Marvel: Wren and "Brielle"
Wren noticed the absence of French, even over the metallic click click click of the lighter's maw as it opened and shut. She wondered if prison had done that, and she felt guilt start winding itself up from her toes, vines in those soft ballet slippers. She knew, however many times Luke tried to tell her otherwise, that she was responsible for that, for Brielle spending all that time in jail alone. She should have shared that responsibility, and the fact that she'd used Gus as the reason why she hadn't, that was something that ate at her in the night, when she was lying in bed and wrapped around the man she knew Brielle had loved.
She felt bad about that too.
Brielle had picked Luke up when he'd been tossed away. Whatever her reasons, whatever her aches and hurts and sorrows, Wren had tossed him away. And she'd known exactly what she was doing when she let Brielle go to jail, lips pressed together and no confession. She'd known; it was safety. It was prevention. It was making sure that Luke wouldn't fall into Brielle's graceful ballerina arms. It was the equivalent of acid on a memory that she couldn't stand; the memory of a lie that she just couldn't let herself think about. It was burning Brielle out of their lives. And nothing could change that now.
She stood there, hem heavy and swish with the beads weighing it down. She smoothed back an errant curl that twined itself in front of her eyes and obscured her vision.
"Bonjour, cousine. You look beautiful." That was true. Brielle always looked beautiful. She always had. Wren hated her a little for it.