The Reinvention of the Rose - Christina C. Jones Page 0,31

their element. I’m already imagining you and this pretty ass face in like, a wax stained tee shirt, making candles, or just… I don’t know, vibing in a caftan, testing new fragrances out.”

“Wow,” I laughed. “Your imagination is really vivid.”

“It’s not imagination – it’s vision. I can see it. So… you in, or…?”

“I… don’t know,” I told her, shaking my head. “I’m not really into being photographed.”

“I totally get that, not everybody is. So I won’t pressure you,” Jules assured. “But if you change your mind, or want some shots for a website or something, I’ve got you.”

“Understood. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And hey,” she said, leaning in. “Don’t let those bitches get under your skin. Think about it, they’re over there pretty as hell – both baddies, honestly. And yet, instead of using those good looks while they’re in their prime, they’re wasting it being petty and acting ugly, and they’re still not gonna get the niggas they want. It’s honestly pretty sad. Kinda makes you feel bad for them.”

I snorted. “No the fuck it doesn’t.”

“You right.”

At that, we both busted out laughing, and…

Damn.

I was turning into some kinda sap, because this benign ass interaction had shifted my mood pretty drastically.

I no longer felt like I might break my commitment to not murder someone.

“I’ve gotta get down to my studio for a session, so I’ll see you later,” Jules said, breaking into my thoughts with a claim that made me raise my eyebrows.

“Later? What’s happening later?”

She gave me a confused look. “Nothing that I know of. I meant like… in general. Like I’ll see you around.”

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” I laughed, covering my face with my hands. “I… must need another latte or something,” I said, trying to cover my awkward ass brain lapse.

“You’re good,” Jules chuckled, giving me a little wave as she headed off. When she was gone, I sat back into the plush softness of my chair, no longer concerned at all with the silliness of Nya and her friend.

I was thinking about my friends – or lack thereof – now.

Before I lost my nerve, and while I was still high on the chumminess of that interaction with Jules, I pulled out my phone.

“Hey. How are you?”

I sent that text to two different numbers in my phone – Penelope, and Dacia, both of whom I’d been a little too cavalier about keeping in contact with.

Well… not keeping in contact with.

Was it important for me to make friends with no connection to my past?

Yes, for sure… probably.

But, when I really thought about, it felt of equal importance to not be so committed to completely snubbing my past. As vital as it was for me to move forward and build this new life of my own, the fact remained that I would need people who really, fully understood what I was contending with.

And maybe more importantly… they might need me too.

“You ready to make these candles?”

Those were the first words out of Tristan’s mouth when he showed up, mostly unannounced, at the door of the candle shop.

“Make candles?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “You know… shit, I don’t know anything about making candles to do my usual thing – you gotta do it for me.”

I propped my hands on my hips as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “You know, setting the wicks, melting the wax, mixing in the fragrance, pouring, test burning.”

“See?” he grinned. “Now I know you know all the steps. Let’s make it happen.”

“Um, hold up!” I called after him as he headed through the darkened shop to get to the workroom. The sunny weather from the last few days was gone, heavy rain and cloudy skies replacing the idyllic warmth and light, creating a gloominess that had definitely affected my mood since it arrived.

Tristan’s busyness hadn’t helped.

Not that I was mad or anything about it, I’d just… missed his face. Between an aggressive schedule at the tattoo parlor, increased security shifts, and making sure he spent ample time with his daughter, there hadn’t been a chance for us to see each other in person.

And when he did show up, he wanted to talk about making goddamn candles?

He pretended he didn’t hear me, getting all the way into the workshop before he stopped, putting a bag I hadn’t really noticed down on the table.

“What’s that?” I asked, distracted now that I’d followed him and gotten closer, and could smell something – other than him – that had me doing deep inhales.

“Late lunch. But… it’s for after.”

“After what?”

He gave