in the sun. I include a cinema room, because she loves movies. The kitchen is big enough for us to cook and play in, and the tub is big enough for us both.
It has a huge window looking out at the back, so she can curl up and read like she told me she liked to do as a child. It has a conservatory for her to sing and play in, and a space attached to it for a dance studio, where she can practice and lose herself in the music. It’s soundproofed, of course, so she never has to worry about the noise.
I make sure I have an office so I can work at home and spend more time with her, plenty of room for guests, and yes, even children. I want it all with her—a life, a family. I remember how she liked sitting under the stars at the restaurant, so I design a room with a glass ceiling to sit under the stars and watch the world go by.
It takes me six days of constant work to draw the original design, and after that, I contact the builders and construction companies I trust. I bought a patch of land years ago with the intention of building a house there, but I just never got around to it. It’s in a nice neighbourhood with other houses built up around it, though not too close, so there is plenty of privacy. There is a lake backing onto the patch, which has been built up as well, with walkways and piers. It’s a beautiful place, close enough for the hustle of the city I enjoy, but far enough out not to hear road noise.
There is no time like now to get started. After coming to an arrangement on prices and contracts, they will begin next week. I check in on Lexi every now and then, only sending a few texts because I’m trying not to overwhelm her. She replies to let me know she’s okay, but not much else. She ignores my late-night drunk text of, ‘I miss you.’
I don’t blame her, I don’t want to pressure her.
I even swing by one day after work just to catch a glimpse of her. And before I know it, two weeks have passed. It’s strange, I miss her like I miss Justin. My heart aches for both.
His mother returns to Paris hating me. The world goes on like he never existed, but I know that’s not true, and I will remember him the way he was before all…this. Loving, fun, my son.
No arguments or anger, no drinking or hate. Just family.
On Friday night that week, I allow myself a little weakness—I go to the club. I need to hear her and see her. I sit way in the back in the shadows as my angel takes to the stage. The lights hit her from behind like the burning sun, illuminating the goddess she is. She is in a simple, short white dress with sequins on it and heels, and her hair is loose and wavy. She has never looked so beautiful, and when she takes the mic and starts to sing, I’m transported away.
For those three minutes, I’m not me. My heart isn’t heavy with my pain and grief. I’m not tired and sad. I’m what her lyrics make me be, they bring me to the world she has created with her stunning, raspy voice. I see it having the same effect on everyone else—they are entranced, that’s how good her voice is. Goosebumps erupt on my skin, my hair stands on end, and my lungs freeze, caught on each and every word. She gazes at the crowd, but she also looks beyond us as well, as if she’s truly transporting us away.
Her voice is so good, she could be a star, but she never wanted to be. She just enjoys performing, it’s her way of letting go, and as the song changes, her voice follows, shifting to a haunting rasp that has tears entering my eyes. She sings of lost love, of death, and new life. She sings of forgiveness and second chances, and deep down, I know she’s singing for us. It’s in the stark honesty of her face and eyes, in the way she gives each word her all, with such power and purpose behind it.
She is doing more than singing a song. She is the song.
Her body is the lyrics, her heart is the melody, and her mind