Everything Between Us (18 page)

What I have to deal with now: If I don’t get to Daniel, if I can’t show him I can live in his world, he’s going to be in bed with my mom on Friday night, and that might actually make me crazy enough to require institutionalization.

“Mom,” I say slowly, my heart thumping against my ribs even as the strategy forms in my mind, “I was thinking. I feel so bad that Dad isn’t coming to this event on Friday with you. Like you said, I know it’s been lonely for you.”

If she could, I think she’d be raising her eyebrows right here, but instead she just stares.

“And like you said, I haven’t been out for a while. I know I’ve been stubborn about it.” I take a deep breath, praying I can do this. “So I was thinking I should go with you Friday night.” It comes out like one word, all mushed together and rushed. I take another breath and force myself to slow it down. “You know, like a mother-daughter thing.”

She blinks. “You … want to come with me on Friday?”

I shrug. “Sure. I like to look at art. I think I’ve developed a taste for it.”

Her eyes are round and questioning. “But you wouldn’t even walk to the bakery a week ago.”

“I know,” I say, giving her an innocent, terrifically sincere smile. “But I think you were right, Mom. Those art lessons have been
really
therapeutic.”

Chapter Fifteen: Daniel

I bolt awake when someone squeezes my fingers.

“Daniel,” my mom whispers hoarsely. “I think you have to go soon.”

I blink rapidly, trying to bring things into focus, and have this wild moment when I’m in high school again, and my mom’s trying to get me up for school. “Wait—what?”

“Your show?”

I shake my head and finally register where I am. Mom’s hospital room. She got moved from the ICU on Wednesday and is now in this room that she’s sharing with some woman who had half her colon removed or something. I’ve been here every day, though my mom’s been too out of it to register my presence until today. Seeing her so much more alert was fantastic—until she noticed how awful
I
look. I’ve been trying to seem upbeat, but the last time she drifted off, I guess I did, too, cratering at her bedside, my arms on the railing and my head hanging. I glance around and find the clock on the wall.

“It’s nearly seven,” I mutter. Crap. I was supposed to meet Caleb, Romy, Sasha, Lyle, and Daisy for an early dinner. “I’m late.”

I look down at my mom. Her face is so pale, her lips grayish-pink, her eyes sleepy. “I have to go.”

“Have fun,” she murmurs, drifting again. It’s like she summoned the energy to be my mom for a minute, and even that exhausted her.

I stand up and kiss her forehead. “I love you. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Love you …”

I call my dad when I hit the lobby. “I’m leaving now. Seems like she’s going to sleep for a while.”

“Thanks. I’ll be there later tonight,” he says. He sounds tired, too, and I’m pretty sure I just woke him up. “Good luck. I hope you make some sales.”

“Me, too.” We hang up, and I straighten my tie as I walk to my car. Gallery openings are always an event. The owners serve up the drinks and don’t skimp on the alcohol, because it loosens the patrons up and makes them feel generous. The artists all circulate, available for conversation. Some of us are available for more than that.

My stomach clenches as Stella’s big brown eyes flash in my mind. I have no idea what happened with her on Wednesday, and I couldn’t go for the past two days because my mom has been having procedure after procedure and I felt like I needed to be there for my dad. I’ve been turning it over in my head nonstop, though. I showed up on Wednesday, wanting to follow Caleb’s advice and talk to her, but I messed it up in about a thousand different ways. Stella panicked—I could see it in her eyes. I freaked her out, came on too strong. I sounded so fucking losery and desperate there at the end that I couldn’t blame her for running from me.

I’m so sorry you had to deal with her,
Liza said to me after Stella took off.
Estella’s so temperamental.

She’s the one thing I need right now,
I almost said, but the inside of me was a shredded pile of hopes and wants, torn and bleeding and wordless.

Liza came forward and put her arms around my waist.
Now we can be alone,
she said. She took my hand and put it on her breast.

I was just leaving.
Now
that
I actually managed to say out loud. I muttered something about my mom being in the hospital, but Liza didn’t care about that. She cared about my dick and the next time I was going to use it to make her feel good, and she made that very clear. She followed me out, wanting to know when she’d see me again, barely listening as I stuttered my excuses. My mind was still with Stella wherever she was, wishing I hadn’t ruined us with my stupid, desperate pleading. Liza said something about wanting to talk to me about my paintings, and then she was kissing me. And of course, Stella walked in to see Liza’s hand on my crotch. I couldn’t look at Stella’s face after that. I didn’t want to see how disgusted she’d be. It was like the confirmation of all those things she said about me right after we met. Dumb and pretty, shallow,
not worth knowing.

  Which is how I make my living. I glance at myself in the rearview mirror as I pull out of the hospital parking lot and head for the restaurant. Stella’s rejection did me a favor. What the hell would I have done if she’d reciprocated my feelings? I’d be Caleb. He’s got a fucking master’s degree in painting and never sold a canvas before last December. And why? Because he wouldn’t put out. He tried to make his living off teaching classes, and he was barely keeping his head above water. I saw the desperation in his eyes when he finally gave up and fucked Claudia Dexter to seal the deal on a commission. I was happy for him.
Good
, I’d thought. About time for him to join the game. But by that time, Romy had magically appeared, and that was it for Caleb. He was officially off the market, and from what I’ve seen, I wouldn’t be surprised at all if it’s permanent.

But he’s doing fine now
, says a voice in my head.
Better than ever.
Last fall, one of his paintings sold at an auction for a higher price than I’ve ever sold anything, and now he’s in high demand, just for what he can do with oils and a palette knife.

“That’s because he’s actually talented,” I mutter, pulling into a space in front of this little Italian place on Main Street where we always gather before show openings.

Everyone’s having coffee and dessert when I make it to the table. Daisy and Lyle are at the end of the table, absorbed in deep conversation. Sasha, her black hair twisted into an elaborate knot, is laughing with Caleb and Romy. She spots me first and waves, and the others turn to see me coming.

“We were wondering where you were,” says Caleb. His arm is around the back of Romy’s chair, his fingers hooked over the curve of her shoulder.

“Lost track of time.” I sit down at the only empty place at the table.

“How is she?” Romy asks.

“Stable,” I reply. It’s the best I can say for my mom right now.

“I bet she’s proud of you,” Romy says.

I nod and look out the window. Tonight, after the show, I’ll be with Liza, and that’s when I’ll earn my money. Not from my paintings, though. The bitterness makes my stomach turn. Caleb is staring at me when I turn my attention back to the table. “Did you talk to Stella?” he asks quietly.

My jaw clenches. I nod.

“Oh,” he says, one syllable that tells me he completely understands.

“We should leave soon,” says Romy, cutting a worried glance toward me. But then she turns her attention to Caleb. “Ready?” she asks him quietly.

He looks down at her, a nervous smile flickering on his face, and I realize—this is Caleb’s first real gallery opening. He’s come to these things before, but none of his paintings have ever been accepted into a show because the owners thought they weren’t right for the market. But now, he’s got center stage. His paintings are being featured. He’s got five of them on display tonight, more than any of us, and has been working nonstop for the past two months to get them ready. And now I feel like a dick for not realizing that this night is important for him.

“I’m all right,” he says to her.

“All you have to do is smile, man,” I tell him. “Your work is done, and it speaks for itself.”

Romy gives me a grateful smile. “That’s what I’ve been telling him.”

Caleb stands up and takes her hand, then turns to me. “I can smile,” he says, and then gives me the scariest, manic grin I’ve ever fucking seen.

“Maybe not like that,” I say with a laugh.

My stomach is grumbling with hunger as we exit the restaurant to walk to the gallery, which is only two blocks down, not worth moving the car for. Caleb walks next to me, with Romy on his other side.

“So,” he says. “Liza’s back. She called me yesterday. She wants to talk about the painting for her library. Asked me to come over.”

I want to laugh. “Does she know that all she’s going to get is a discussion of the proper lighting for your work?”

He shrugs. “She will.”

I’m so fucking jealous of him right now that I want to throw myself in front of the next truck that passes. Between the classes he teaches and the commissions and sales he’s making, he’ll be able to make his living now. And me? I can’t afford to stop playing. This week it’s Liza, but it sounds like she might be getting tired of me, so I’ll move on to whoever wants a ride next. Yes, they buy paintings, and yes, I can actually paint. But what would happen if I just … stopped? What if I pulled a Caleb?

Stella’s face floats through my mind again. I tried to tell her what I was feeling, and she literally ran away from me. Honest to God sprinted, just to put some distance between us. So that’s it, then. I have no reason to stop playing, not a single fucking one. I might as well enjoy it.

We walk through the front entrance of the gallery, and a white-aproned cocktail waitress holds out a tray. I snag a glass of red and smile. I know how to do this. Caleb might be all earnest and nervous, but I’m not. Two of the wealthy wives—Franka and Miriam, neither of whom I’ve been with yet—are here with their husbands, but both of them stare at me hungrily as I walk through the space. I let my eyes linger on Franka’s cleavage as I sip my drink, and then I raise my glass to her and keep moving. That ought to pique her interest.

I circulate, chatting with the other artists and several of the patrons, answering questions about my paintings, which techniques I used, how long they took to complete, what they mean. Those are my favorite questions, because I give a different answer each time.

“I meant to symbolize the pregnant pauses between two people, how those unsaid things take on their own form and become solid, filling up a space,” I say to Miriam, who’s conveniently sent her husband to fetch her a martini.

She stares at my mouth. “That’s amazing.”

I lean in. “I like to think about what fills the space between two people.” I keep my tone all intimate, but really, I’m sort of amazed at the bullshit I come up with sometimes.

When Miriam’s husband whisks her off to look at Lyle’s paintings, her eyes linger on me, and I know I’m probably going to get a call from her. There. I can do this. I’m good at it. I’m fine.

“Those are so lush,” say Isla, the wife of George Gielgood, who owns the construction company responsible for a bunch of the northside mansions. She sweeps her thick brown hair over her too-tanned shoulder.

I finish off the wine in my glass and take a step closer to her. “I wanted to evoke feelings of yearning for a softer, gentler kind of world,” I say. “The marbles are the opposite of the sharpness of modern life, you know? Spheres have no edges or corners.”

“That’s so profound,” Isla whispers, her eyes going all gooey as she stares up at me. Somewhere in my head, Stella snorts, then starts to laugh. I imagine what she would say if she were here.
They’re
marbles
, Daniel.

The bitter wave of missing Stella wells up so fast that I can barely suppress it. Isla puts her hand on my sleeve as she sees me grimace. “I love seeing an artist so emotionally connected to his paintings,” she says, her thumb stroking my forearm.

I reach for another drink and nearly knock a few glasses off the hapless waitress’s tray as she scurries by. I raise it quickly in Isla’s direction and take a huge gulp, letting it burn in my throat. “I can’t help it,” I say hoarsely.

“Do you have a card?” she asks, leaning close, her silk-covered breasts brushing my arm.

I give her my card and let her move on, because that’s how it goes. I tell Franka the marbles are meant to symbolize how each of us is caught in a cage of our own making, close but never truly touching each other. I tell Claudia they’re about moving on from childhood before we’re really ready to let it go. I have a ridiculous discussion with Yelena about how the marbles are a condemnation of materialism, how we can own as many objects as we want, but they’ll never truly satisfy us (I think I offend her, since she owns two local boutiques). I tell Margaret that the marbles are memories, preserved in time, reflected in the water, which symbolizes our own minds, never quite translating the images perfectly. She almost starts to cry, and then asks for private lessons.

Each time, I hear Stella’s voice. She’s haunting me, calling me on my bullshit even though she’s not here.
You don’t believe a single word you’re saying,
she whispers.

And she’s right; I don’t.

I know how to play, though. An hour into the show, the gallery owner tells me we have offers on two of the three paintings. I’m finishing my second glass of wine when Markus approaches. He’s cleaned under his fingernails tonight, which is a nice change. His tattooed hands cradle his glass of whiskey, which he tilts toward my third painting, a long, narrow canvas with eight marbles stacked one on the other, each rendered in painstaking detail. Even their little pontils, which mark them as handmade, glimmer under the light. “Nice,” he says.