Only Between Us (2 page)

Each one feels like a punch in the chest. Many of them are dark, but not all of them. One is a close-up of a girl in profile, what someone would see if he were standing behind her shoulder, looking down. She looks so vulnerable, staring at the ground. But the way the artist has rendered her is harsh, using reds and greens to contour her face in bold smears and strokes. Somehow, it all comes together, but the impression is brutal, dangerous. I flip to the next painting, and it’s in a similar unforgiving style. Another close-up, this one a profile of a boy standing before a closed door. That’s it, a very simple composition, but it’s like the artist has peeled away the bland outer layer and exposed the raw, pulsing mess underneath. The colors are all off, sick, like there’s a wash of dread over the whole thing, making the boy’s skin pale green and sallow yellow, his eyes solid black with faint red streaks through them. I shuffle my feet. My heart thumps unsteadily. These paintings are one part accusation, one part caress. I don’t know how to understand them, but I can’t stop staring.

At the back of the studio is a huge primed canvas, five by five at least, with a thin layer of gray wash on it. The artist has begun to paint over it, thick smears of paint applied with a palette knife instead of a brush. It’s so intense that I’m drawn forward, needing to see it beneath the light. I flip on the overhead lamp and lean in, admiring the thin threads of yellow and red and purple in the blackish-blue squares of paint. And right through all that inky midnight is a deep red gash, a harsh V carved into the overwhelming darkness, revealing how artist has taken the time to build the layers, each one with a different dominant color.  It’s both inviting and repellant, despair trying to devour a hope that won’t die. It looks edible and painful and I want to touch it but am afraid I’d sink in and get lost.

“You shouldn’t really be in there.”

I gasp at the sound of Caleb’s voice and spin around. He’s leaning against the steel wall of the studio, his wolf-gray eyes on mine. “Some of these guys are really possessive about their space, but they’re okay unless you actually invade it.” He looks pointedly at the painting and then at my fingers, which are hovering only a foot from the canvas.

I yank my hand back and jam it in the pocket of my pants, then skip over a few discarded brushes and tubes of paint, joining him outside the stall. “Sorry. I was fascinated by those paintings. That one in particular.”

He grimaces as he looks at it. “Why? It’s ugly.”

I shrug. “I know, but it’s also kind of hypnotic. I love that style, the way the artist used the palette knife instead of a brush. It’s so sculptural.”

His eyes narrow as he looks me over. “Yeah, but there’s no subtlety to it.”

“Maybe that’s the point. Maybe the artist wants to push this in the viewer’s face. Maybe he wants to share that pain.”

“How do you know the artist is a guy?”

I swallow and look back at the painting. There’s a barely restrained violence to those paintings that feels very masculine to me. “I guess I don’t. That was only my first impression.”

Caleb crosses his arms over his chest. “The guy’s a hack.”

My mouth drops open. “I think he’s really talented. How can you talk about one of your colleagues like that?”

“Well, we’re pretty close,” he says, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I know him well.”

“What, is he your boyfriend or something?” I hope he’s not. Because if Caleb’s talking like this about someone he’s supposed to love … that’s how Alex used to talk to
me
. The last thing I want to do is be around a guy who thinks like that.

I’m mentally quitting Caleb’s class when he puts his hands up and laughs. “No, definitely not my boyfriend. First, I’m straight, and second, I’m single.” He’s looking at me in this funny way. “Seriously, you don’t have to defend this guy.” He waves his hand at the painting. “He’s going to chuck this and start over anyway.”

“Why?” I ask, forgetting to be mad for a moment as I look with longing at the painting.

Daniel walks up and slaps Caleb on the back. He gestures toward the canvas. “It’s lookin’ good, bro. You’re onto something.”

Caleb gives me a sidelong glance and grins, showing off his white teeth as realization strikes me between the eyes. “Nah. I think I can do better.”

Chapter Two: Caleb

Romy’s cheeks turn a shade of pink that twists my thoughts into all kinds of forbidden shapes. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve just met this woman. She’s one of my students, not some horny sorority girl in a dark club. But I’ve been having trouble prying my eyes from her since the moment I saw her. She’s really cute, with short, reddish brown hair, big green eyes, and a tight little body, not to mention the delicate ink-work of a tattoo on her wrist. I want to slide up her sleeve and see what it says. But there’s something wounded about her, too, something that warns me not to get close. When I found her up here in my space, though, staring at my latest failure like she wanted to run her hands over it, it made me feel jittery and tense. And also, apparently, like an asshole.

“You could have been up front about this being your space,” she says. “The game-playing wasn’t really necessary.” Then she stalks back to the black-haired guy I’d assumed was her boyfriend until I registered the way he was looking at Daniel when I walked in a second ago.

“Hey, wait,” I call out, shouldering past Daniel, who’s frowning. I saw how he was eyeing her up, and that means I should back off, but I can’t. “Romy.”

She pauses halfway to her friend, Jude, who gives me a warning glance, his eyes flashing with big-brother protectiveness. “What?”

I jog over to her, wishing we were alone. “I’m glad you liked it.”

Her posture melts a little. “Don’t destroy it. It’s exquisite.”

I feel her words behind my ribs, deeper inside than I should. “I was … experimenting with something,” I mumble. “I never know what’s going to work out.” I poured my soul onto that canvas. And she saw it. She wanted to
touch
it.

Her smile is faint but sweet. “It’s working out. Go with it.”

“You know a lot more about painting than a beginner would.” I knew it from the moment I saw that dented toolbox of hers. She’s not like those women downstairs, who spread the word to their friends and come on Tuesday evenings to stare at my ass, like I’m the attraction instead of the joy of painting, of creating something from pigment and canvas. But Romy … the way she looked at her paints and brushes … it was like they were a means to salvation, and I totally get that.

She turns away from me. “I know what I like.”

God, the slope of her neck makes me want to close my teeth around it. What the hell. “We have an open painting time on Wednesdays. There’s no class, just a chance for people to grab a free easel …” I sound like an idiot.

And Daniel saves me. “It’s a good time, no pressure. If you guys wanted to come and grab some tips, work on technique or whatever.”

Jude puts his arm over Romy’s shoulders. “Thanks.” He gazes down at her, his fingers skating over the back of her neck, the place I was imagining tasting a second ago. But his expression is one of concern, not lust. “You ready to go?”

She nods. She doesn’t look back. They walk together to the stairs and disappear.

“Mine, dude,” Daniel says to me. “Back off.”

“What?”

“Romy. I saw her first.”

“You did not.” My hands become fists as I realize how stupid we sound. Like we’re fighting over a toy. “She’s got a story, man. Leave her alone. She didn’t come here for that.”

He grins. “I can change her mind.”

“I doubt a quick fuck on the floor of your studio is going to do the trick. And aren’t you with Yelena?” She owns a few boutiques downtown and is one of the local rich people who love to come here for a little art … and a lot of sex. Daniel pretty much makes his living that way.

He fiddles with a roll of floral wire someone’s left on the center table. “Yelena doesn’t care what I do as long as I’m around whenever she wants a ‘private lesson.’ Plus, we’ve been on for a few months. It’s time to move on.”

“But not to Romy. She’s not your type.” I’m not sure why I even care, but I can’t leave it alone.

“I don’t have a type. No worries—I was curious. She looks like fun.”

“I’m not worried. She’s my student, which makes her my concern. Seriously. Leave her
alone
.” I grab his arm as he rolls his eyes. “I’m not kidding.”

Something about my voice wipes the smile from his face. “Whatever. Fine.”

I let him go. “Okay. Thanks.”

“I wasn’t blowing smoke up your ass about your painting, though. You could finish that up and sell it. Maybe this’ll be the one for you.”

My laugh comes out bitter. “Yeah. We’ll see.”

He returns to his studio and I retreat to mine, the one dark patch of earth I control. In every other place, life has made me its bitch, but here, I’m the god. I’m the creator and the destroyer of worlds. I pull my phone from my pocket and check it, praying that all that awaits me at home is quiet and peace.

No missed calls. My chest loosens. I send a quick text:
call if you need anything
. Then I unwind the earbuds, thumb to my playlist, press play and let it go, filling my head with noise, the bass and rhythm that scrubs all the shit from between my ears and keeps me from going nuts. I grab my palette knife and stare at the painting against the back wall. A fucking wound is what it is. Festering, bleeding, raw. Layer on layer of pain. Yeah, it’s just oil paint. Only pigment. But it came from me, and every slide and slice of my knife was intentional. It wasn’t some disconnected flail. It was me, mapping out what it feels like to live like I do.

And I swear, Romy saw that. It makes me feel stripped down and bare, and I’m not sure whether I like it or not. But I practically asked her to come back on Wednesday, so that’s a hint.

I have no right to be asking any girl for anything, except maybe a no-strings-attached fuck that’ll give us both a few minutes of satisfaction. That I can do. Anything else is an invitation to a freak show.

I stare down at the palette knife in my hand and fight the temptation to stab it right through the canvas. In front of me I see everything, the ways I’ve fucked it all up, the things I’m lacking. I took the classes. I got the degree. But MFA doesn’t mean much in the real world, just like my mom said before she took off for Cali with my asshole perv of a stepdad. So I’m teaching classes at a co-op so I can have studio space. I’m letting rich cougars stare at my ass like I’m a stripper instead of a teacher. I haven’t sold a painting yet and probably never will, unless I’m willing to sell myself right along with it. It won’t be long before I have to choose between offering “private lessons” like Daniel does or getting what my big sis oh-so-respectfully calls “a real job.” Ah, the choices. Construction worker? Waiter? Both make me want to jam the palette knife through my own throat. But so does the thought of dropping my trousers for the forty-five-year-old wife of the head of the Chamber of Commerce.

As if on cue, my phone buzzes with a text. It’s from Claudia Dexter, one of the women in tonight’s class and the wife of the CEO of some local furniture company. Daniel told me all about her. He told me to expect this.

Can we meet tomorrow night to discuss your work?

I stare at her words, then put the phone away.

I grab a tube of phthalo green and another of alizarin crimson, and I mix them on the palette. What results is pure inky black, deep as space, deep as the dark night ahead of me. The paint is both a disguise and a big reveal, and in it I hide and bare my soul at the same time. Over and over, a stroke and then a scraping cut. Covering over the mistakes, preserving what’s worth saving. The beat in my head pulls me away from everything and steadies my heart until it pounds, pushing my blood through my veins, washing away my many sins.

Romy’s voice is what keeps me from pulling the canvas right off the frame.
Don’t destroy it,
she whispers.
It’s exquisite.
Her words save the painting, for tonight, at least.

But it doesn’t matter whether she comes back or not. That’s what I tell myself. She was a moment in time, a few words among millions, a few seconds amidst years. Her face is one of many; her body is one more thing I’ll want but never have.

I wake with a start, nerves jangling. Tense and sweating, I hold my breath.
Creak
. My stomach turns and I taste bile. Slowly, I sit up and push the sheet aside. I check my phone—3:00 a.m. I stumbled in an hour ago and fell right into bed. I was having a dream. A nightmare, really, the one I have every night. I relax a little and start to lie back.

Creak
. No. Not a nightmare. It’s him.
He’s here.
Did Katie let him in? Why the hell would she ever do that? My bare feet hit the floor and I’m up. I won’t let this happen again. I’ll kill him if I have to.

I’m in the hallway and prowling toward Katie’s bedroom when I catch myself.

What the fuck am I doing?

I force myself to a stop, bracing my hands on the dingy walls. I suck in a long, unsteady breath as my heart punches against my ribs. We’re safe here. It’s only Katie and me. I’m not a kid anymore, and neither is she.

Just in case, I creep to the door of her room and peek in. My sister’s breathing is slow and heavy. She shifts, turning over.
Creak
. It’s the springs of her bed. Nothing more. She’s alone. I pivot on my heel and lean back against the wall, listening to her sleep. She seems so peaceful, so calm. I wonder what her dreams are like. She won’t tell me. I’m the last person she would tell.

I rub away the tension in my chest and head into the bathroom, where I splash some cold water on my face. It all comes back so quickly, so easily. It’s been years, but it feels like it’s still happening sometimes. I don’t know how to make it stop. Everything I’ve ever tried has failed.

I dry my face and head to the living room. I’m wide awake now, so I fire up the ancient desktop I picked up secondhand when the university’s computer lab was doing an overhaul. It chugs for a while before letting me open a browser to check my email. And as soon as I see the message waiting for me, it’s like hitting the accelerator on my pulse.