You should be able to make it work, I thought. I mean, what good is being the prima if you can’t get your own way from time to time?
Hmm….
Sydney said, “We could come up there. It’s not like Flag’s off-limits to me, you know. And Anthony’s truck has four-wheel drive, so even if the weather gets crappy, it’s no big deal.” She added, her tone almost plaintive, “It would be fun to get out. I had to work such shit hours going up to Christmas, you have no idea.”
Actually, I did, because she’d complained about it enough. However, I only said, “Well, let me talk to Connor. I don’t know if we have anything going on or not.” Ha, that was a lie. I had a feeling that, now the Wilcox holiday potluck was safely past, our social calendar was pretty empty. Not that I would know for sure. We hadn’t talked about much that was in the future except our next meal.
“Okay. Check with him and then call me, okay? Or at least email, if that’s all you’ve got.”
“Probably email, because I don’t have a phone.” Or a wallet, or my I.D., or…anything. All that had been left behind when the Wilcoxes stole me away. The purse I’d carried to the party the day before had held a tube of lip gloss and a wad of Kleenex, and nothing else.
“God, how do you live?” Then she waved the hand that wasn’t holding her phone. “Anyway, let me know. I’ll bet he knows all the good places to go up there.”
“I will,” I promised. “Let me go talk to him, and then I’ll get back to you.”
“Sounds like a plan. Later, chica.” The screen went dark.
I closed down the app, then paused, realizing I hadn’t had any opportunity to check my email to see if Aunt Rachel had actually replied to the message I’d sent her the day before. As much as I wanted to hurry across the hall and see what Connor had been hiding in his studio, it was silly not to take this opportunity to check my email. So I went to Gmail and logged in. I didn’t get much email, but there were still the usual after-Christmas sale ads from a few places where I’d made online purchases. Buried amongst the spam, though, was a reply from my Aunt Rachel.
For some silly reason, my heartbeat began to speed up. Was it mere anticipation of her disapproval, knowing that she would be less than thrilled — to put it mildly — once she found out the true nature of my relationship with Connor?
Maybe. But I couldn’t worry about that now. I was an adult now. She would have to figure out how to handle the situation.
I clicked on the link, and the message window opened up.
Angela,
Of course we’re all relieved to know that you’re all right. The elders have been discussing the situation and are trying to see what can be done. Be strong, my dear. Just hold out, no matter what, and we’ll do everything we can to bring you back home.
Love, Rachel
Ah, the guilt. “Hold out”? My resolve had crumpled like wadded-up tissue paper after Connor kissed me that second time. Maybe I could have tried to resist, attempted to ignore the heat of our bond, although I’d never heard of any prima doing such a thing. That connection wasn’t meant to be resisted, but given into, embraced with every fiber of a prima’s being. And the truth was, I hadn’t wanted to resist. Not any longer. Not once I’d come to know Connor as Connor, and not a Wilcox. And my family needed to know that, too. I didn’t give a damn about traditions and custom and what had happened in the past. Connor was part of my future now, and they’d just have to deal with that.
It seemed clear what I would have to do. The problem was, I had no idea how Connor would react. Only one way to find out, I supposed.
I logged out of Gmail and closed the browser window, then shut the laptop. Of course the front door was no longer barred to me, so I opened it and crossed the landing to the apartment opposite ours. That door was unlocked as well. I twisted the knob and let myself in.
The layout was almost the same, as were the wood floors and the exposed brick of the exterior walls. Here, though, the kitchen was obviously not updated, the counters a chipped tile, an empty space where the refrigerator was supposed to go. The windows were uncovered, letting in the pale winter sunlight.
And everywhere were canvases — finished pieces hung on the walls, and paintings in various stages of completion were propped up below them. All landscapes like the ones I’d seen in Connor’s apartment, all with those same strong, sure brush strokes, the same interplay of light and shadow and color. Seeing them all grouped together like this once again reminded me of how talented he really was…and what an ass Damon Wilcox was for trying to squelch his brother’s gift.