Everything Between Us (4 page)

“So they hired you to give her private art lessons that she doesn’t want?” Romy tilts her head like something’s not adding up.

“I don’t know why she’s so dead-set against them, especially since she doesn’t seem to have anything else to do. But hey, she’s dead-set against everything, so maybe I shouldn’t take it personally.”

“What are you talking about?” Caleb asks.

“She refuses to go back to college. She refuses to leave the house. I don’t know what’s wrong with her, but—”

“She won’t leave the house?” asks Romy. “Like, not at all? Why?”

I shrug. “She just won’t.” I think back, to the one moment where she opened up. I stayed quiet, hoping that we could break through that thick wall around her and get on with the lessons, but she clammed up quickly. Before she did, though … “She said something about dying? Like, it feels like she’s dying?”

Caleb’s eyes grow wide. “Does she have a terminal illness or something?”

“No, that’s not what it was,” I say, trying to remember exactly what she said. “It was more … she said that
every time
, it feels like she’s going to die, or that she’s going crazy. And she can’t go through it again.”

Romy’s brow is furrowed in thought. “I wonder if it’s panic.”

“Huh?”

Her green eyes meet mine. “People who have panic attacks often say it feels like they’re having a heart attack. Like they’re dying. And she said ‘every time’?”

I nod. “‘Every time it happens.’”

“Maybe she refuses to go out because she’s afraid she’s going to have a panic attack, then.”

Caleb looks down at her. “That seems kind of extreme.”

“It’s a thing, though. It’s called agoraphobia,” she says.

He gives Romy a bemused smile, like she’s the most brilliant creature on the face of the planet and he has no idea how he got so lucky. I’ve never seen Caleb like this, and it’s comical but nice at the same time. “Whataphobia?” he says softly.

“Agoraphobia. It’s a mental disorder where people have crippling fear of crowds or social situations or … well, generally being away from places where they feel safest. I’ll have to look it up, but I’m pretty sure that’s how it is.”

“Do they do it because something’s happened to them? Like a trauma thing?”

Romy shrugs. “Could be, but I also think it’s one of those disorders that just happens to people, and no one really knows exactly why. A lot of them emerge for the first time in early adulthood, and most anxiety disorders aren’t caused by some terrible, scary event.  With agoraphobia, people usually withdraw because they want to avoid having a panic attack. That’s what they’re most scared of.”

Sounds like it might fit. “So that’s it? They get hit with this anxiety disorder and live like hermits because they’re afraid of … being afraid?”

Romy gives me a look. “Panic is a bit more extreme than simply being afraid, Daniel. And if that’s what’s going on with this girl, it must be confusing and terrifying at best.”

“Okay, but can’t she just … I don’t know, push through it?” It seems crazy to give up your whole life for something like that.

She smiles. “I’m sure she gets that all the time. That’s probably what her parents said to her. Get over it. Why can’t you just … why don’t you just … it’s only …”

I blink at her. “I said something like that to Stella, too.”

“Pretty damn dismissive of you.” Her voice is soft, but she doesn’t need volume to wield that wrecking ball. Suddenly I feel like the biggest jerk on the planet. I told Stella she was having a pity party. I told her she was putting on an “invalid act.” I said she was just doing it for attention.

I’ve been almost as mean as she has.

Caleb sighs. “It’s hard not to push back when someone’s hurling insults, though.” He would know. His sister Katie has done that to him for years, lashing out because she suffered so much abuse at the hands of their stepfather, taking it out on Caleb for reasons he never talks about.

Romy scoots closer to Caleb like she knows he needs it. “Definitely. But it’s not the way to get her to lay down her weapons.” She kisses his shoulder, and I look away, busying myself with my sketchpad and pastels.

“What do I do, then?” I ask. “Liza’s paid me for two more weeks of daily lessons, and I want that money.” But … I’d also like not to be at war with Stella. I liked that first moment we talked, when we met in the hallway and joked about her book. I was hoping that’s how it would be, and instead I got this feral creature who seems to hate me with every cell in her body.

“What are you doing
now
?” Caleb asks.

“I go in there with my pad and charcoals, and she either curls up catatonic on her chair or stands across the room from me, saying whatever she thinks will get me to leave.”

“What are
you
doing now?” he asks again.

“I draw her.”

Romy’s eyes soften. “You do? Do you show her?”

“Yeah, but … it’s probably only making her more angry, now that I think about it. I draw her while she’s snapping at me.”

Caleb lets out a huff of laughter. “So she gets to see herself at her worst every time?”

I rip my beanie off my head and rake my hand through my hair. Jerk. I’m a jerk. “Basically.”

Romy touches my arm. “I bet you can figure out something better to do with that time. And when you do, you’ll be more able to reach her. Maybe you can make a connection with her, and then you can help.”

“I do art, not therapy!” I say helplessly.

Romy leans back and gazes up at Caleb, and the two of them lock eyes, a connection so powerful I can feel it from here. “Sometimes the two are remarkably similar,” she murmurs.

The Bierens’ driveway is at least a half-mile long, a neat private road lined with towering trees. As soon as I take the turn, my stomach gets tight. I wonder what Stella’s going to throw at me today, and if I can find that one better thing to do, the thing Romy thinks will help me pull a few bricks from the wall Stella’s built around herself—or at least get her to stop verbally flaying me every time I show up.

As I pull up to the side entrance, the place where the deliveries, maids, and construction workers arrive, my phone rings. I put the car in park and smile when I see who it is. “Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, honey,” she says, the warmth in her voice instantly relaxing me. “Did I catch you at an okay time?”

“Yup. I’ve got a thing in a minute, but I’m a little early.”

“Good.” She sighs, and the weariness comes right through the phone. “Can you come over for dinner tonight? I know it’s not Thursday, but …”

I unbuckle my seatbelt, my ease evaporating quickly. I go over to my folks’ house for dinner once a week, and Thursday is just two days away. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh, we want to talk to you about something. I’ll make lasagna and garlic bread.” She says it in this cute singsong voice, trying to tempt me out of my worry.

It doesn’t work. Now I’ve got alarm bells ringing in my head. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

She’s quiet for a minute. “I don’t want you to worry about it today, okay? Just come over tonight and we’ll all sit down and talk.” Another pause in which my mouth opens and closes a few times, trying to form the words to argue. “I have to go, hon, but I’ll see you tonight?”

“Yeah,” I breathe, and then clear my throat. “Sure. I’ll come over after I finish classes at the co-op.”

We hang up, and my hand falls to my lap. I stare at my phone, wondering why people think it’s so much better to have conversations in person—especially if you have to call a person on the phone to invite them to that conversation. Now I’ll be thinking about it all fucking day. My younger brother’s doing a tour of duty in Afghanistan—has he been wounded? She wouldn’t sound so calm if he’d been killed, right? My dad had a heart attack last summer—did he have a bad check-up? Have they lost their savings in some weird stock crash? It could be a million things, and if I don’t get up off my ass and get into the mansion, I’m going to sit out here and try to think of every single one.

I throw the door open and shove my phone in my pocket. With my sketchpad and toolbox in hand, I stride up to the side entrance and let myself in. They’ve got workers here constructing the new entertainment addition, and the housekeeper comes and goes, so it’s almost always unlocked during the day. I stride down the hall and pass the kitchen, inhaling the scent of chocolate and glancing over to see some kind of torte sitting on the granite island. I ignore the growling in my stomach and head for the enclosed porch, the room with three walls of windows looking out on the gardens and grounds. I wish I didn’t associate it with so much aggravation.

When I turn the corner and enter the room, Stella’s already on her chaise, staring out at the lawn. Her fingers are spread against the glass. I think of what Romy said, of how people with agoraphobia withdraw from the world for fear of these panic attacks. And, now that I’m really looking, I see longing in the flex of Stella’s limbs, in the way her palm is flat on the window, like she wants to sink through the glass and reach the outside. She said her parents think she’s doing it for attention, but she doesn’t know I’m standing here. She thinks she’s alone and she’s simply … reaching. Wishing. She’s trapped and doesn’t know how to get out. But I think …
if she thought she could, she would.
It hits me hard and fast—I can
see
her. Not angry, not terrified, not insulting and mean, just Stella, desperately wanting to be free. If someone handed her the key to this cage she’s in, would she accept it? Would she use it?

She shifts in her seat, moving closer to the window, almost pressing her face to it. Her sleek brown hair hangs down her back as she gets to her knees and leans. She moves gracefully, long-limbed and supple, and like always, I get caught in it, fascinated. Both hands are pressed to the glass now, and I have this crazy urge to walk up behind her and move in close, put my hands over hers and push all the way through. I shake my head at that insane thought, and I must make some noise, because Stella’s head whips around.

Our eyes meet, and there’s this moment, this fraction of a second, when we’re not at war, when it’s just us, and neither of us has the wherewithal to armor up for battle. The strangest sense of want fills my chest. Not sexual desire, but a kind of craving all its own, much bigger than simple physical need. I’ve never felt it before, and I don’t even know what to call it. I just wish—

“You’re early,” she says quietly. And then she squeezes her eyes shut. When they open, she’s loaded for bear, and I don’t have time to brace myself before she snaps, “Did you think my mom would hand you an extra ten for your trouble?”

I suck in a long breath and let it out. “Good morning, Stella. Sleep well?” Those circles under her eyes certainly aren’t any lighter.

“I never sleep well,” she mumbles. “How about you? Or do you spend your nights earning your keep?”

Anger and frustration run hot in my veins, and my fingers clench around the handle of my toolbox. I’ve never been ashamed of this game I play. It’s how I got my start as an artist—slept with one of the cougars, got a commission, and did a fucking great painting that she hung where others could see. I was twenty-two when I began making my living as an artist, and not many people can do that. Some women use their attractiveness to boost their opportunities, so why can’t I? It doesn’t mean I’m not talented. It doesn’t mean … fuck, why am I trying to justify myself?

“Yes, actually,” I say calmly. “I
did
spend my night earning my keep. I have a gallery show coming up, and I have to deliver three pieces by Friday.”

The contemptuous curl of her lip evens out. “Oh.”

I force myself not to smile as I set my toolbox down and pull out my charcoals. As I do, I see the set of brushes my parents got me for Christmas a few weeks ago. My fingers drift to them as my mom’s weird phone call slides to the front of my thoughts again. Something’s wrong. Something important enough for them to want to tell me in person, and urgent enough that they didn’t feel they could wait two days to do it. I swallow the lump in my throat and close the toolbox. Without turning around, I say, “I don’t suppose you’re ready to do some drawing?”

“You’re delusional.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“You’re smarter than you look.”

I turn around. “You’re starting to get redundant. Maybe you could think of something else to criticize? God knows there’s plenty.” I settle myself into my chair. We’re about twenty feet apart, but it might as well be miles.

She’s got her knees pulled to her chest. She does this all the time, curling into a ball. It doesn’t look quite right. She’s meant to be stretched loose, those slender limbs splayed. I blink. I have no idea why I’m thinking about that. I focus on her face, her dark eyes and high cheekbones and narrow chin and full lips.

“Care to give me some new material?” she asks.

“You could get to know me and find out.” Wait—I don’t want that. I never want that.

Her gaze is locked on to my face, but then it drops quickly to my chest. “No, thanks. Not worth the effort.”

I let out a breath like she’s punched me, because that’s how it feels. I shouldn’t care. I usually let it roll off me. But today I’m worn thin. “Stella?”

When she meets my eyes again, I swear I see a glimmer of regret. “What?” she asks.

“Can we …
not
today? Tomorrow you can lay into me, but today … let’s just … be quiet, maybe? Could we do that?”

“Why would I want to go easy on you?” Her voice is all jagged edges, but that’s why I’m looking into those deep brown eyes, because they give her away. She actually wants to know the answer to her question.

“I’ve got something on my mind, and I’m not really up to your usual barrage of hatred and disdain.” I shouldn’t say this to her. It’s giving her more ammo.

She’s quiet for a few moments, her fingers rubbing at a dusting of flour on her sleeve. “It doesn’t matter what I say,” she mutters, almost to herself. “You’ll still come back tomorrow.”

Actually, I’m not sure. If she went all out today, she might get her way. I’m brittle enough at the moment that I might say
fuck it all
and leave. And … she’s smart enough to know that. I know she is. She’s
this
close to winning. But—