Ari is somehow breaking down and peeling away every illusion I’ve built to convince myself that Grant and I have a good marriage.
It has to end. I’m too scared to see what will happen if I walk away from my husband. Too terrified that I’ll end up back in a place where I’m looking for something I’ll never find.
Not that Grant is that something. He’s simply what I settled for when it became clear that the fantasies I’d constructed between the curtain of consciousness and sleep were just that:
Fantasies.
Of something I would never find.
Of a life I would never know.
Maybe that’s what it means to grow up. You have to let go of idealism and settle for the crushing defeat of what’s real, what’s available, what’s right in front of your face because longing for the rest of it will only drive you mad in the end.
I’m stuck in place again. In a life that makes little sense to me. And I can’t shake the feeling that Ari could be the more I’ve always looked for. The magic. The shadow that lingers when sleep finds me.
But then, that’s the thinking of Poor Little Adeline, the girl I’d once been and not the woman I’m becoming.
Regardless of the problems complicating my life, there is still a silver lining. I have a full month ahead of me to do what I love.
First thing this morning, I contacted Rebecca. She was thrilled to hear I’m planning a new set. She tossed me on the schedule immediately while asking me what theme I’ll choose.
At the time, I wasn’t sure, but now that I’ve thought about it, I know exactly what I want to do. It will take hiring a model, and I hope I can pull it off. The time limitations suck and I’m not exactly in practice, but I will try.
The first thing I need to do is return to the mausoleum to determine how exactly I’ll set up the shots. And the other backdrop will be my house. Even empty, it’s the perfect scene for the ideas I have in mind.
Grant will hate the series. Hell, he won’t understand it. But Ari...my lips curl at the thought of him understanding exactly what I’m saying.
Too bad for him he won’t be able to do anything about it.
The thought makes me chuckle as I grab my camera from the heavy case and pack it into a smaller, backpack style one. I’m walking out of my closet when an idea comes to me, a thread of rebellion, a step backward to remember who I was before Grant.
Grinning, I walk back in and push up on tiptoes to grab a box on top. Flipping the lid off, I grab my old iPod, a collection of songs I’d put together over six years spent out of control.
Deciding to charge it on the drive to the cemetery, I return the box to the top shelf and walk through the large house with my mind focused on the task at hand. I stayed in that zone the entire drive over, and I’m still there as I step foot into the mausoleum.
It’s impossible to ignore the memory of the last time I was here. A shudder rolls through me, followed by sorrow. I feel empty again and I don’t want to think about the reason for it.
The answer is too confusing.
Too wrong.
So dangerous and unreliable that I’m only hurting myself to give it thought.
I focus on my project instead, the mausoleum lighting up with each flash, the sound of the shutter button relaxing me as I document every square inch of the front room to study later and determine exactly how I want to portray the scene and how to create the best lighting.
Pausing for a brief second, I pop in my earbuds and hit the button to start a playlist it feels like I haven’t heard in years. Immediately, the seductive notes of Portishead’s Sour Times hits me, the corners of my mouth tugging up and my body itching to move. I find I’m in a zone within seconds, moving faster, inspiration slapping me with every shot.
It takes me a few minutes to finish the first room and work through the second, Puscifer’s Potions playing in my ears when I round the corner to the back and stop dead in my tracks.
I’m not shocked to find Ari here. The truth is, I knew he’d continue harassing me. That he’d find a way to stay