Dancing Barefoot (27 page)

"Blame the company I have been keeping."

Tired of this conversation, he resumed walking away from her and focusing on his showing. He had taken four of Jessica's canvases and needed to make sure he hung them perfectly so they would be in the spotlight. Out of everyone in this scenario, she and her artwork deserved
celebrity.

* * *

Chapter Eighteen

Jessica nodded in agreement with everything the staff psychologist had said and signed the papers for her mother's transfer to a mental health facility in the
Berkshires. It looked peaceful and had a great reputation for treating habitual offenders.

She winced at the word 'offenders,' and resented needing to send her mother away, but their situation could no longer continue. Charlie hadn't said a word about the events of the night before, for which she was grateful, but her concern had little to do with work and everything to do with being tired of uncertainty.

"I am sorry I ruined your dinner." Julie looked like hell, her blue eyes dull with a headache and remorse.

She held her mom's hand, her thumbs absently tracing the five year-old scars from the failed suicide attempt. Weariness warred with hopelessness. "We can't keep doing this, Mom."

"I didn't plan it. I wanted to meet your friends." Julie sat opposite her across the table in the hospital cafeteria. "You're so pretty, Jessica. I am so proud of you."

Jessica looked away. She had heard it all before. Julie said all of the right things at the right time
. Suicide attempts, repeated lapses into addiction, bad decision making across the board...the list could no longer be ignored.

"It's always been just the two of us, Mom, and you know I love you, right?" she asked, her thumbs moving over the scarred wrist.

"I made mistakes. I haven't been a good mother, but look at you." Julie's smile trembled on her lips. "You are amazing. I must have done something right."

"I'm not amazing." She shook her head, feeling like a traitor for having signed the commitment papers. "You're going to be transferred to a mental—"

"Don't do this to me," Julie whispered.

"—Facility on the western side of the state. It's nice, Mom. Maybe you can—"

"I'll be better, I can do better, don't hide me away."

"I'm getting married." She met Julie's gaze. "I want you to be better by then. I want you to be a grandmother one day to my kids, don't you see? We need to let each other go for awhile."

"He said you would do this." Her mother's eyes hardened and she pulled her hand away.

"Who did?"

"Marc was here at lunch. He said you wanted to lock me away so you could leave with your boyfriend, said he is some kind of famous person who doesn't want to be ashamed by me."

A chill went down her spine at the words. She swallowed hard.
"None of that is true, Mom. Not one word of it. Why do you believe him? Marc is not one of the good guys, not like we thought."

"
I thought Marc was your boyfriend. So did he. He wanted to marry you, he said, but you stole his promotion and made him look bad. Why did you do that?" Julie leaned forward in her seat, her face twisted with confusion. "I'm proud of you, Jessica. You're a good girl, always have been, but I don't understand why you feel the need to cheat. You're too smart for that."

Crazy-making behavior, one of her former therapists had called it. That's what listening to this kind of nonsense did to her—made her crazy.

"Stop putting this on me." She folded her hands in her lap and leaned back in her chair. "It's not going to work this time, Mom.
You
took drugs last night.
You
pick up losers in bars and let them shack up in your house.
You
can't pay your own bills.
You
are an addict. Not me. I have always been here to pick up the pieces so do not try to make me feel guilty."

"You're locking me away for dancing on a street. What was I doing that was so horrible? Dancing?" Julie changed from poor victim to snide aggressor in under a minute. "And who is this man you're marrying? Why hasn't he met your mother?"

Jessica nodded to the nurse who waited near the door. She had done all she could do at this point, now she needed to let go.

Marc had been here, that troubled her for reasons she couldn't explain. They had been friends, or so she had thought.
If she didn't know him after over a decade, could she really know anyone? The thought bothered her all the way home on the subway.

She glanced at the passengers around her, all very careful to avoid eye contact with anyone else, their attention focused on various electronic gadgets. When her stop came, she exited onto the pavement with the rest of the human cargo and walked in sync with the crowd to the surface.

The inside of her apartment felt different, emptier than it had ever been. She walked to the counter and grinned at the note. It read,
'Until Sunday.'

"Well, at least you left a note," she whispered before crumpling it up and tossing it into the trash.

Solitude had its perks. Naked, she sank into the steaming tub. She shoved wet hands through her hair and wondered what Jacques and Simone were doing. Water chilled. Anxiety drummed in her heart like rolls of thunder.

She wrapped her body into a terrycloth robe and slipped into bear claw slippers before stepping from the bathroom in a cloud of steam.

Scents of pizza wafted down the hall from the kitchen. Frowning, she walked down the hall.

Marc
spread plates onto the table. A six-pack of Amstel Light rested on the counter, minus one. When he saw her, he arched his eyebrow and grinned as if him hanging out in her kitchen was normal. 

“I used my key. I know it's been an exhausting week and I've been a pain in the ass. Consider this a peace offering.”
When she didn’t move from the hallway, he leaned back in his chair. “Come on, Jessie. It’s pizza and beer. There’s no harm in that, is there?”

“You can’t just show up here.”
She stepped toward him.

“I’ve been po
pping up unexpected for years. We’re friends, right?”

“
Not anymore, no."

“I
’ve been acting weird, I know. I apologize. Haven’t we known each other too long not to give each other some slack when we need it? I've been under a lot of stress, family stuff you don't know about. I let the Sincore project consume me. I'm sorry.”

She grabbed a beer and peeked into
under the lid of the pizza carton. “I guess I could eat.” 

He saluted her with his beer
. Friends too long to not give him a chance to explain, she grinned when he widened his eyes and motioned for her to sit.

“
Did you really start those fires?” she asked between bites. 

“
Do I look like a guy who starts fires?” He smiled his Bachelor of the Year smile.

“
I'm not sure what kind of man you are anymore.”

“Truce, remember?”

“I'm being honest.” She leaned her elbows on the table. Even now with his dress shirt rolled to his elbows and unbuttoned at the neck he looked the part of a successful businessman.

She thought of the compromises she had made
that had lead her further from the person she'd wanted to be. So many compromises that all of the choices blurred until she no longer remembered what she had wanted to begin with, back in the beginning as a child sketching in notebooks. 

“
You look all misty-eyed, what are you thinking about?” He leaned back in his chair, gaze scrutinizing her face.

“I know you want to make peace with me but
—"

“So let’s make peace
, what's wrong with that?” 

“
I don't trust you."

“Do not ruin this.” Voice low, he shook his head slowly.

“Ruin what? I’m talking to you as—"

“Here we go.
Another night ruined because of your pursuit of happiness. How’s that going by the way? I don’t see any changes. Same robe. Same apartment. Same job.  Same friends. Same life. Wait,” he snapped his fingers, "yeah, you got that office with a door and pretty sweet view, didn't you?"

“
Marc—"

“
And Jacques, that's a change for you. Screwing him while doing whatever it was you were doing in Italy was one thing, but now he's back, isn't he? He has the exciting life, the glamorous friends, but where is he? Not here. You are all alone with your hidden artwork. It's kind of pitiful how you pretend to have it all together at work and then come home to...this.”

“
Do you have a point?”

“
Jacques is the one pursing the life of his dreams. He is, not you. You're sitting here in the ugliest damn robe I have ever seen eating pizza with the one friend of yours who keeps coming back time and again while your mother—the only family you have—goes off to yet another treatment facility.” He leaned forward. "Playing pretend in Italy must have felt good, but then what did you do? Have you been waiting for him, is that it? Because from what I've heard today, he's had one helluva good time since then."

“
Thanks for the pizza, but it's time for you to go. I knew this was a bad idea as soon as I saw you standing in my kitchen.”

“Are you trying to hurt me?
Is that your new hobby?” He pushed away from the table and strode toward her stairs. "Miranda says your artwork is going on display this weekend. You're going out of your way to make a fool of yourself so let me see these priceless pieces of genius."

“
I need—"

“God help
me if I forget what you need. That’s what our entire relationship has been about, your need, your wants, your life.” 

“That’s not fair.” She followed him up the stairs, careful to keep her robe closed.

“Nothing about this is fair.”

“I swear you’re dangerou
sly close to losing your mind.” She rubbed an open palm over her forehead to ward off the sudden headache. 

“Losing
my mind? Is that your theory? Have you and Sela gotten together to discuss my deteriorating mental capacity? How fun for you all. Did Miranda join in by any chance? I've been hearing the same schpeel from her.” He sneered, transforming his handsome face into something ugly and mean.

Nothing
about this made sense. Desperation for understanding throbbed in the air between them.

"Is this all about the damn promotion? Because if it is, you need to get over it." She tightened the sash of the robe until it felt like it would slice her in half.

He started going through her piles of canvases. "This is the work of the master artist herself, huh? How impressive."

"You really need to leave. We're done. You and I are no longer friends. I'll talk to Charlie about removing you from my team since working for me is such a fucking issue for you." She grabbed the canvas from his arms and tossed it onto the sofa.

"Know what my issue is?" He walked to the canvas hanging on the wall of Jacques in bed in their former apartment, pulled it down, tossed it onto the ground, and stomped his heel through it. "That's my fucking issue. This entire time you've been hung up on some loser from your past. Look at these." He rushed to the pile and pulled out others from Florence.

"No, don't." Horrified at what was happening, she tried to rescue the canvases.

With force he had never shown, he pulled her against him and ravaged her mouth.  His hand snaked beneath her robe and squeezed her breast. She whimpered in pain and pushed against his chest. Bare feet kicked against hard shins.

He pushed her away with enough force to knock her against the
sofa. Breathing heavy, he looked around at his destruction and shook his head in disbelief.

“I’m sorry.
So sorry, Jessie,” he muttered. 

“Get out.” Spasms rattled her body.
Fingers touched swollen lips.

“I don
’t know what’s wrong with me.” Hands shook as he stroked them over his face. “I swear I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Get out.
I've had enough crazy to last a lifetime.” Rage and fear rattled her body. 

“I was out of line. I’m so sorry.
You know I would never hurt you.” He leaned the back of his head against the wall, eyes staring at the ceiling.  

“I asked you to leave.”
She grabbed the torn canvas and tried to pull the pieces together.

“Not until we st
raighten this out between us.” His gaze locked on hers. “Forgive me?”

"I'm fresh out of forgiveness, Marc, especially when it comes to you. Get out.
”  Legs shaking, she carried the painting downstairs and placed it on the kitchen counter.
Ruined, it's all ruined.

He paced the room, ha
nds combing thorough his hair. She watched him and remembered. Remembered seeing him for the first time ten years ago in college. He had been arguing with a professor in the hallway, ball cap turned backward on his head and books falling from his backpack. She had stopped to gather up a book when their eyes had met—his full of frustration—and she had laughed. They had run into each other later that evening at a local bar and had bonded over a pitcher of cheap beer.