Page 29 of Obsession

She nods and scurries away like I might bite or yell at her. On day one, I pledged not to get to know anyone who works for my husband, to detach myself from his life as much as possible. But something about Bea makes me want to wrap her in a blanket and tell her everything’s going to be okay.

Bea’s not the only one of my husband’s employees who invade this space during the day. There’s Ms. Sinclair, then a personal chef who comes every Monday and prepares meals for the week, something I’m thankful for since I have no desire to cook for Adrian. There’re a few others, his personal assistant, a snippy redhead who’s been here a few times, but only when Adrian is also here. A tech guy I’ve seen working on his computerand installing new cameras around the outside of the house. And security. That one’s not unusual to me, given my family’s line of work, but still, I find it unnerving every time I see a man in a black suit at the entrance. Even worse, when they follow me silently to my studio. Adrian wouldn’t even humor the conversation when I brought up not needing them.

I pull a small travel mug from the cabinet and fill it with coffee before slipping on my shoes and heading for the door. I like to go to my studio before the caffeine kicks in, embrace the morning in my pajamas while I sip coffee and throw some clay on my wheel.

Unfortunately, it means walking down two blocks in my sweatpants with my face unwashed and my hair in a messy bun. My mother would faint if she saw me. Her need to keep up appearances was worth far more than her desire to be comfortable.

I like to let my creativity flow before I do anything else in the morning. There’s something cathartic about it, and when my fingers finally mold around a slab of clay, the silky-smooth texture coating my hands and running over my palms, I feel at home.

All the emotions building up inside of me seep out through my hands. As I shape the piece, they slip from my fingertips and drop away with the mud. And when my foot lifts from the peddle and my hands have finished the piece, I’ve turned my pain into something tangible.

My family would laugh if I told them how art really made me feel. The only way they knew to release emotions was through more pain — emotional, physical, whatever got the job done.

Marcus would hit, kick, punch. Exerting himself in any way possible to make it known that he was in charge. My mother propped herself up on the heels of her sharp words. She had a way of slicing you open with perfect grammar and eloquentprose. Even worse, when she’d say nothing at all, throwing you into the pits of freezing cold isolation.

But my father? His specialty had a bit more…bang.He was known around New Orleans asCrazyAl. Crazy because it didn’t take much to send him off the rails. The edges of his personality were so thin, one moment he’d be sweet as punch, and the next you were the punching bag. Literally.

More than physical violence, he loved a good bomb. Somethingla famigliabecame known for during his peak. The first time I read about the stories, he was already dead, had been for five years. The search results told me he had placed dozens of car bombs in the city, using it as an effective way to kill off anyone who spoke against him.

There wasn’t enough information to tell me if my nonno was okay with all the deaths he caused. But the fact that all the bombs stopped after my father was gone told me they died with him. Google told me my father was killed while placing one of his bombs. The news speculated it went off accidentally, which matched the story I heard from my mother.

But I knew the truth. My grandfather and uncle had him killed.

I wasn’t sad, though.

In some ways, I was relieved. Being around him brought up walls in my heart. Shame hung heavy around me. I felt like I was walking on eggshells, trying to be the perfect version of myself, anything he needed to prevent the screaming.

When the anger took hold of him, his fists came out in droves. But if I could just keep it at bay, create the perfect environment so he wouldn’t be mad, everything would be okay.

But when he was gone? The bars retracted and the clouds of shame drifted away. I could breathe in that freedom, pause long enough to suck in air and let it loose. It was more comfortable tobe in my home when my father was gone. And the idea of being in that comfort indefinitely? That seemed nice.

I didn’t cry for my father, not even when we pushed his glossy black coffin into his tomb in Lafayette Cemetery. I wasrelieved.

You can’t see all that through the dried and painted clay I sell to the local shops. But underneath the glazed exterior are ridges and lines, formed by my hands as I healed from the memories. There was something soothing about that.

After I make the new pieces, I set them on the rack to dry before locking up the studio and heading back to Adrian’s house to shower, my shadow in tow. I spend my afternoon dropping off finished pieces to clients. Working in batches has created a comfortable routine for me that’s consistent yet not the same every day. I alternate between spending the morning throwing pottery on the wheel or painting the pieces that have already dried. And in the afternoons, I deliver the finished pieces or film content for my social media.

My sales don’t really matter; I don’t need the money. Everything I have is bought and paid for by my family, and probably now Adrian.

I just wanted to prove I could do something. That people would buy my art, that it wasn’t meaningless. Even if I was the only one who cared.

“Ah, Miss Madi,” my favorite client greets me as I push through her door, holding a box of new pieces. “My favorite local artist.” She grins as she holds out her arms for me.

“Hold on,” I laugh, setting the box on her counter and walking into her embrace.

Jada’s shop has a good vibe and the woman herself might be the sweetest I know. She’s always welcoming me into her arms and looking at me like she can see through the walls I’ve built to protect myself.

She pulls back from the hug, and I slip away before she has a chance to give me the motherly once-over. “What’s different?” Jada asks, her hands pressing onto her hips as she purses her lips, her signature pose telling me she knows something’s up.

Might as well say it. “I got married.” I shrug.

“Mmhmm, I was wondering if you were going to tell me.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I had to read about in the paper as if you don’t come into this store every week. I thought we were friends, Madi?” Her eyebrows lift, and while I know she’s just giving me a hard time for withholding the information, I can’t help but feel a bit of guilt coiling in my stomach.

Jada’s been better to me than most. She’s carried my pottery in her store for a year now, and in that time, she’s become a good friend. The type of friend who should have gotten an invite to my wedding. Even if I thought my mother would have invited her, though, I wouldn’t want to put Jada or anyone in a room with my family.

Making connections with the Costellos doesn’t work out for everyone, and if they know you have something to offer, they’ll milk you dry. It’s better that she stays far away from them.

Pulling open the box, I remove the first piece, slowly unwinding it from the brown paper it’s packed in. “It wasn’t a big deal,” I tell her, avoiding eye contact. Jada’s much more in tune with my feelings than anyone else. With my family, you’d think I’m a locked box, but to Jada, I’m an open book. I know if she gets a chance to really look at me, she’ll see all the thoughts spiraling through my mind.

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