The Art of My Life (27 page)

Aly’s text ricocheted around Cal’s
body, his sleep-furred mind. She was here in West Palm Beach. She
wanted to see him. To talk him into coming home, no doubt. No way
was he going back to jail. He wouldn’t answer. He checked the time.
Noon. He’d been asleep nine hours.

In his mind he saw Aly driving up and
down the coast until she spotted the
Escape
.

He should set course for Grand Bahama
and take off. Not even Aly could make him change his
mind.

But the ache to see her one last time
intensified as sleep sloughed off. She deserved a goodbye. He
squinted at the shoreline looking for Aly’s car.

His text alert chimed.
Please, Cal.
I know you’re here. Somewhere. Just talk to me. I love
you.

Her words knocked the air from his
lungs. Even knowing he was running, she loved him. Even after jail.
Sinking the business. Wasting sixty-two grand of her
money.

Twenty minutes later he rowed for
shore where Aly would meet him, his heart lay like ballast in his
chest. He glanced over his shoulder. There she was, standing on the
beach. He devoured her with his eyes, the last time he’d see her.
Ever.

The dinghy slid across the sand to a
stop.

Smoky gray skin underlined her
bloodshot eyes. “What’s going on?”

He stared at the sole of the dinghy
where the paint chipped off and exposed bare wood. His shoulders
slumped.

He could feel her gaze beating down on
him.

He gave a dry laugh. “Isn’t it
obvious? I’m running.” The words were monotone. He didn’t look up
to see her reaction, didn’t want to see his mother’s disappointment
in her eyes.

“
Don’t.”

His head came up. “I’m not going back
to jail.” He dared her to argue.

“
How will you
live?”

He shrugged. “I’ll eat fish. Lie low.
Disappear in the Bahamas.”

The color drained from Aly’s face, and
she reached out to steady herself on the edge of the
boat.

“
Maybe they’d revoke my
plea bargain, reinstate the felony. I could be sent up for five
years. I’m not taking that chance.”

Aly sunk to the sand as though she
couldn’t support herself any longer.

He’d been a coward not to tell her to
her face to begin with. And now he couldn’t stand to watch her
reaction. “What do you want me to do?”

“
Turn yourself
in.”

“
No.”

“
They will go easy on you
if you do the right thing.”

Cal stepped out of the boat to push it
back into the water. “Believe that, and I’ll tell you another
fairytale.”

Aly winced. “I’ll worry myself
crazy.”

“
Nothing is going to
happen to me.”

Aly went up on her knees and clutched
the edge of the dinghy. “Liar. You’ll be living under the law, Cal.
Not safe. Do you think I’m that naïve?”

“
There’s no choice to
make. I’m not going back in there where they choose the color of
your underwear, every day is like the last—TV, shitty food,
everyone is existing, not really living, caged like
animals.”

“
But when you get out,
you’re free to do anything you want.”

“
Try getting a job with a
record.”

“
And hiding from the law
for the rest of your life is better?” Aly grabbed the rim of the
dinghy and stood. She closed the few feet between them. “Do this
one thing for me. I’ll never ask you to do anything
again.”

The pleading in her voice and the ache
in her eyes contracted his chest. “You’re asking for five years of
my life.”

Her hazel eyes—more brown than green
in full sun—burned into his. “Yes, I am.” Her hand gripped his arm
as though she’d never let go. Her eyes widened, and her fingertips
dug into his arm. “You said you loved me when we were locked in the
head.”

He stared into her eyes.

“
Prove it.”

“
You’re not the one who
would have to rot in jail.”

“
If you run, I’ll rot the
rest of my life—never knowing if you’ve been swallowed by the drug
culture. If you’re dead or alive—”

“
I’ll send you birthday
cards.”

She flung his arm down, and he could
see the white imprint of where her fingers had clamped down on his
skin. “Gee, thanks.” She spit disgust out with the words. “Even if
you live, you’re killing your art future. Art is all about making a
name for yourself. You know you can’t exist without producing art.
How are you going to paint on the boat? And what’s the point of
spending the rest of your life painting if no one will ever see
your work?”

He glared back, not wanting her to
know she was getting to him.

“
And I thought the
Escape
was half mine. Is it half mine only if you don’t need
it as a getaway vehicle?”

She was mad and fighting dirty now.
He’d never seen her go to the wall against him for anything. And
what she was doing to his gut wasn’t pretty. He gritted his teeth,
waiting for her to wind down.

He should just leave now.

Aly sucked in a breath, then another,
calming herself.

He couldn’t leave. He wanted to hear
everything she had to say.

“
When Vic pointed that
sawed-off shotgun at me, you stepped between me and him. You would
have taken a bullet for me.”

“
I’d do it
again.”

“
Five years in jail is
less a sacrifice than death.” She clutched his bicep. “You know
what the worst thing about your running would be?”

“
What?”

Tears sprang to her eyes. “I’d never
see you again.”

Whether he ran or went to jail, he
doubted he’d end up with Aly. But something clicked inside him. She
loved him. She really loved him—like she’d said on the boat. Like
she’d said two and a half years ago in Cody’s garage. It was true.
“Fine. I’ll do it.” He yanked his arm out of her grasp, angry that
she’d won.

Pictures of sun and fish and sailing
swept out of his mind. In rushed a grainy visitation video of
windows with bars, the stink of bleach, Maalox green walls, the
social order that laid every man out on a grid according to race
and attitude.

“
I’m coming with
you.”

“
To prison?” He spit the
words out.

“
To turn yourself
in.”

“
You don’t trust me to do
what I say?”

“
So you don’t have to do
it alone.”

He pushed the boat into the
water.

She shot questions at him with her
eyes.

“
I’ll do it
tomorrow.”

He saw the doubt run across her
features, but he was too spent to fight her. “Get in.”

Morning sun warmed Aly’s eyelids, and
for a hazy moment she was at peace. Then, water lapped against the
hull. The boat rocked. Yesterday’s events sloshed in her stomach
with last night’s canned chili. She was in West Palm Beach, not at
the marina in New Smyrna.

Cal had barely spoken a word to her
since she stood on the beach. He was angry, cold. But it didn’t
matter. He would be safer in jail than on the run. She’d never
wanted anything so badly in her life. Even if Cal never spoke to
her again, it would be worth it to know he was safe. That he had a
future.

She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes,
filled her lungs with cold morning air, and dropped her legs over
the side of the fore bunk.

She had lain in her bunk with terror’s
adrenaline pin-balling through her body for what felt like
hours—wondering if Cal would actually go through with it. When
she’d asked him if he was suicidal, he’d barked out a harsh laugh
and said he wished he had the balls to do it. Finally, Van Gogh
whined to share the narrow bunk and exhaustion claimed
her.

She looked around for the dog. How had
he gotten out of bed without waking her? In the head she splashed
cold water on the dregs of sleep and used the toothbrush she kept
in the cupboard.

In minutes she’d find out whether Cal
would send her home alone. Whether he was dead.

She reached for her brush from her
purse on the table in the dining nook. She stared at the empty
metal circle on one end where she’d clipped her car keys last
night. A blade of panic whispered through her.