The Art of My Life (32 page)

Cal unlocked the hatch.

Van Gogh gave three short
barks.

“
Shh, Van Gogh, it’s just
me.”

The dog silenced and thumped his tail
against the galley cupboards, nearly as loud as his
barking.

Cal flipped on the light and came down
the ladder to his dog’s frenzied adoration. He squatted and
scratched Van Gogh’s coat. “You smell good. Somebody gave you a
bath.” The dog flipped onto his back to have his stomach
rubbed.

Cal looked up and froze.

Aly held onto the fore bulkhead
half-asleep. Her hair was mussed. An orange and blue Florida Gators
jersey hung almost to her knees.

Before conscious thought, he crossed
the cabin and wrapped her in his arms. “Oh, God, Aly, I’ve missed
you so much.” All his resolutions to wait until he’d proven himself
were crushed between her softness and his ribs. He inhaled her
forest and mint scent, pressed his lips to her hair, held on while
his brain catalogued on autopilot exactly what items of clothing
she wore.

Her silence registered and the fact
that she wasn’t hugging him back.

He released her.

Aly folded her arms, shielding her
breasts. “Where were you?” The words sounded like she was a little
miffed as if he were a half-hour late for dinner.

He dropped into the dining nook. “I
applied for jobs all afternoon, dinner with the family, Narcotics
Anonymous, talked Stoney into re-hiring me this evening. I’m going
to prove to you that I’ve changed.”

Aly stared at him. “Where are you
staying?”

“
Here?”

Some emotion he couldn’t read flitted
through her eyes.

An oversized conch shell splashed into
the bottom of his stomach. “I can stay at my folks’, no
problem.”

“
You’re not staying at
Henna’s?”

He shuddered. “I can’t face Henna’s
yet.”

Aly sighed. “You can stay
here.”

Did she think he played on her
sympathies to get a yes? “I’ll keep out of your way.”

She looked up sharply. “Good night,
Cal.” She turned away and crossed the few steps to her
bunk.

His eyes riveted to her legs and bare
feet as she climbed into bed. An ache caught in his chest.
“Aly—”

“
Hmm.”

“
Thanks.”

He’d propose in October—six months out
of jail, ten months sober. They’d get married in December when he’d
been sober a year.

He couldn’t imagine what
yes
would feel like.

Or,
no
.

Fish moved down the row of his family,
receiving their hugs as though he were moving down a wedding
receiving line—except he savored each one. His family had only
arrived three days ago, and it still felt like a dream having them
here for his graduation.

Chelsea rattled off her
congratulations in Spanish. Tan and dark-haired, she almost looked
Peruvian at twenty-three.

He feigned irritation. “Quit showing
off. I could have learned Spanish, the easy way, too, you
know.”

She laughed and called him one of the
bad words she’d been teaching him. He couldn’t remember if it was
generic bad or really bad.

He spotted Missy receiving hugs from
the Koomers outside the field house. Cal knocked her graduation cap
askew. She grinned at her brother.

Fish moved toward them, against the
crowd exiting the complex. He could guess what Cal was feeling. His
kid sister trophying a diploma, his best friend, ditto. Cal with
nothing.

Cal held out his palm.
“Congratulations.”

Fish grasped Cal’s thick hand. The
physical contact felt good. “Thanks.”

Cal opened his mouth as though he were
going to say something, then closed it.

Fish let go, stepping away from the
whirlpool of emotion Cal stirred.

Cal smiled wistfully. “Someday it will
be, ‘Congratulations, Senator Fisher.’ ”

Why did Cal have to bring up his
political ambition now—a reminder that Cal had woken and nearly
killed Fish’s prospects a year ago. But strangely, the anger that
usually came with the memory was absent.

Cal had no such hopes for his own
life.

Fish swallowed, but the lump stayed in
his throat. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about legal aid
recently.” Even more so since he studied for Cal’s
defense.

Aly walked around a planter and hugged
him. “Happy graduation, Fish.”

“
Thanks.” He turned to
Missy, going in for the hug.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw
Chas, fighting the crowd toward them.

Fish’s lips landed on Missy’s for a
quarter of a second. He grinned into her surprised eyes. “We made
it.”

He’d managed to stay away from Missy
for the last two months since Henna’s funeral, but like an
alcoholic, one taste and he had to have more. “Go for a drink
later?”

Aly shot him a thumb’s up from behind
Missy’s back.

Missy barked a laugh. “That’s not
happening.”

She might as well have thrown a hard
right into his gut. “Why not?”

“
I don’t turn twenty-one
for another six weeks.”

“
You’re still a baby.” The
words were out before he could stop them, a knee-jerk reaction to
her jab.

Mirth vacuumed from Missy’s
eyes.

Starr herded them into the throng of
people. “Cake and ice cream at the house.”

A half-hour later Jackson pushed his
plate away and speared him with his eyes. “So, what’s your
five-year plan, Fish?”

His folks, sitting across the table,
cocked their heads in Fish’s direction.

Jackson could be making conversation,
but he couldn’t help thinking Jackson quizzed him because he’d seen
him kiss his daughter. The message came through loud and clear,
Don’t trifle with Missy if you’re not serious.

“
Law school, maybe an
internship, decide whether to pursue politics or legal aid. Go for
it.”

He didn’t like the way Jackson’s eyes
narrowed, as though he were considering how Missy would fit into
his life. Something he hadn’t been willing to do
himself.

Fish shoved his chair back. He’d had
enough of this conversation. “Thanks for the cake and ice
cream.”

He grinned at his family, glad they
hadn’t bought their return tickets yet. Catch you all tomorrow
afternoon. I’ve got an early cruise tomorrow.”

The congratulations ran off his back.
He listened for Missy’s voice, but didn’t hear it. As far as he
knew, she was still combing Facebook for marriage prospects. He’d
given up his right for it to piss him off, but it did.

When he wasn’t looking, Missy had
become the screen saver under his life. Maybe she always had
been.

His mind snaked back through all the
time he’d spent with Missy in the past year. They’d never even gone
on an official date. How could he when Missy practically demanded a
guy have wedding vows memorized before she’d say yes.

All her talk about dating Facebook
guys, wanting sex, her smoking hot kisses…. She couldn’t have
cinched him in any tighter if she’d launched an all-out campaign to
bag him. But he knew, he knew, he knew Missy hadn’t plotted for
him. She lived her life, went after what she wanted, tried to do
things right.

The hangup was his. He fought the “M”
word as though it were a life sentence to the libertarian party.
Cal could probably tell him why in five seconds. He knew Fish
better than he knew himself.

And maybe Cal needed his help to
square things with Aly.

Maybe Cal could tell him why forgiving
was so damn hard.

Cal wanted to go paint in the
apartment in Mom’s dance studio where he’d been painting for the
past month since he’d gotten out of jail. But Fish’s folks were
sleeping in there for the foreseeable future, his siblings spilling
out into the studio on sleeping bags and cots.

He was too tired, too beaten down,
after celebrating Missy and Fish’s graduation to set up at
Henna’s.

The whole evening had been torture,
seeing Aly dressed up in a swishy teal skirt with a wide onyx belt.
He felt outclassed in a polo and shorts, flip-flops, minus a
college degree. She looked so beautiful. Between the Fishers and
his family, there’d been no chance to tell Aly.

He missed her. His schedule—morning
stocking shelves at Winn Dixie, afternoons and early evenings doing
tats at Stoney’s Ink Slab, Narcotics Anonymous, painting till he
dropped—didn’t leave much room for seeing Aly. At least he was
physically close to her part of each day; albeit when she was
asleep. And he didn’t want to force her to make a decision about
him before he had five more months of sobriety—ten total—and
employment under his belt. If she had to decide now whether he was
a good risk, he didn’t know what the answer would be.

He yawned. A light glowed from inside
Fish’s boat. If he had to beat forgiveness out of Fish, he would.
But not tonight.

He soft-shoed across the
Escape
’s deck out of habit so he wouldn’t wake Aly. Even Van
Gogh had quit barking when he came in at night. It was only ten,
but Aly had left his parents’ house over an hour ago. He eased the
hatch open.

A light glowed over the sink, the one
Aly always left burning for him. The air conditioner hummed. Too
tired to look to see if Aly was in her bunk, he pushed open the
master suite door and halted.

Aly sat on his bed, feet tucked under
her, bathed in lamplight.

He shook his head, wondering if he’d
dreamed her here. Then, his eyes roamed over too much leg, the
fortunate view down the sleeveless bone top she’d worn to
graduation.

“
You look
beautiful.”

Aly startled and met his eyes. She
scooted to the edge of the bunk and tugged her skirt into place.
“I—I found the sketchpads when I washed your clothes the day before
you got out of jail.”

His gaze dropped to the notebooks he
hadn’t noticed strewn over his rumpled quilt. “You washed my
clothes, too?” He felt knocked off balance.

He gathered the pads, flipping the
covers down over Aly in the back of the dinghy the day she talked
him into turning himself in; Aly when he woke her up the night he
got out of jail, Aly, tangled in her sheets as she slept one night
last week. Embarrassment pricked the back of his neck. He crammed
them into the bin she’d taken them from.

Aly stood, arms folded. “What am I
some kind of muse like Andrew Wyeth’s Helga?” She looked pensive,
unsure.

He reached out and closed his hand
around her bare arm, needing to feel connected to her before the
words tumbled out he couldn’t hold in.

She didn’t move away. Her eyes peered
into him.

“
I draw you because I love
you. It’s a way to feel close to you.” He broke eye contact, too
spent to face a negative reaction.

“
I love” –she hesitated,
and his head jerked up— “the drawings. I got them out because I
needed to believe you still cared about me. We’ve been so
distant….”

“
I didn’t want to crowd
you while I’m proving that I’ve changed.”

Hurt flashed through her eyes. “Where
do you go every night? Where do you sleep when you don’t sleep
here?”

“
I thought you knew. I’ve
been painting on those commissions you got me every night after
Narcotics Anonymous—in the room off Mom’s studio. I fell asleep
there a couple of times when I was too tired to drive
home.”

Her shoulders relaxed, and her
expression cleared.

His arms circled her loosely, giving
her the option to step away. “I’m going to ask you to marry me—but
I don’t want you to answer now—it’s too soon.”

Aly’s eyes widened in surprise. “We’ve
never talked about marriage.”

“
Where else could this go,
Al? You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.” He leaned in to kiss
her, watching her eyes dilate with emotion.

Her breath shortened. Then she eased
out of his grasp. “You’re different, Cal.”

He gave her a wry smile. “In a good
way or a bad way?”

“
A good way. But you’re
right. I need more time.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, not
sure whether or not that went well.

Aly turned to go. She looked back at
him. “Why did you go to Evie and not me when you wanted comfort
after Raine dumped you?”

So, that still bothered Aly. Cal
nudged her chin up with two fingers. “Because I’d just been fired
and dumped by Raine. I was messed up. Angry. I didn’t want to
inflict that on you. You had your own drama going on.” He sighed.
“I know it’s jacked, but in my screwed-up way, I was protecting
you.”

“
And were you protecting
me after you showed me your tattoo?”

He sucked up the courage to say the
words he didn’t want to say. “Not so much. I got a reminder text
from my probation officer about a meeting I knew I couldn’t
keep.”

Aly stared at him, her eyes dissecting
the part of him he least wanted her to see. “Good night.” She
exited the cabin and closed the door softly behind her.

He clenched his fists, everything in
him wanted to give in to despair, to believe he’d never earn back
Aly’s good opinion. He wanted to smoke, and make the feeling of
loss go away. But Aly said he gave up too easily. And she was
right.

He’d given up every time she’d gotten
a new boyfriend. He’d given up whenever the charter business took a
bad turn. He’d given up and run. He’d given up when Aly didn’t
visit him in jail.

Five months and six days sober, and if
Justin, his Narcotics Anonymous sponsor, hadn’t watched him delete
all his drug connections from his phone, he’d score weed in thirty
seconds. Now it would probably take fifteen minutes. Instead, he
punched in Justin’s speed dial number.