Only Between Us (20 page)

So basically, Romy—whose last relationship was with a guy who hit her—has been hearing about how my sister thinks I’m doing the same kind of shit. “Fuck,” I mutter.

“I want to offer you access to therapeutic services if you need that support as you move on.”

As I move on? That ache in my chest returns, except now it feels like someone’s clawing at my insides. “I’m not really interested, but thanks for the offer,” I manage to say. “Can we go talk to Katie now?” I hold up the bag I brought with me. “I have some things for her.”

He smiles. “Of course. I’m sure she’ll be happy to wear some of her own clothes.”

He strides back toward the psychiatric unit, and I follow, all my questions from this morning answered, all my stupid hopes and what ifs blown to hell.

Chapter Nineteen: Romy

I finish writing my session note for Pamela’s file, and then read it over to make sure it’s complete. She’s getting ready to find her own place. She’s finally moving on. But she’s haunted by nightmares of what her boyfriend did to her, and she’s desperately afraid that he’s going to track her down. We did a lot of safety planning, and I hope it’s enough. I also hope she follows up with the referral I gave her. She needs to see someone who specializes in treating PTSD. She deserves to make a fresh start.

A fresh start. Is that even possible? We all begin with a white canvas, but once it’s got paint on it, you can’t undo that. You can try to cover it up, but it’s always there. Caleb’s face floats behind my closed eyelids, and I blink quickly and file the note away, wishing I could do the same with my memories of Caleb.

Leaving him this morning wasn’t easy. I’m not sure when I’ll see him again. I’m not sure what I should do. I called my former therapist and made an appointment, to give myself a space to sort it out. Am I drawn to Caleb because he’s damaged? Because he’s dangerous, even though I’ve seen no sign of that so far? Is he like Alex? Everything I heard from Jude made him sound that way, but every moment I’ve spent with Caleb tells me otherwise. But can I trust myself? Can I trust Caleb? And … is it fair to ask him for anything, considering what’s going on with him?

Whatever Jude thinks, it’s obvious Caleb loves his sister, and it’s also obvious that he’s fierce about taking care of her. I’m betting that locked cabinet in his kitchen contains her meds, along with anything sharp in that apartment, because nothing was left out. I checked the cutlery drawer and the other cabinets. Even though I could smell cleaning products, they were all locked away, too. He’s trying to keep his sister from hurting herself. I’m sure of it. From what I observed last night with Catherine in the hospital, he needs to do exactly that. She’s a danger to herself.

And Caleb thinks it’s his fault. He’s been carrying that burden for half his life. The depth of that trauma makes my own pathetic issues seem like a picnic in the park.

“I’m so glad I caught you!” says Justine, bustling into the office. “How’s Pamela?”

“Brave,” I murmur.

Justine smiles. “She really likes you. She told me she wishes she could keep you as her therapist.”

“She makes it easy. She’s so open about things.”

Justine pats my shoulder. “Not to everyone. You make her feel safe.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out two tickets, rectangular pieces of cardstock with some antique-like printing on them. “These are for the charity auction in November. I thought you might like to come.”

I take the tickets from her, smiling. “You’ll be there?”

“I wouldn’t miss it! I don’t get much chance to dress up. The Dexters are so nice to host it this year. You should see their house! It’s unbelievable. Right on the lake.” She’s practically shivering with excitement.

“Have you gotten a lot of donations for the auction?”

She shrugs. “Some of the local gallery owners have donated a piece here or there. We have some nice packages from the boutiques downtown, too. Like a spa weekend—that’s the one I would bid on if I had any money!”

I remember Caleb’s heart, pounding beneath my palm as I asked him if he’d donate a painting. It would be such an opportunity for him, but also a risk, and that was what scared him, I’m sure. “Have you asked some of the artists from the co-op?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know anyone there, but maybe—”

“I know some of them. I could ask.”

When Justine smiles, she is so lovely. Hers is exactly the kind of face I’d want to see if I needed help and reassurance. “That would be nice. Let me know what they say.” She slides a few flyers across her desk. “You could put these up, if you have time.”

“Sure thing.” I tuck them into my bag.

“So … will you be bringing anyone?” she asks, cutting me a sly look.

“What, to the auction?” Stupidly, I imagine going to something like that with Caleb, and then I return to reality. “Yeah, I might bring a friend.”

“A man friend?”

I laugh. “A man friend, yes. He’s got a special man friend of his own, so don’t get too excited.”

She tilts her head. “You’re such a lovely young woman. I find it hard to believe you don’t have anyone special.”

Once again, Caleb enters my mind, the way he said my name, the way he held me tight, wrapped himself around me, made me feel like he didn’t want to let go. “It’s hard …” I sigh. “It’s hard.”

She stares at me. “It is. Finding a good man, one who treats you like you deserve to be treated—it’s not like they’re falling from trees.” She sits on the edge of her desk. “After I escaped my first husband, I didn’t think such a man existed, but then I met Craig.”

“How did you know he was a good man?”

She gives me a puzzled look. “An abuser can’t hide what he is, not forever, not for long, even. Craig lets me be me—in fact, he
wants
me to be me—and he never tried to stop me from doing things that were important to me. He wanted to be part of my life but he didn’t want to run my life. That’s not how an abuser operates.”

“I know.” I
remember
.

The front bell rings, and Justine gets up. “I’ll see you Friday?”

I nod. “Thanks for the tickets.”

She goes out to check who’s here, and I pack up. My phone buzzes, and I suppress a pang of hope that it might be Caleb. It’s not—it’s a text from my mother.
Planning for Christmas party. Will you be joining us?

I text back.
Probably.

Will you be bringing anyone?

I text back.
Probably not.
My stomach tightens. I took Alex to my parents’ annual Christmas party last year. They loved him. My mother was hinting heavily that I needed a ring on my finger. He was exactly the kind of guy she wanted me to be with—a future lawyer, from a wealthy family like mine. Our dads even know each other professionally. I think one of them acquired some subsidiary of the other’s company. I can’t remember the details, but even before they discovered that fabulous connection, my dad treated Alex like the son he never had, taking him golfing before coming home and drinking brandy together before the party even started.

It took me three months to tell my mom that we’d broken up. I never told her why. It was too humiliating. My parents are already sort of horrified at my career choices, and I couldn’t bear to let them down once again. Unfortunately, the consequence is that my parents keep hassling me about whether Alex and I will get back together. Any moment, Mom is probably going to call me and start pushing the issue.

Sure enough, as I head out to my car, my phone rings, and I answer. “Mom, I’m not going to—”

“Romy, it’s Alex.”

My whole body turns cold, hard prickles of fear coursing over my skin. “How did you get this number?” I whisper.

He chuckles. “I have my ways. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I saw you at Sammy’s. You didn’t call, so I had to track you down.”

The way he says it makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise. “I don’t want to talk to you. I’m not going to talk to you.” I stare down at the sidewalk. Near the toe of my shoe, there’s a swarm of ants picking at the body of a beetle, taking it apart.

“You owe it to me, Romy. You never gave me a chance after that fight we had. I tried to give you space, but after seeing you again, I realized what a mistake that was. I still have feelings for you, and I’m not going to ignore that.”

My heart is beating so hard that it shakes my voice as I say, “I don’t have feelings for you. Don’t call me again.”

“Bullshit,” says Alex. “You and I have unfinished business, and you can’t run from that. We had something good, Romy. You know we did. Why are you acting like you don’t remember?”

Black spots bloom in my vision, and I realize I’m gasping. Hot tears sting my eyes. My hands tremble as I press the END button on my phone, hanging up on him. He has my phone number. He has my phone number.
I had to track you down
, he said.

A high-pitched, strangled sound comes from me, and I jog to my car, looking up and down the street, half-expecting Alex to step out of one of the hedges or something. I get into my car and pull out my phone again, intending to call Jude, but then I remember what he said to me last night—
you know how to pick ‘em
. He’s tired of dealing with my crap, and I don’t want to push this on him, not while he’s trying to handle Catherine’s case and everything that comes with it. I can’t bother him. Which means I have to deal with this alone.

 Raw panic is surging through my veins, and it takes a few tries to start my car because my hands are shaking so badly that I drop my keys. I need to calm down. I need to get a grip on myself. I need to get control again.

Before I realize where I’m going, I’m parking in front of the co-op. It’s nearly six. Open painting time. This is what I need, the chance to settle myself. Besides … I don’t want to go home.

I’m scared to go home.

I take my toolbox out of my trunk and tromp up the stairs into the co-op. But when I peek into the classroom, there’s a class going on. Daisy is at the front of the room, talking about drawing still lifes with oil pastels.

Which is when I realize it’s Thursday, not Wednesday. No open painting time. I slide down a locker and end up on the floor. My toolbox clangs as it lands next to me. I put my forehead on my knees and breathe, but the air is forcing its way from my lungs in bursts, and my ears are ringing. Why can’t I calm down?

“Romy?” asks a distant voice.

I ignore it. I’m trying to keep my stomach from turning inside out.

Someone touches my hand. “
Romy
.” I raise my head. It’s Caleb. He grazes the side of my face with the backs of his fingers, his gray eyes filled with worry. “What are you doing here?”

“I needed to … paint,” I say stupidly.

His brow furrows. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head. I can’t pretend I am.

“Do you want to come up to my studio? If you want to paint, I’ll make space for you.”

I nod. Words are beyond my reach at the moment. Caleb picks up my toolbox. He’s wearing his jacket. He must have just gotten here. Looking cautious, he offers his hand, and I slip mine into his grasp and let him pull me to my feet. He leads me up the stairs and into his studio at the end of the row. I’m too lost to notice if anyone else is there. He sets my toolbox down. “Do you want a canvas?” he asks. “I stretched a small one yesterday. You could use it.”

I blink up at him. “Thank you.”

He looks like he wants to say more, but instead he takes off his jacket and hangs it on a nail pounded into the metal partition separating his stall from the one next to it. He goes over to his set of canvases and pulls out a small, pristine white one. “It’s already primed. Where do you want to be?” He glances around with a lopsided smile. The space is ten by ten. It’s not like I have a lot of choices.

I sit on the floor at the edge of his dropcloth. “Here is fine,” I say, my voice barely there. I take the canvas and prop it against the partition.

“Do you—do you mind if I’m here, too? I wanted to work on something.”

I gape at him. “It’s your space. I’m a guest here.”

“I didn’t want to crowd you. I could go somewhere else—”

“Am I crowding
you
?” He’s being nice, but does he want to get away from me?

Caleb frowns and shakes his head. “I just wanted to make sure,” he murmurs, then pulls out a set of earbuds and plugs it into his phone. “I’ll let you work.” He puts the earbuds in his ears and starts to do his own thing. I try not to stare as he sets up his palette and shifts his focus to his canvas. He’s working on the dark, raw painting, the one that drew me in the night I met him.

I turn back to my own canvas and open my toolbox. As if he’s sensing my needs, Caleb sets an empty palette next to me before returning to his own work. I add Prussian blue, cadmium yellow, alizarin crimson, ivory black, and titanium white. I take out a small filbert brush. Somehow, I need this, need to pour out the panic inside me and make it real on my canvas.

With a pencil, I sketch the curb where I was standing when Alex called. The cracks in the sidewalk, the cluster of ants gathered around a dead beetle, the toes of my shoes. I use mineral spirits to thin the crimson and do a wash of it over my canvas. Bleeding. I feel like I’m bleeding. I feel like that beetle, being eaten up. Like there’s nowhere safe, not even inside my own head. I work until my shoulders ache, until my fingers are stained, until I am that beetle, ants crawling up under the hard plates of my exoskeleton, carving out my insides to take away and share with each other. I remember every detail, like everything my eyes landed on while Alex was talking is branded into my brain.

Which means that all I hear as I work is his voice in my head.
I had to track you down. You and I have unfinished business.
The more real my painting becomes, taking on shape and color as the hours pass, the more real his voice becomes. I close my eyes and feel tears streak down my cheeks. I thought I’d escaped from him.
Weak.

A movement at my periphery makes me flinch, and I turn to see Caleb sitting behind me. Watching me. “How long have you been sitting there?” I ask.