The Reinvention of the Rose - Christina C. Jones Page 0,14

the time difference made me not feel as bad about calling at this time – it wasn’t as odd of an hour for her as it was for me.

“There’s not anything wrong,” I insisted. “I can’t sleep.”

“You called because you can’t sleep?”

“I called because I’m going to make candles.”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment, and then a quiet, happy chuckle. “You found your hobby.”

“I did.”

“Good. Good,” she repeated. “Does that mean you’re getting settled in pretty well?”

I shrugged, as if she could see me. “It’s fine. I guess. I got my tattoo covered.”

“Really?”

There was a hint of surprise in her voice, but no judgment. We’d talked, at length, about the mental block she’d had for so long about having hers covered or removed – a decision she’d come to realize was for the best.

And… maybe it was.

If she hadn’t been able to show it to me when she requested to meet with me, to help me transition as successfully as she had… I wasn’t sure I would have trusted her.

Hell, I wasn’t sure now that I trusted her.

But that rose made her the closest thing I had to family.

“Yeah,” I answered, after a deep sigh. “It was either that, or I was going to end up carving it off.”

“I’m glad you went with a healthier option. What did you get it covered with? Does it look good?”

“It looks great,” I admitted. “It’s beautiful. The artist who did it, he… he did a wonderful job.”

“Hold up – what was that?”

My eyebrows shot up. “What was what?”

“Your whole entire tone changed when you mentioned the artist.”

“Did it?!”

It was an earnest question.

Tristan and his beautifully inked biceps had flashed in my mind, but I didn’t think—

“Yes, it absolutely did,” she laughed. “So… spill the beans. You met somebody?”

“I’ve met a lot of people,” I lied, and she knew it, because the next thing out of her mouth was a scolding. “Fine,” I admitted. “The guy who did the tat for me… he’s been… not horrible to run into.”

So not horrible to run into that I’d actively avoided it since the day he and his umbrella had rescued me from the rain.

“Is it serious?”

“There’s no it for it to be serious,” I told her. “I’m not… I’m not ready for anything like that. I’m not ready for anything at all.”

“Are we ever?” Alicia asked. “I mean… listen, I’m no expert, at all, right? But I do know that this – you figuring out how to live your life for yourself – is not a mission. There are no briefings, no run-throughs, no drills, no… instructions. You’ll never be ready. You’re going to have to dive in and make some mistakes.”

“Mistakes get you killed.”

“Not so much anymore. That’s Garden mentality seeping through,” Alicia warned. “Obviously, I get it – I mean, I have a whole security firm, so it’s not like I don’t understand the presence of danger, but… again, this isn’t a mission. Your neighbors aren’t enemy combatants. You don’t have any targets except… living a good life.”

“That shit is so easy to say,” I groaned.

“You think I don’t know that?” she countered. “Have you forgotten that I was in your exact same shoes?”

No.

I hadn’t.

It also hadn’t escaped my notice that she was being very generous with the “exact same shoes” thing. The truth was that she’d had it harder, having to assimilate into a whole new role without at least the benefit of knowing she wasn’t alone in her… confusion.

There were women – and men – in the same predicament as me, all over the world right now.

Without the benefit of a mentor who actually “got” it.

“You know… maybe we’re going about this the wrong way,” she continued, when I hadn’t answered. “When I first left the Garden, the Whitfields sent me to therapy, which was a double-edged sword. It helped me be able to cope, but… I still had to pretend to be something I wasn’t. I couldn’t open up to anyone, even my therapist, about the things I’d done. I had to fake it.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying… maybe it would be more productive for you to step into a role. The role of who you want to be. Deep cover.”

“I don’t want to live a lie.”

“I know,” Alicia agreed. “And I don’t want you to either – I want you to live. But to get there… you might have to fake it until you make it. What you want is to be a