Phantom

April 12, 1944

The red lipstick glides across my lips with ease, though my hand quivers, causing me to smudge it above my Cupid’s bow.

“You fool,” I whisper beneath my breath, hurrying to grab a tissue and wipe the mistake from my skin. Once more, my trembling hand bears little grace, and I wipe too much away. Frustrated, I slap my hands on the counter, leaning heavily on them as I pinch my eyes shut and try to just . . . breathe, for God’s sake.

What are you doing, Gigi?

My phantom has been visiting again; just yesterday, he was standing outside the window.

Watching me, as he seems content to do.

John left for work, his breath still reeking of booze as he walked out the front door, and Sera has gone to school.

Though the man has appeared in my window only a few times now, he comes during the day, hidden in the tree line where shadows conceal his face.

Today feels different. Like something more than his lurking beyond my window will happen.

And for reasons I refuse to consider, I’ve done my makeup heavier today and am wearing my best day dress.

For the better part of the morning, I avoid my own thoughts. At least the ones that are screaming at me, asking me what on earth I’m doing.

I have no answer.

Hours tick by while I go through my routine of chores. Washing our clothes before hanging them up on the clothesline behind the manor, dusting, dishes, picking up messes, and prepping for dinner. All the while, there isn’t a single sight of him.

Later, I sit on my rocking chair, staring out the freshly cleaned window, waiting for my shadow to materialize.

Yet he doesn’t. And my disappointment grows with each passing minute.

Sighing, I finally give up and relent to my flustered conscience, berating myself for being so silly. Waiting for a strange man to show up outside my window as if his actions haven’t been concerning. As if my actions aren’t concerning.

Trudging over to the kitchen island, I slump onto the barstool where bank notices litter the countertop. Rather than agonizing over my phantom, I stupidly focus on the papers that show my husband’s betrayals.

I’m angry with myself, John, and the entire world.

My mood is foul when I hear the slight creak of the front door, but my brain instantly accepts it as my daughter coming home from school.

I don’t even bother to look at the clock to confirm, and instead call out, “Afternoon, sweet pea. How was school?”

There’s no answer, and that’s when awareness comes barreling back to me, my eyes snapping to the clock above the stove. It’s only eleven in the morning—Sera wouldn’t be home yet. Nor would John.

My muscles tighten as quiet footsteps approach me from behind, the sound slow, heavy, and deliberate.

My breath catches as my spine snaps straight, but I’m too frightened to turn around.

Is it him?

My phantom.

The pitiful muscle in my chest ceases to work, and I can no longer draw oxygen into my lungs. Terror encases my being in solid ice.

Has he come to hurt me? To make John pay with my life?

Who will find me?

Please, God, don’t let it be Sera.

A form appears in my periphery, my stare immediately focusing on him as he silently makes his way around the island.

His scent envelops me first. It’s intoxicating, and my frazzled brain takes a moment to process the notes. Sandalwood, oranges, and a hint of tobacco.

Just as suddenly, he’s before me—every feature in plain sight.

He’s breathtaking. And so very tall, donning all-black attire with his fedora, long trench coat, button-up shirt, trousers, and dress shoes. It should be a drab outfit, but he looks expensive thanks to the glinting gold ring adorning his pinky finger. Even smells expensive.

The man stares down at me with piercing pale-blue eyes nestled beneath thick, dark brows—a contrast to his olive skin. Though something is off with the left one. Instead of a black pupil, it’s completely blue, giving his eye an almost translucent effect.

He’s blind in that eye, and my curiosity piques as to how it happened.

Regardless, it seems to only heighten his beauty. His black lashes are long, giving the illusion that he has kohl lining his eyelids.

The alluring man studies me carefully, just as I study him.

Never in my thirty-four years has a man made my breath stutter. But this man . . . he commands the very lungs beneath my bones.

My gaze traces over his nose—a small crook in it from a prior break—down to his full lips that are framed by a five-o’clock shadow. Though the small grazing of hairs doesn’t dare hide the sharpness of his jawline.

He doesn’t speak, nor do I. I’m frozen completely solid, and I fear only his burning stare has the capability to melt the ice from my bones.

I exhale, the breath stuttering from my throat.

Chest heaving, I still don’t move a muscle as he slowly circles around the island. Within moments, he’s next to me. Heat radiates from his body in waves, warming my skin, yet goose bumps rise on my flesh, and I can’t help but shiver.

“What’s your name?” I ask breathlessly.

He doesn’t speak.

Instead, he lifts his hand and gently brushes a crooked finger against my cheek. I gasp, my skin coming alive beneath his electric touch. It takes monumental effort to keep still.

He circles around me, dragging his finger along my skin, moving it down to the back of my neck and sending chills down my spine. I glance at him, now standing on the other side of me, and note the breathtaking smirk tilting his lips.

Then he moves away, his touch disappearing, and his footsteps begin to retreat. I gather enough courage to tip my head over my shoulder, staring at his back with my mouth agape.

Almost as suddenly as he appeared, he’s walking out the front door and leaving me in utter silence.

“What just happened?” I whisper to myself.

My fingers brush across my cheek where he had set me on fire just moments ago.

There’s no physical evidence he was ever here.

Yet I feel his presence so strongly, he may as well have left his soul behind.

And my God, I fear how badly I hope he stays.

April 12, 1944

My red-painted lips press against the paper in my journal just as John, with his mussed hair and red eyes, stumbles through the bedroom door. The first few buttons of his white shirt are undone, and his tie is sloppily pulled away from his neck. He’s hammered.

Again.

“I’m tellin’ ya, Gigi. Hitler ain’t gonna win this war, I just know it,” he slurs, tugging at his tie until the cloth breaks free. He trips over his toes and catches himself on the nightstand, causing a few items to topple to the ground.

“My God, John, how much have you had to drink?” I whisper-shout, setting my journal on my nightstand.

He waves his hand dismissively. “Not much. Just a few drinks with Frank at the bar,” he answers, though half the words are unintelligible.

“‘Not much’?” I echo in disbelief. “You’re going to break something!”

He sits heavily on the bed, and that causes me to jump out from under the quilt and storm around to his side. I grab his arm and tug. “You’re getting your filthy clothes all over the sheets! I just cleaned these,” I reprimand, my frustration mounting as he pulls away from my grip to take off his work shoes only to fail miserably, nearly toppling face-first toward the floor.

I catch him in time and once more try to pull him off the bed, which proves difficult when he’s hardly capable of bearing his own weight.

“Gigi, I’m fine,” he mumbles, finally standing upright.

“You know better than to sit on the bed in your outside clothes. Especially when you’ve just come from a bar!”

I don’t know why I’m focusing so much on something so insignificant rather than the fact that we don’t have money for him to spend on booze. He’s come home like this more nights than not, and every time, I find out he’s gambled and lost more of our money that we don’t have.

Again.

Tears well in my eyes as I drag him to the washroom. I keep my eyes downcast as I lean him against the sink counter and begin unbuttoning the rest of his shirt.

“Why you got your red lipstick on s’late?” he mumbles, his thumb swiping over my lip and smudging the color down my chin. I huff and jerk my face away from his touch.

“I just finished writing in my journal. I got to it later than usual today—I’ve been cleaning the house for the better part,” I snip, though my words shake from my mounting anger.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he coos, pinching my chin between his thumb and forefinger and forcing my gaze up to his.

I stare at him, searching for the man I fell in love with. For the man who swept me off my feet, vowed to my parents that he’d always take care of me, and who loved me so much, he built this house for me.

But the person in front of me now—I don’t recognize him anymore.

He’s more of a stranger than the man outside my window.

Disappointed, I remove my chin from his grasp and slip his button-up down his broad shoulders. Only then do I notice the bruises marring his chest.

“Dear God, John! What happened?” I ask, brushing my fingertips over the purple and blue mottling his pale skin.

He turns, forcing me to stumble away as he unbuckles his belt. His back isn’t much better off, and dread sinks down my throat and drips to the pit of my stomach.

“Just a few people at the bar that run their mouths too much,” he mutters.

“John, please tell me this isn’t from the people you’ve gambled—”

“Drop it, Genevieve,” he snaps, turning his head just enough to allow me to see his side profile. Anger furrows his brow, and his stare is sharper now. Less glazed.

I shake my head, the tears returning tenfold. A few spill over to my cheeks, and I quickly brush them away as my husband finishes undressing.

Before he can see me break down, I turn away and rush back to the bedroom. My heart has climbed into my throat, constricting in the tight space and making it feel as if it takes effort just to beat.

By the time he makes it to bed, I’ve cleaned the red off my lips and slipped beneath the covers, my back facing him. Without a word, I switch off the bedside lamp, leaving us in darkness.

“I love you, Gigi.”

I don’t respond.

He’s breaking my heart, and the only thing I can feel for him is resentment.

I close my eyes and picture a different face to fall asleep to.

One that doesn’t belong to my husband.

April 12, 1944

He came back again. I dare say I would be disappointed if he didn’t. John left for work, and Seraphina went off to school. The minute the house emptied, I waited by the window.

Not my proudest moment, I must admit.

This time, he walked into the manor. I froze when he did, terrified of what he would do but also anticipating his next move.

When he revealed the entirety of his face to me, without shadows concealing his features, my breath caught.

He’s beautiful. Piercing blue eyes. A strong jawline.

And big. So very big.

He approached me, still refusing to speak. He caressed my face. So gently. He circled around me, letting his fingers drift across my skin.

I shivered beneath his touch, and he smiled. His smile made my heart stop in my chest.

And then he left. Walked out without a word. I almost pleaded for him to come back, but I stopped myself.

He’ll be back.