Everything Between Us (3 page)

Then his gaze lands on me. “Hey, Stella.” I don’t think I’m imagining how he’s emphasizing my name—he’s noticed that my mom calls me Estella. I’d tell him it’s a pointless, losing battle, but he has plenty of those in his future, so this is good practice.

Daniel looks around the insulated porch room, with its walls of windows. “Great light in here,” he says to my mom. He’s got a large pad of paper tucked beneath his arm and is carrying a metal toolbox. A beanie is keeping his hair off his forehead, but messy waves peek out behind his ears, curling against his neck. He’s wearing another pair of paint-stained jeans and a t-shirt under a flannel button down.

I can see why my mom is attracted to him. Nice shoulders, lean hips, and taller than she is, which is more than I can say for my dad. Daniel’s not my type, though. Not that I have a type. But if I did, he wouldn’t be it. Not at all.

Daniel sets his toolbox down, then turns to me for the first time. His striking blue eyes are full of friendly curiosity. I almost feel bad for what I’m going to do. “Ready to get started?” he asks.

I hike a smile onto my lips. “You bet.” I glance over at my mom. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll be fine.” If she stays here, she’s going to cramp my style.

Mom watches Daniel place the sketchpad on the heavy oak table in the corner of the room. “If you need anything, I’ll be downstairs in the gym.”

He nods without turning around. As soon as she’s gone, he says, “So, have you ever taken an art class?”

“Not since elementary school. I’m not very visual.”

“You were certainly enjoying the view when we came in.”

He’s right, which fuels my annoyance and makes it easier to enact my plan. “Yes, I have eyes. And it’s amazing—they send signals to my brain, and my brain translates them! Green. Grass. Hills. You. Thinking you know something. About me.”

His genial smile freezes. “It was just an observation.”

“Is that what my mom’s paying you for? My mistake. I assumed it didn’t have anything to do with your
intellectual
firepower.”

He lets out a laugh and shakes his head. “Okay.”

And then he opens his toolbox and pulls out a few pencils, like what I actually said was, “I like to draw.”

“I figured we could do some simple sketching and composition stuff first,” he says, gesturing toward a chair at the table.

I don’t move. “Do you draw my mom in the nude? Just wondering.”

He sits down in the chair and hooks his ankle over his knee, then leans back, all relaxed. “Is that something you’re interested in? I’m happy to provide a model if you’re into nudes.”

My cheeks burn. That was not what he was supposed to say. And now I’m picturing him naked. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Human figure drawing is a good, basic skill. I’m just saying. I mean, I figured we’d start with all our clothes on, but you’re the boss.” The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s having fun.

I hate him. “I thought my mom was the boss. She’s the one who’s paying you to service her.”

His eyes are bright with amusement. “Right now she’s paying me to service
you
.”

My mouth drops open. “Oh … ew.”

“I was referring to this, Stella,” he says innocently, holding up a pencil and the sketchpad. “What did you think I was talking about?”

Anger flares in my chest. “The fact that you’re a brainless man-whore who’s leeching cash off my mom—and probably other desperate, lonely women—instead of getting a real job?”

Direct. Hit. His jaw tightens and he lowers the pencil and sketchpad to his lap. “Did I do something to offend you in another life?”

“Your existence in this one is sufficient.”

He snorts. “Why are you so angry?”

“Why are you so irritating?”

“It’s part of my charm.”

“
What
charm?”

“The charm that enables me to leech off desperate, lonely women, of course. It’s not like they’re handing out cash on street corners, after all.” He gives me a tight smile.

I stare at him. I can’t tell if he’s pissed off or enjoying himself. “But if they were, you’d be a panhandler instead of a mister?”

His brow furrows. “A
mister
?”

“Never mind. This is obviously pointless because you don’t even have the grace to be ashamed of yourself.”

Now his mouth drops open. “Ashamed … of
myself
? Why the hell would I be ashamed?”

“Um. Leeching off desperate women. I think that covers it.”

“We all use what we have to get what we can, Stella.” He opens his sketchpad and sets it back in his lap. “You’re doing the same thing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What’s this invalid act you’re pulling? What’s that about? More attention from Mommy and Daddy? Running from a bad ex-boyfriend? Did you crack under the pressure of the Ivy League? You can tell me. I won’t repeat any of it.”

It’s like he’s punched me in the stomach. “You think this is an
act
?” I whisper. I uncurl from the chaise lounge and stand up, my heart pounding. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He shrugs. “Obviously not, seeing as I’m a brainless man-whore. Come on. Spill. You can take comfort in the fact that I probably won’t understand any of your brilliant words anyway.”

How has he turned this around on me so completely? The urge to run from the room is nearly overwhelming, but I have to stand my ground. “Parrots can repeat without understanding, so forgive me for not taking comfort in that.”

He grins. “Man, now I’m craving crackers.” He tilts his head and bites his bottom lip, then begins to sketch. Like I’m not even standing here, on the verge of hyperventilating.

“The kitchen’s that way,” I snap, pointing a shaky finger toward the hall. “Help yourself.”
And leave me alone.

“Nah, I’m good. I’ll get some on my way out if I’m still in the mood.” He raises and lowers his eyebrows a few times.

The helpless laugh boils out of me, and I clap my hand over my mouth. “You are really something.”

“Oh, trust me, you’re not the first woman to say that.” He doesn’t even grant me the courtesy of looking up as he says it. He’s sketching away, smirking at his paper, having a marvelous time. But I need to get him out of here. I need him to
want
to leave.

“I’m going to make this miserable for you,” I say in a low voice.

“You’re going to try,” he says with a chuckle, using his thumb to smudge something on the paper. “You’re being kind of obvious about it, though. If you were as clever as you think you are, you’d probably be more subtle—or you’d think of a more original way to get to me. It’s okay, though. Keep those insults coming.” He raises his head. “But if you think you can drive me away with your little digs, think again.” His eyes flare with something aggressive and dangerous as he speaks. “And I was hoping you’d be more interesting than that.” He goes back to drawing.

What. The. Hell. “Just leave,” I say, my voice breaking. “Get out.”

“I’ll leave at eleven, and then you can go back to your pity party, table for one.” Still drawing. Still being the most annoying person I’ve ever met.

I want to throw something at him. But if I do, he’ll tell my mom, and it’s a flat-out guarantee she’ll take action and hospitalize me or something. And I’d tell her he’s being a jerk, but he’s only saying things she agrees with.

“You sound just like her,” I say quietly, sinking into the chaise and pulling my knees to my chest again. If I can’t escape, I need to be contained before I explode.

The squeak and scrape of his charcoal pencil on the paper is the only sound Daniel makes.

“She thinks I’m doing this for attention, or because I’m feeling sorry for myself. So does my dad.” The cushion is soft and cool against my cheek as I try to disappear into the oversized chair. “They don’t understand what it’s like. It feels like I’m dying. Every single time, I’m sure I’m either going to die or that I’m going utterly insane. I can’t let it happen again.”

His pencil stills for a moment, and a cold chill zips through me as I realize I’ve been babbling to the enemy. I press my lips together and bow my head, humiliation burning through my veins.
Why
did I just tell him that? I squeeze my legs, making myself as small as possible. I want to cry, but I won’t. Not with him here. I slide into myself, folding my consciousness over on itself until I don’t take up any space at all. Until I’m buried deep in this pit in my mind, where no one can find me.

I have no idea how much time has passed when I hear paper tearing. I look up as Daniel gets to his feet and comes toward me. My gaze is rooted on the gray-green lawn outside as he sets something down on the end of the chaise. “Your mom’s paid for daily private lessons for the next few weeks, so I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says casually. “Looking forward to it.”

I don’t respond. How can I? All I have inside me is a scream.

He packs up his things and leaves a moment later. I sit there for several long minutes, and then I turn to get up, to go back to my room. On the end of the chaise is the sketch he left behind. In charcoal, long lines and smudges and sweeps of black against creamy paper, Daniel’s drawn a girl.

It’s me. When I see the look on my face, a shudder rolls down my spine. Wide eyes, mouth tight, arms wrapped around my body, my fingers digging into my biceps, every line of me jittering and frenetic and terrified, like I’m about to shatter into a million pieces.

My hands crumple the paper as I grimace, trying in vain to hold back the raw hurt and rage. I throw the drawing as hard as I can, and it bounces off the chair where he sat and rolls to the floor. This is how he sees me. A scared, overwhelmed, hideous girl.

Hot tears stream down my face and I let out a broken sob.

The worst part about it?

That’s exactly what I see when I look in the mirror, too.

Chapter Three: Daniel

Liza’s crazy hermit daughter is kind of a bitch. And really, “kind of” is generous. I went in there trying to be nice. I mean, I don’t know what’s happened to her, and her mom is not exactly soft and fuzzy and comforting, even if she is rather hot. I wanted to show Stella some things, maybe help her express whatever’s going on inside her. Best of intentions.

But apparently what’s inside the girl is acid and broken glass, because man. I’ve been there every day for a week, and each hour is worse than the last. It’s been a while since I’ve come across someone so
mean
. Like, rabid, constipated wolverine mean.

I park my car in front of my apartment building and hike the two blocks to the co-op. It’s a twenty-minute ride from the northside mansion where Stella’s building her empire of misery, and I’m still not cooled down yet. Liza’s paying me two hundred an hour, I remind myself. I can tolerate a lot for two hundred an hour. I sit in that glass-enclosed porch, draw, and leave, because Stella refuses to do anything but take shots at me. I’m trying to wear her down, but she’s stubborn as hell.

I let out a breath and grab my sketchpad and toolbox, then hike up the street, into the co-op, and up the stairs to my studio. I need to burn off some serious steam. The studio space is this long, cavernous room lined with artists’ stalls, which each of us rent by the month. I’ve had mine for the past two years, ever since I graduated from college, and I spend more time here than at my apartment. When I reach my ten-by-ten space, I hear giggles and gasps from the stall at the end of the room. Caleb’s studio. He’s got company in there.

“Hey,” I call out. “Keep it clean.” Not that I care. I’ve had more than a few dirty flings right here in my studio, after all, so I won’t begrudge anyone else. “Or if that’s not possible, I’ve got rubbers in my toolbox if you need ‘em.”

“Hey, Daniel,” answers Romy. She appears in my stall a moment later, her cheeks flushed, her short, reddish brown hair a bit mussed. “You’re in early.”

Caleb comes up behind her and smoothes her hair down, looking simultaneously happy and sheepish. He doesn’t seem to have realized that his own hair is hanging loose; the elastic he uses to pull it back now hangs crookedly off one lock on the side of his head. “How are those private lessons going?”

I laugh, even though it’s not funny. “Swimmingly.”

Romy looks over her shoulder at Caleb and notices his hair. She runs her fingers through it and snags the elastic, then hands it to him before turning back to me. “You look like you want to punch something,” she says. 

“Have you ever done therapy with someone who would rather claw your eyes out than sit in a room with you?” I ask her.

Caleb’s eyebrows rise. “That bad?”

“Good thing I’m being paid enough that I can count the money in my head instead of focusing on how miserable it is.” Really, though … that’s not how I spend my time with Stella. While she hurls her bombs over the castle wall, I watch her. She’s always got white spots on the dark shirts she wears, and after passing the kitchen yesterday and seeing a fresh-baked loaf of bread on the counter, I’m thinking they must be flour, even though I never would have pegged her for the domestic type—her mom certainly isn’t.

But that’s not the only thing I’ve noticed. I’m fascinated by the way Stella moves: quick and sharp and feral sometimes, especially when she darts up from her chair like she wants to run from the room; slow and melty at other times, like when she sinks into that same chair and curls in on herself, hiding from everything. It’s fucking sad and still I can’t stop looking. I wish I could draw pictures that move. It’s the only way to do it justice.

Romy frowns. “Why are you giving lessons to someone who doesn’t want them?”

“Because her mom was willing to pay cash up front?”

“Why, though?” She sinks to the floor and gives me a
you can tell me anything
kind of look that probably works magic on her patients. Romy’s in grad school to be a therapist, and she’s clearly found her calling. “Why would a mom pay so much if it’s something her child doesn’t want?”

“She’s not a child,” says Caleb, dropping down next to her. “You said she’s a college student, right?”

“She was,” I say, opening my toolbox and pulling out some oil pastels. “A junior. I guess she dropped out or something. She refuses to go back for the spring semester, and her parents are freaked.”