I thought about abandoned female characters in books. How they wallowed in bed crying, sleeping, and eating ice cream. Who the hell had time for that? I had fifteen unanswered emails from the attorneys to deal with. I took my bowl to the kitchen, and Griffin just scowled at me. “No alcoholic beverages for you.”

This place, VERT, beckoned me back. Every damn day. I sat in the best booth. I sat in the worst booth. I sat at multiple tables. I sat at the bar drinking coffee that Griffin poured himself. What if Elliott had been right? Could I push the bounds of my imagination past my own ideas? Could I improve on the vision I carried around for so long? Suddenly, none of my ideas excited me. Had I lost my vision? Some days I just got up without saying a word and took an Uber home.

One night, I decided to unpack the rest of my belongings. Griffin was right, I traveled light for a woman. As I got to the bottom of both boxes, I realized that none of my lotions or potions were there. No perfumes, no soaps, or creams. No candles. The smells that had given me pleasure and made me feel special had been stripped away too. Everything was gone.

It was clear Henry and Griffin were concerned about me, that they worried the burdens I carried would cause me to self-destruct. In the deepest and darkest pockets of my heart, I knew they were right. I wanted to go to sleep and never wake up. I wanted to drink myself into oblivion. I wanted to beat myself for being so stupid. I was tempted to take the noose of could-have-beens and might-have-beens, and wrap it tightly around my neck, stand on a chair and kick it away. I thought of Henry. I reflected back on the barren dwelling Julian and I had transformed into NOIR for my men. For NOIR and Henry, it took being stripped down in order to rebuild into something different, something better. The emptiness used to be my favorite phase because it was awash in possibilities and potential. But I was tired. So tired. I wondered if I had any vision left for myself. What if we are allocated a certain amount of creativity, and once it’s gone, it’s gone.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Eight

The nights produced the tears. I closed my door, and, alone, I wept openly. Griffin joked that he would allow one day a week for tears. If only. It was a really shitty time to discover I was truly a woman.

Sometimes Griffin came home early and knocked on my door saying, “Bae, I’m home. There’s some hot chocolate by your door.” Or, “Bae, I left you some soup and fresh bread.” Or simply, “Bae, I’m here.” He and I were still trying to navigate our way around each other. Even that made me sad.