“Yes, Papa, things. Lots and lots of things.” I return to the closet and pick up a different shoe in each hand, glancing over at the dress for reference.
“The slingbacks,” he says, pointing at the black shoe in my right hand. “Those Oscar de la Renta knockoffs are trying too hard.” I grit my teeth and turn towards Cliff, gesturing with the embellished pump in question.
“You know I don't wear knockoffs,” I tell him, my sneer as fake as the insult he just hurled at me. Cliff and me, we know our designer shoes. “Besides, don't you think these have a Cinderella vibe?” I twist the crystal pump so the light hits it just right.
“Ma belle fille,” he says, coming into the room and closing the door behind him. “Cinderella was a helpless girl; you're anything but. You have so much more to look forward to than simply marrying a handsome prince.” A real smile slides across my face, can't help it.
“I know.” And I do. And Gilleon is anything but a fairytale prince. In all honesty, he might even qualify as a villain. Still, the heart wants what it wants, right? “You know I've always wanted to be in fashion, right?” I swallow hard and look back down at the shoe. “Maybe I should give it a shot?” I glance up at Cliff and grin. “Think Project Runway would take me?”
“Regina,” Cliff says, moving over to the bed and running his fingers across the lace of the dress. “Don't make fun of yourself. If you want to be in fashion, then go for it. I've always told you to pursue your dreams.” A dark look chases across his face when he looks back at me. “But since Gilleon left …”
“You can't blame Gill for my lack of initiative,” I tell him with a shrug. And he can't. But it's something to think about. I toss the designer shoe back in the closet and pick up the matching partner to the one in my hand. “It's just a lot easier to put yourself out there when you've got someone in your corner.” I sigh and stand up, moving over to the bed to lay the shoes next to the dress. Cliff was right; these slingbacks are so much better than those pumps.
Cliff reaches out and squeezes my shoulder.
“You always have me,” he says. “Me and Solène. We're always right here cheering for you.”
“Speaking of Solène,” I say, sitting down on the edge of the bed and looking up at my stepfather. “No matter what, you're still her Papa, right?” He nods and scoots the dress over to sit down on the opposite edge. “Gill and I … I'm not exactly sure how we're going to work through this whole thing, but we're not just going to jump in and start playing family. Being a parent … it's not a right, but a privilege.”
Cliff slaps his knee and points at me.
“And that's why I love you, kid. Your mama raised you right.” Cliff chuckles and puts his hand up over his mouth, rubbing at the gray stubble on his chin. He glances over at me, blue eyes darkening as memories overtake him, memories of the short-lived love he'd shared with Elena. I think Cliff knows as well as I do that once it hits you, really and truly hits you, you can't run from love. Not a day later, not a decade. “That's why I can't understand this thing with Gilleon,” he whispers. “You're always so practical.”
“Are you saying I'm being stupid?” I ask, looking at the wall in front of me, at the painting my friend Katriane did for me, the one I left behind. First thing I did when the truck got here with our stuff was dig out some art for my walls. I focus on the whorls and bumps of the oil painting, the bright blue eyes of the black cat crouched within it. Kat painted this one for me and Gill before he left, off the story I like to tell of the old Siamese cat and its litter of feral kittens. Right there, that sleek predatory grace, that focused expression, that intent, it's all Gilleon.
“No, of course not. I …” Cliff takes a big breath and stands up, moving towards the door. “I don't think you're stupid, and I know you're in love.” He looks back at me. “It's not that I don't love Gilleon or the idea of you two being together with Solène. Honestly, it's always been a dream of mine that he'd come back.” Cliff puts his hands on his hips and stares down at his brown loafers. “I just don't want you to get your heart broken again is all.”
“I know,” I say, my fingers unconsciously reaching for my mother's pendant again. “Trust me, I'm not keen on the idea either.”
I dress up for dinner this time—and by dress up, I mean all the way up.
My hair is perfect, long and loose and waving gently at my shoulders, strands of honey blonde to complement the teal-blue of my dress, the scalloped lace, the open back. The opacity of the dress ends mid-thigh and the rest is all sheer lace in teal and black, leaving my legs mostly bare, drawing attention to the black slingback pumps on my feet. I line my eyes with black, feather the darkness into some silver-gray hues across my lids. My mouth feels full and luscious in bright red, glossed over so that it shines in the light. With my diamond pendant, my earrings, and a black Nancy Gonzalez clutch, I feel ready to tackle this evening.