Chapter Fourteen
Six weeks later
"Are you sure she's okay?" Paige heard Jack whisper to his wife.
Paige didn't need visual confirmation to know they were talking about her. She could feel their eyes on her. Their concern too. She ignored it and continued wiping the counter energetically. Her OCD had taken on a new, scary dimension, and now she had the walk-in freezer organized alphabetically, much to the chef's dismay.
"No, I'm not sure, but that's what she says," Elle answered.
Yep. That was what Paige had been saying ad nauseam. Fake it until you make it, right? At some point it should hold true. After all, it wasn't as if she and Nico had been married for years. Or had lived together. Or had gone on a single traditional date.
Yet she couldn't remember her life before Nico.
"She shouldn't be here," Jack said, his tone admonishing.
"You can't force employees into vacation. I tried, but she keeps coming back," Elle replied. "Besides, she needs her mind occupied."
"Her mind ain't here, pet."
Right again. She was going through the motions. There were five grief stages she had to get through, so chop-chop, better get rolling on that.
Whatever Elle answered, Paige didn't hear it.
Since the news of Nico's death broke, everyone had been whispering around her. Tiptoeing too. Probably expecting she'd explode at any second. No need. She'd already imploded, and all that was left was the shipwreck. Adrift. An empty shell.
"And what's with those vanilla drinks? I've heard about people drowning their sorrows in alcohol, but not in vanilla."
Alcohol didn't work for her. Too much effort for too little reward, plus the headaches were hideous. Vanilla did the trick. More specifically, vanilla from that coffee shop where she'd been with Nico. She knew it was stupid to go there trying to find a connection, but she couldn't help it. Stupid through and through, that was her. And her ass was getting bigger and bigger from vanilla sugar bombs.
During the first few weeks, she'd been glued to her cell, waiting for a message that never arrived. It hadn't mattered that the body had been found. That in spite of having his face blown off, dental and DNA records had identified him as Nico Grabar. She'd lived on hope. She'd even smelled him every time she stepped into her apartment. Felt his presence. Still did.
Then she'd discovered it was the first stage of grief: denial.
Now she was on the fourth: depression. Not as fun as anger, the second stage, but less scary. Jack probably wouldn't agree. She had a feeling he'd take anger over depression any day. Elle too.
Paige lifted her eyes to find Mr. Ryan at the counter. He was looking at her bare throat in that all-seeing way only old people could.
"Badge of honor," she said curtly.
If anything good had come out of the nightmare, it was that she was done hiding. Or using the scar as a shield. Nico had been right. She was who she was; people could take it or leave it. So far they were all taking it in stride. Not her parents so much, but things were getting better there too. Talking helped.
Getting rid of her platinum hair with the neon-green tips hadn't hurt, either.
She'd thought she'd bitten the bullet and gotten on with her life, but she hadn't, not truly. She'd been antagonizing her parents, making them pay, when they were as much victims as she was. If she was to find herself, she ought to stop blaming them for something they hadn't done. So for the first time since the attack, Paige had sat with her mother and talked. Really talked. And cried. Her mom too. The Goth girl was staying, because Paige loved her, but the childish tantrums and the attitude were out the window. And although she wasn't dropping her job at Rosita's, she was resuming her studies.
Mr. Ryan assented. "I understand. I have a badge of honor myself," he said, rolling up his sleeve. Since going throat commando, she'd seen more scarred body parts than ever.
"Vietnam," he murmured.
"Asshole boyfriend."
"I hope he paid in blood for it."
He had. She had broken his nose and rearranged his face before the police took him. Not that she'd been paying too much attention at that point, seeing as she'd been worried sick about Nico.
"Mr. Ryan, we are not licensed for striptease," Elle said with a smile as she approached. "You'll get us in trouble."
He snorted. "My wife and her cesarean scar would get you in trouble. Sixty years ago, doctors weren't so concerned about minimizing the marks. Now it's different. You thinking about reconstructive surgery?" he asked Paige. "That's a very raw-looking scar. They could smooth it out. Make it less visible. It doesn't make you less pretty, mind you, but young blokes might find it a bit intimidating."