Picasso's Promise

Episode 46| Needy

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Sydney's POV

Madame Monroe was nice enough to write down an address. One address. The last address she knew my mother used, years ago, and hopefully still lived in. My card reading, unlike Picasso's crazy one, was pretty bland and uneventful. She didn't pull all the stops and tricks for me, and I could tell she was trying to rush us out the door when her phone rang for the second time in a row.

"She lives in the blue duplex on MLK Jr. You can't miss it. It's across a park."

Those were her last words, as she ushered the two of us out the front door. Picasso walked faster than me, picking up his step to the car. He was taller than me, and I hated that quality - because it meant his legs were longer than mine and his strides were too. 

"Hey wait up." I said.

He stopped, and smiled, looking at me with his hand out toward me. "Maybe I'll slow down if you held my hand."

I grinned in response, interlocking my fingers with his. He was so cute when he wanted to be. He was even gentle, and kind. A things you couldn't associate to me. A things you didn't typically pair with a guy like Picasso. He looked rough around the edges, tough and forbidden to smile – but he was the exact opposite. 'Casso, which I had started calling him in these last few weeks, had a forever smile on his face, for me, and me only.

Picasso opened the car door for me like a gentleman would, and I ducked inside. When he turned the car on, I had control of what should be played on the radio. He handed me his phone and I put in his passcode. Picasso knew mine as well – along with access to my social media accounts. 

He was ready to pay Anton a visit when he noticed him reacting to one of my story posts, sending a private message to me about how he missed my scent.

Weird. I know. 

I told Anton we were not in a werewolf love story, and I wasn't his mate. He didn't get any of the references of what I was saying, and that back and forth only annoyed Picasso. He thought I was flirting with Anton.

"I don't want you talking to him – period." Picasso had said one afternoon. "Does that make sense?"

"You still talk to Genesis."

"That's not the same."

"It quite literally is the same."

"Genesis doesn't have feelings for me—"

"Bullshit," I cut him off.

"I mean it."

"You can say that all you want, but I know for a fact that she has a thing for you. C'mon 'Casso, look at you. I wouldn't be quick to get over you either."

"You're making it seem like she's said something directly to you."

"She makes it obvious enough," I rolled my eyes. "I don't see the difference between you and her –and me and Anton."

My mind replayed that argument we had – still stinging in my memory. We didn't come to any real conclusion. He only pushed it off to later – saying he needed to get to some course work or his coach wouldn't let him on the court next week.

The radio blasted a pop song, entering a poorly lit alleyway. Because of Daylight Savings, it was already getting darker earlier in the day. My eyes had a hard time adjusting to the darkness. I stared at the rows of the houses, lined up in the street when we exited the alley.

"I see a bunch of duplexes," I noted, "but none of them are blue."

Were we back to square one? Was Madame Monroe lying? I began panicking, looking at all the beige and brown homes before me.

"Check that photo."

"Huh?" I yelped. "What photo?"

"The photo of your mom," he offered, "you said she was standing in front of a home. Maybe if it looks like a duplex and the numbers match to a house here, then that could help."

"That's genius!"

I went through the pictures in my phone. I didn't have the photo with me now, but I knew I had taken a picture of it, using my cell phone. "Ah-ha! There it is."

And just as he had predicted, the house was a duplex and painted a blue shade. I peered closer at the numbers written on the door and saw the set: 4224 ½

As quickly as I had noticed that, we spotted the place – and it was near a park. Adjacent to the park was an elementary school. I clicked off my seat belt and went for the car door, but something stopped me. Or rather, someone. Picasso re-locked the doors right when I unlocked it to step out.

"You aren't going in there alone."

I scoffed. He really didn't trust me. "I wasn't planning on it. Let's go."

Walking up the steps, Picasso held my hand again and swung it back and forth. I felt so at ease with him, and with his touch. He made me want to melt into the cement, become a pool around his feet, and sink deeper into the grass.

He made me want to write a terrible poem and show him afterwards. He made me needy, and that was something strong and wrong on its own. I hadn't needed anything in life, really needed it for myself, in a long time. More simply, he had me wrapped around his finger and I knew he saw it as well as I did.

Picasso did the honors and knocked on the door for me. I felt so frail and faint, I couldn't see myself being able to raise my wrist to the door and brush my knuckles against the door hard enough to make a noise.

Who would open the door? Did she have another child? How would I feel if she kept another child but didn't keep me? Was I in the right to feel mad? She was my mother, after all, and she left me with the impression she was dead. I didn't know who to blame. I wasn't sure if there was anyone to blame, besides my father. You couldn't scream at a corpse though. I mean, you could try screaming at a headstone – but you'd look like a mad woman.

When the door did open, and it eventually did, there was an old man at the door. Too old to be considered an offspring of my mother. A sense of relief left my body. "Who are you?" he asked.

I brought out my phone, and showed the picture of my mother and me. "Do you know this woman?"

He took off his glasses, and leaned in forward. "Oh dear."

"You know her?"

"Oh. Of course I do. That's my daughter."

My grandfather was the one speaking to me.

"I'm her daughter." I said. "Where can I find her?"

"She's been locked up for the last two years."

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