Page 39 of Promise and Punishment

“Alejandro…” I spontaneously called out, causing him to stop along his path and turn around. One look at his endearing face was all I needed. “I’ll be there tomorrow…”

Chapter13

Gemma

Hills and Health, read the subtext to an image of a colonial white mansion that was surrounded in pine oak trees and large, picketed gardens. There were no actual hills to be seen, but thehomeitself sat elevated on a series of speckled, stone steps.

I laid on my belly, surrounded by plush pillows in the guest bedroom as I finally decided to scroll through Belmont Hill’s webpage. Its bright banner of green acres and manmade ponds felt more like a sanctuary than the forbidden secret others made it to be.

Three separate people brought this place to my attention, yet Alejandro never mentioned it once. Why? I pretended it was for some good reason, just like how the Joneses never let Parker and me watchMy Girlon family movie night. Sure the film was traumatic, but not as much as the way Mr. Jones spoiled it,“Imagine Parker getting stung and killed by bees… that’s what happens.”

It immediately made me feel uneasy, just as I did now reading the treatments offered at the facility. Counseling and therapy, all centered on what?

Domestic abuse.

Mental health.

Post-traumatic stress.

It was my entire life wrapped into some indigestible nutshell. Triggering? For sure. And maybe that’s why I was spared the details, not just about Belmont Hills, but about Alejandro’s past. He was a good guy, and I reminded myself of that while reading the small headline to an Ithaca-based newspaper:Donations Change Landscape for Those Who Seek Help at Belmont Hills.

I could so easily forward this to Parker and rub it in his face on how I was right. I imagined being so blunt.

…

Dear Rattlesnake,

Please see the attached article that proves how closed-minded you’ve been. Take special note on how Alejandro’s four-hundred-thousand-dollar donation has covered the expensive cost of this private women’s facility. He granted access to an entire economic class of those who’d otherwise never meet the insurance requirements to attend.

See! What did I tell you? Alejandro is a good man, and all that good has been lost on New York Prestige! Of course they didn’t report this, it doesn’t perpetuate the bad boy reputation they like. And do you care? No, because you only care about what fits the narrative that suits you best.

Also, goddamn you!

I’m so annoyed that I even care about what you think; how your opinion is so important to me, and that your approval somehow means I’m making good choices.

Nevertheless, it’s all true, and now I’m second guessing everything I encounter, like the conversation I overheard from Alejandro tonight. You wouldn’t understand what that last sentence meant, and that’s a good thing, because honestly, the thought of you being scared or worried for me, makes me want to cry…and I won’t waste good mascara on such a pathetic but true feeling.

Ugh!

Goodnight, you jerk.

I love and miss you…

-Butterfly

…

If only I could say all that and more, my postscript being a laundry list of all the things I knew about Alejandro; a man who took a chance on me, who saw me and, despite my resistance, knew immediately that I was his. He wasn’t just an actor, he was a generous person, someone who endured hard labor and arduous tasks, who loved his mother and the taste of cherry cigarettes.

I convinced myself that Alejandro was as innocent as I thought, studying a photo of him attached to the article I just read. In it, he wore a pair of dark sunglasses, his otherwise luscious hair tamed into a flat position, lacking its normal style. I could tell he didn’t want to be photographed, his modest position more conservative with his arms crossed, obscuring the spot where his black rose tattoo should’ve been.

I twisted my leg over a pillow, inhaling the oversized shirt that I borrowed from him, sweet but musky, warm like suede. It bundled itself into the size of a dress, its soft white cotton sweeping over my bare thighs. You’d think sleeping in the luxury high rise of a dark New York penthouse would be easy, but sleeping was usually difficult for me anyways, especially without my Andy.

I hugged my pillow, imagining it was the tattered fur of my little giraffe. I wondered if he was the exact distraction I needed, stopping me from thinking of the single, three syllable artifact that kept me awake.

NAT-A-LIE.

I squirmed in the cool sheets of my massive bed, wanting to dissect her name like some freakish lab experiment.

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