Forever & Always: The Ever Trilogy (Book 1) (23 page)

When I got Cade’s letter, I nearly did cry. When I saw his drawing, the rose thorns speaking to my loneliness, I did cry. Just a little. Two or three tears, sniffed away.
 

And then I painted. Something daring. Baring.
 

I painted myself. A self-portrait, in my studio. In my painting shirt, the top four buttons undone. Baring skin, baring cleavage. The shirt draped mid-thigh. A brush reaching for the viewer, the other hand freeing a button. Unclothing myself, one button at a time, while I painted myself for him. I let it dry, packaged it in a wooden brace and wrapped it in thick plastic wrap, and sent it to him still damp, unwilling to wait, to chicken out.
 

The title of the painting, written in black sharpie along the bottom of the frame:
BEAUTIFUL?

 
A plea.

Three days later, he sent me an acrylic piece, and it took my breath away. It was part abstraction, part portrait. The edges were blurred colors, black near the top and along the left side, fading into a yellow-orange glow on the right side and near the bottom edge. At the center was a pair of eyes, my eyes. Vivid, stunning, arresting. My cheekbones, lit by the yellowish glow from the right side of the piece. Candle light, I realized. And the blackness? Parts of it were matte black, parts were textured with strands of lighter shades. Hair? Yes, it was my hair, lost in the darkness.
 

The title:
BEAUTIFUL.
 

Two days later, I got an overnight UPS package, thin, wide, and heavy. I brought it into my room, cut open the box with a steak knife, and pulled out a thick wooden frame, similar to that which I’d packaged Cade’s painting in, stuffed with packaging air bubbles. It was a mirror.
 

It was old, probably an antique, spotted and pitted. As I pulled it out, the reflection of the ceiling wavered and wiggled, and then I righted it so I could see my own reflection. And there, surrounding my face, was a web woven of Sharpie-inked words:
lovely, talented, beautiful, needed, loved, smart, funny, kind, thoughtful, fascinating, dedicated, wondrous, wonderful
…the list went on. The words were tangled, letters overlapping, the “N”s in ‘“funny” used to create “needed” and the “D” in “needed” used in “dedicated” and so on, all the words intertwined like a briar or a spiderweb, all inscribed on the mirror to surround my features.
 

I held it together long enough to hang it in my room over my bureau. And then I sobbed. Just…bawled.
 

I was doubting everything about myself. My talent, my looks, my appeal to men. It seemed like everything about my life was a lie. If Billy could lie to me for so long, in such a huge capacity, and I was so gullible and stupid as to not even realize it, what did that say about me? If I wasn’t enough for him, who could I be enough for? What did this Kelly have that I didn’t? Was I really a cold, closed-off bitch? Good only for sex on the weekends?
 

Did he close his eyes when we were together and picture Kelly, because he wished I was her but was too afraid of my delicacy to break up with me?

Was I delicate?

I didn’t know anything anymore.
 

And this mirror…it didn’t magically restore my self-esteem, but it sure did help. Mainly because it proved, if nothing else, that Caden thought I was all of those things.
 

Why his thinking that about me, feeling that way about me, made me feel so much better, I didn’t dare examine too closely.
 

I stared at myself in the mirror, examined the pattern of his handwriting, wondering about Caden. About his feelings. About what would happen if I suddenly showed up at his door. Wondering if he still had feelings for me, like I did him, on some deeply buried level.
 

I was afraid. That was the raw reality.
 

Until this moment, I’d had other things to distract me. School, Eden’s drama, Billy. Now Eden was living her own life, contained, seeming fairly happy as a single college girl. School wasn’t the same kind of distraction, not anymore. I painted, I studied art, some other necessary classes, but it wasn’t enough to distract me. And Billy was gone. Gone. And I was alone, and all I had were Caden’s letters, his words and the emotions written between the lines. He was all I really had, in some strange way. He was all that comforted me.
 

That wasn’t true. Eden was a constant comfort. She’d taken me in and let me wallow in my anger and self-pity, and then she’d gently encouraged me to get out there and get over it. By gently encouraged, I mean she shoved me out of bed one morning and told me to quit docking around and feeling sorry for myself, that the Lord Captain Douche Commander Harper wasn’t worth my time or energy and I had to get over his sorry ass.

Which worked, to a degree. It got me off my ass and out into the world, got me painting and going to the gym to work off the gallons of ice cream I’d eaten while watching sappy romantic comedies and anything featuring Channing Tatum.

But Eden’s advice and tough love didn’t address the inner psychological damage Billy had done to me, which went deeper than I’d ever imagined. I’d never been truly in love with him, so how could his lie so badly shake the entire foundation of my life and my emotional sanity?
 

And why did Caden’s letters and his art and the precious gift of the mirror do so much to heal me?

And why was I so afraid of pursuing more with Caden? Why did I keep shying away from an IRL relationship with him?

The last two questions I had answers to, at least: because if I tried for something with Cade and it didn’t work, or he lied to me, or he let me down, if he failed to measure up, failed to be the magnificent specimen of manhood I’d built him up to be in my mind, I’d be devastated. Wrecked. And then I wouldn’t even have him to get me through my heartbreak.

And so I painted. All the hurt and the confusion and the darkness went onto canvas.

the scent of death

Caden

Dread. Fear. The scent of death. I knew these things. I knew them all too well. I stood outside Alex’s bedroom door, feeling them all rage through me. My knees shook, trembled like leaves in the wind. My fist was curled around the tarnished brass knob, paralyzed there, refusing to twist and push.
 

The wood of the door was splintered and rough against my forehead. My breath was a ragged influx of panic, a terrified soughing exhalation. I knew what I would find on the other side.
 

He’d come home two days before, eyes glassy and heavy-lidded, flesh greasy and sallow, unwashed, stringy hair lank around his face. He’d slammed his bedroom door behind himself, and I’d heard the plastic-cracking sound of a bottle of whiskey being opened. The rasping hack of a three-pull swig straight from the bottle. Heard a lighter scrape and flick and whuff into life, inhaling. Coughing exhalation. The scent that wafted to me then was not the familiar pungent, innocent smell of pot. No, it had been thick and dark and poisonous.
 

I’d pounded on the door with my fist. “Alex! Let me in, man.”

“Fuck off, Cade. Leave me alone.” His voice had been thin and wavery and fragile.

“Talk to me, Alex.”

“I told her, man. Amy. I told her. I told her I was in love with her.” He’d coughed, took a hit. To cover the sob, I think. “She said exactly what I thought she would. ‘Sorry, but you’re just not my type for something serious.’”

“Shit, man. That sucks.”

He laughed, a mirthless, aching sound. “Yeah. It sucks.”

He hadn’t responded after that. I’d heard him in there, listened at the door every once in a while. He’d been silent for hours now, and I was worried. I knocked on the door, hesitant at first, and then with increasing urgency. I finally got the courage to twist the knob. Locked. I found a paperclip at the bottom of my backpack, unfolded it, fed it into the tiny hole at the center of the knob, popped the lock out.

I didn’t believe in God or anything, but in that moment, I prayed. “God, please. Don’t let me find him dead.”

I opened the door, knowing, despite my prayer, exactly what I would find. And I did.
 

He was on the bed, on his back. A fifth of Jim Beam lay empty on the floor to the right of the bed. His right hand lay stretched out down his thigh, curled slightly open. His pipe sat on his palm, along with his transparent yellow lighter. He was shirtless, and mucus-yellow vomit spilled down his mouth and over his throat, onto his pillow. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. Lifeless.
 

I sank to my knees, unable to breathe or to cry or to do anything.
 

Eventually, I dug my phone from my pocket, dialed 911.
 

“Nine-one-one what is your emergency?” The operator’s voice was flat, female, brusque.

“It’s Alex. My roommate. It’s not an emergency, though. He’s already dead.”

“Can you tell my why you think he’s dead, sir?”

“He OD’d. On crack. He’s dead. I know he’s dead. I can see it. Smell it. I didn’t know who to tell. He’s dead. Someone needs to come get him.” I heard myself speaking, but that part of me was disconnected from the part of me that was on the floor, on my knees, staring at dead Alex, another death.
 

I’d known he was on drugs. Why hadn’t I gotten him help? Why hadn’t I made him go to a clinic? See a doctor? I should have—I should have done something. I wasn’t sure what, but something. He wouldn’t have liked it, he would have hated it, hated my interference. We weren’t friends. He said so himself. Just roommates. He’d apologized after saying that, sure, but I think it was true. He was my friend, but was I his? Could I have saved him?

The operator was speaking, and I couldn’t hear her, understand her. I rattled off the address and let the phone fall to the floor. After a span of time I couldn’t have measured, didn’t care to measure, I heard feet, voices, felt someone push past me, pull me to my feet and out of the way to the couch. They spoke to me, whoever it was. A guy. Young, black hair. Not young, though, now that I looked at him. Maybe thirty? Brown eyes that spoke of having seen things like this all too often.
 

“Hey. My name is Kevin. Can you come outside with me?”

I followed him outside, answered his questions. Cops, their questions. Yes, I’d known he was using drugs. No, I didn’t use drugs. I didn’t mention having smoked pot with him once in a while, because that didn’t seem to matter. I told them they could look through my room. Why did they need to do that? Because of the drugs? I wondered idly if they would arrest me for having not helped Alex quit smoking crack. I knew he was depressed, upset about Amy. But…

Was it my fault? I didn’t know. I thought no, and then I thought yes.
 

I saw disapproval in the eyes of the paramedics and the cops. Had they ever had friends they couldn’t help? He was my roommate. That’s all. I realized I knew nothing about him. I didn’t know if his mom was still alive. If his sister was alive. If he had anyone at all. Other than me, and I’d sat in my room writing an art history paper and worrying while he overdosed on crack and drowned himself in whiskey.

Eventually everyone left, and I was alone. I threw the vomit-stained sheets and pillow away, and then left Alex’s room, closed the door. Was I supposed to try to find his mom and sister? Would the cops do that? I didn’t know. I sat in the living room, on the threadbare couch, listless. I wondered if they’d taken the bag of pot and metal pipe Alex kept stashed in the old cigar box on the coffee table.
 

I checked; yes, it was gone. That was probably good. For the best. That wasn’t me anyway. But it would have been nice to float away from the world for a few minutes.
 

What did I do now? This was Alex’s apartment. Would they kick me out? I had nowhere to go. Of course, I had money enough to get my own place, but that wasn’t the point. I had no one. Nowhere to go.

I went down to the mailbox, grabbed the latest letter from Ever, and trudged back up to the apartment, sat on the couch with Ever’s letter in my hand. Stared at the address until the letters blurred and wavered and shook. Ever. Ever. I couldn’t write to her. Not about this. Not another death. Another dead body haunting my memories. It was all too much, and I’d written her about it all.
 

Her name kept ringing in my mind, like a bell.
 

Ever.
Ever.
EVER.
 

I found myself in my Jeep, Mom’s Jeep Commander. I found myself on I-75 heading north. Past Holbrook, Caniff, then the Davison, 8 mile. Yeah, I knew where my car was taking me. 14 mile, Rochester Road. Square Lake Road; exit, make a left on Michigan, south on Woodward Avenue. Silence in the car, silence except for my breathing, which sounded slightly panicked and erratic.
 

What the hell was I doing?
 

I blinked, and then I was turning right into Cranbrook Academy of Art. I meandered, wandered, got lost, and eventually found the studios and the adjacent dorms.
 

What the
hell
was I doing?
 

I couldn’t make myself stop, though. I found her door. Knocked. No answer. Knocked again. Shit. What if she wasn’t here? And then the knob turned and the door swung inward, and my heart lurched in my chest, skipped a beat or four, and my stomach dropped away.

a kiss upon your flesh

“Hello? Can I help you?” It wasn’t Ever. It was a pretty, heavyset girl with blue-streaked hair and horn-rimmed glasses, a charcoal pencil behind each of her ears and one in her hand, charcoal on her hands and streaked on her forehead, smudged on her fingers.

“I’m—” My voice cracked, and I tried again. “I’m looking for Ever?”

“Studio seven.” She peered at me, a curious expression crossing her face. “You’re the guy from her paintings.”

“Paintings?”

She tilted her head. “God, you’re even hotter in person.” She pointed across the street. “Studio seven. That’s where she always is.” And then she closed the door in my face, not rudely, but with finality and the absence of mind of a distracted artist.