stand, but there's something you need to know..."

My heart pounds in my chest as I read on, the words pulling me back to a past I've tried so hard to leave behind.

Before I can fully process the letter's contents, my phone buzzes on the table. It's Pierre. His name flashing on the screen is both a relief and a source of anxiety. He wasn't supposed to be back until next week, but his text is clear: "Landed in L.A. earlier than expected. Can we talk?"

I rub my temples, feeling the pressure building. First the letter, now Pierre's early return. I can't help but feel that everything is closing in on me at once.

Despite the whirlwind of thoughts in my head, I know I have to face Pierre, just as I'll have to face the contents of that letter. But for now, I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. This isn't just about moving forward—it's about making sure I don't lose myself in the process.

As I grab my keys to head out and meet Pierre, the letter burns a hole in my pocket, a heavy reminder that no matter how far I've come, the past is never truly behind me.

I promptly send Pierre a reply as I start the engine: "Brilliant, I'll pick you up." It's ironic, isn't it? I've been wishing he'd come to me for ages, but now that he's on his way, I feel like I could wait another decade before seeing him again.

With one hand on the wheel, my left is rummaging through the depths of my oversized pouch, fingers brushing past bottles and tubes until I find the familiar shape of the cleanser. No need to check; I've done this so many times I could do it blindfolded. My eyes are on the road as I twist the cap off with a quick flick, squeezing a bit onto my palm. I reach for a wipe, dabbing the cleanser onto my skin, working in circles without having to glance in the rearview mirror, trusting the feel of my fingers to know where it needs to go.

I merge onto the Pacific Coast Highway, the ocean glimmering to my right. It's a stunning view—one that almost distracts me from the task at hand. I grab a toner next, the cool bottle slipping easily into my hand as if it were waiting for me. A quick swipe across my face, still keeping the car on course in my lane; the sensation is refreshing. My skin feels prepped already, and I like the way I tend to forget things when I'm doing this.

Moisturizer's next; I scoop just enough from the pot, warming it between my fingers before massaging it in. The final step—I pull out my primer. I pat it onto my skin where I know it needs a bit more love, making sure everything's smooth and ready. The whole thing feels automatic by now—a routine I could do in my sleep.

I make a right onto Lincoln Boulevard, the thought of the airport looming ahead. I'm planning to take I-10 East straight to LAX, but first, I need to finish up my makeup. I start painting George on my face because I can't just be comfortable going around with my bare face. What if I bump into someone I know? Can't risk it. Besides, I can't be Maude in America. My hands tremble slightly as I apply the foundation, but just as I'm getting into it, I spot movement ahead. Someone dashes across the road, chasing something.