The Reinvention of the Rose - Christina C. Jones

Also by Christina C Jones

Synopsis

Desperation.

Not a phenomenon Tempest could typically claim, but certainly the catalyst for where she’s landed. Not in peril, or pain, but in dire need of the very normalcy she’s often emulated, but never been able to obtain.

Now... there’s nothing in her way, except all those years of being everything except what she now has to become.

Herself.

As soon as she figures out who that is.

For every one of us who has had to figure out who we are all over again, only to find out she was so much better than expected.

If necessity is the mother of invention, we must consider then, the impetus of reinvention.

- CCJ

I’d done a lot of people-watching in my lifetime.

Various reasons came into play with that, most related to the finding of facts, the gathering of information necessary to whatever task was at hand.

Now, when I indulged the urge, it was much less about the utility of it.

It was more to do with the pure curiosity of observing strangers going about their lives.

Without a care.

They were just… living.

Going about their same schedules, their same routines, with zero vigilance.

No real fear of things that went bump in the night.

Or of those things – those people - like me, that were stealthy enough not to make a sound.

Not that it mattered anymore.

Not at a time when really, I should envy the overwhelming normalcy of these people – the thing that, for me, had been so damned elusive. Instead of blending in with the crowd, I was relegated to my window, watching.

Well… I guess that implied I had to stay there instead of joining in, huh?

In reality, it was more that these people, these days, had exactly no relevance to my life – I didn’t fit in, or belong.

A little sad, considering I’d lived in the neighborhood for three months.

Despite the insistence of my mentor, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to take advantage of any of the quaint neighborhood’s amenities.

Not a single boutique or restaurant.

Not even the coffeehouse across the street.

That was where I saw the most eclectic sampling of the community, streaming in and out of there with hot and cold drinks, pastries in their hands. At night, it turned into a lounge – sometimes with lines reminiscent of a night club, and the throbbing music to match.

I watched.

I listened.

And then one night, finally… I decided I would go.

It took another three weeks to actually go through with it.

Decisiveness had never been a problem of mine – at least not that I could remember. Not until now, when every single one of my own moments was up to me, from the minutiae to the big decisions.

… not that I had many – any – of those.

In the immediate, my most significant decision was what to wear to Urban Grind, the insanely popular coffeehouse across the street from the abandoned candle shop I’d purchased.

Who the fuck needed an entire storefront for candles?

Certainly not me.

What I did need was somewhere that I could fade into the crowd – not so overpopulated that I couldn’t be aware of my surroundings, but inhabited enough that I could take advantage of the camouflage that came with living in the “city.”

Mahogany Heights was perfect for that.

And so was the apartment above the storefront.

It was studio style, open and airy to make up for the fact that it was tiny, and it was all mine.

There were no wake-up calls, no drills in the middle of the night, no rules – mostly – about what I could and couldn’t have.

What colors I could use.

What I could hang on the walls.

What I could have in my closet.

I smirked, very satisfied with myself as I slid the door back on the tiny space, peering in at the hangers that held my curated items. I happened to like the black, white, and gray palette imposed upon us in the Garden, so it was repeated here, but still.

I’d handpicked them all, without a single thought to who else might like it.

For tonight’s adventure, I chose a simple white top that bared my midriff, comfortable black jeans, and black and white sneakers, and basic silver hoop earrings – I wasn’t dressing to impress. I was dressing to look like any other late-twenty-something that might be there, so I could blend into the crowd instead of standing out.

In the mirror, I tugged at the neckline of the top, which I’d never worn before, self-conscious about the tattoo just above my breast, near my armpit.

The only tangible thing