Chapter summary: Don't you want to be real to someone?
Acknowledgements: Thank you times 23 to Sunflower Fran and Capricorn75, who pre-read for me; and to Twilly and Winterhorses for the powerhouse word challenge sessions.
BelleBiter is my beta and sounding board, and so much more. This story wouldn't be what it is without her.
It really wouldn't.
A/N: I might've had a screwdriver or two while writing this one.
I drop my brush into a jar of turpentine and stumble back to stare at what I've painted.
Something entirely alien.
For the first time, what I've created is not anything specific - there is nothing resembling a human on the canvas, no setting moon between the leaves of a palm tree, no definable subject that makes any sense. It's just… an amalgamation of colors and shapes and movement that came out as a ricochet medley at the time.
I've painted a feeling, and that's something I've never done before.
My mouth quivers as I stare at the wild swirls of paint movement, the concentration of blue, gold and rose, intersected by sharp, jagged edges of silver that scratch wildly at the colors. It's unbridled energy, an inherent aversion to normality, a live heartbeat on the page.
It's Mom.
It's everything she made me feel, what I saw in her smile, her sheer delight in life… and then her rapid decline, as the light seemed to leave her eyes; a liquid splash of color once so dense and bright, softly dissipating into muted shades from the vibrant center.
It hurts to see it. To see her. And it's terrifying, because I almost shouldn't have this power to lay a person so bare for just anyone to see, should I? It's not right. If someone painted me like this, I would feel exposed, looking at myself turned from the inside out.
Suddenly, the notes and beats of the song playing on my iPod take over in my mind. Each sound of the piano key is a shooting star into the percussion of a small flower blast of black-tinged red, which grows bigger and emits sparks against a mirrored wall as the two sounds eventually converge.
I yank the phone out of the stereo dock, knocking over my water bottle onto an open book of illustrations, and then my hands are cradling my head. The visual onslaught of color and shapes is making me almost nauseated. I don't know how I even made it this far through the painting, or why.
The clock shows it's past two in the morning, which means I've been painting since dusk. I skipped dinner, so maybe that's why I feel sick, why my head feels like it's two sizes too big.
I'm used to losing big chunks of time when I paint, but nothing like the crazy images I saw over the past few hours has ever ripped through my mind before. I've never felt the urgency to create what just had to come out. Or like my brush strokes weren't close enough, or fast enough… my fingers flying up to the canvas to feel, to blend and shape. To try to capture whatever it was before it was gone forever.
Now I feel like my body has been used and discarded – possessed without being asked – by an unrestrained spirit. My feet are bare, and move across the hard wood slowly. I need to shower, or at least wash my hands. But I need to sleep more.
Me and my dirty hands fall onto my bed with a groan, and then I'm out.
. . .
"Bella! Bella!"
The sound of Alice's voice knocks me right off of a Cool Whip heavenly cloud into earthly reality. It's bright when my eyes open, and for a moment, I see stars circling my friend's dark head.
"What?" I croak.
"I just got back from New York, and I want to celebrate. Get up," she says, and flips the covers off of me.
I groan. "What time is it?"
"It's almost eleven, lazy bones."
She's practically vibrating with energy and vitality.
I pull the pillow over my head, but it's ripped off just as quickly.
"You are a genius," she says.
This is news. I squint up at her in confusion. "I am?"
"As if you don't know," she scoffs. "The painting? That spectacularly gorgeous explosion of color in your studio? It's amazing, Bella. It's like an Alexander McQueen design on canvas."
"You saw it? Alice, you know you're not supposed to go in there without me," I gripe, as I throw my legs over the side of the bed.
She crosses her arms and gives me a bitch brow. "You left the door open. And the lights on. I stuck my head in to turn them off, and that painting was right there. It sucked the breath out of me."
I slump. She wasn't snooping, then. Besides, I know Alice well enough to know she'd never touch anything. But it still makes me feel scared and vulnerable that she was in that room without me.
"It sucked the breath out of me, too," I say with a sigh. "I almost got sick to my stomach after I finished it."
She uncrosses her arms and sits on the bed beside me. "What do you mean, you almost got sick? Did you forget to eat again?"
"No. I mean, yes. No, it was just after dark when I started. And… there were these images and colors inside my head. They kept moving and changing and charging at me point-blank, and I think they stretched out my brain or something."
"Maybe you got a migraine?"
I shake my head. "No, my head just felt awfully full. And… different, afterwards."
She rubs my back. "Well, whatever it was that stretched out your head, it's wonderful. That work is… I don't even have the words, because I'm not an art critic. But I've never seen anything quite like that before; it's a rarity, and that's what can hook a buyer."
I'm ten shades of skeptical. She's always loved my work and praised me. That's probably all she's doing this time, too. "Do you really think so?"
"I know so. Stop doubting me. I really did mean it when I said that painting knocked the breath out of me. I was stunned into silence – me – for a good two minutes. You need to do another one like it – maybe this time with a nod to a classic rebel like Coco Chanel… or Yves St. Laurent?"
Then she stands, yanking me up with her. "You need an agent!"
"I need to take a shower," I say, and back away.
"Fine. I'll make us some sandwiches for lunch."
I take my time in the shower, letting the warm water pour over my head and shoulders. It's wonderful, and I can feel my body loosening and relaxing. My head gets closer to normal inside again, and the sound of the water is lulling and soothing.
I wonder what E is doing, if he's thinking about me, and the kiss he promised me. What if, at this very moment, he was showering, too? The thought brings my hands up to my breasts, and I pretend they're his. My back arches as I picture his face, his eyes at half-mast and dark with want. I'm aching deep inside now, and it almost hurts.
Damn, I want so much more from him than just a kiss.
His hands – I want them everywhere. His fingers – I want them right there. I rest my foot on the corner of the tub. Soon, I'm itching and swollen and panting, chasing the feeling down. It's been so long, and I need this more than anything. It's deep in my stomach, and it's hot, and my fingers are sliding against silky wetness, so easily, so fast, and I'm almost there.
Just a little harder, E.
And I imagine his long fingers pressing deeper, and harder, and I shatter. It's so strong that my knees almost buckle, and I have to clench my teeth to keep from groaning. Then, still shaking, I rest my shoulder against the shower tile and catch my breath.
Wow. I feel better now.
But then - almost immediately - I feel kind of empty, because it wasn't E's fingers that just gave me an orgasm.
And I wish it had been.
I towel off and stare at the condensation-covered mirror. I touch the tip of my finger to the glass and draw a labyrinth, until the whole mirror is one big unending line. I see glimpses of my face in the broken lines that are starting to run, and snarl at the mirror. A bright mosaic of a girl snarls back at me, mysterious, peeking out between the cracks.
I should paint that.
Alice is setting plates on the table as I walk into the dining room. She's not much into cooking, but it looks like she's put together a killer sub with whatever she's found in the fridge, and my stomach growls in anticipation.
"I heard that," she says.
"Great," I retort. "That means there's nothing wrong with your hearing."
But I can't stop the moan I make when I take my first bite. It's thick-sliced, smoked deli ham with sharp cheddar cheese on French bread, tangy with mustard and crunchy with fresh lettuce.
"I'm worried about you," she says.
"Wha?"
"You haven't been yourself lately. You're either moping silently around the place, or painting obsessively like you've just taken a hit of crack."
"Like you'd know," I say, after I swallow my bite. "Neither of us have ever done crack in our lives."
She glowers at me. "You're deflecting."
I'm chewing again. I took an extra big bite because I need time to think; I don't know how to answer her question. I'm up, or I'm down. I'm off, or I'm on. But I've learned that I can keep going long after I thought I couldn't. So… I'm just trying to do that, until I can figure out why I have the feeling that I've lost something.
I know it has to do with E. And it's not just because I like him more than I should; there's more there. Something in his eyes, in the way he's suddenly more touchy-feely with me, yet still unattainable. But at the same time, he seems so familiar to me… like a memory I need to feel comfortable about again.
It feels as if I'm always on the edge of a déjà vu moment lately, and it's maddening.
"I know I've been gone a lot lately, and I'm sorry," she begins, but I hold my hand up.
"Alice, no. It's not your job to look after my wellbeing. You have a life, and I'm thrill-"
"Is that it?" she butts in. "You don't feel like you have a life?"
I put my sandwich down. "No, that's not it."
That's part of it.
"I just… I feel like I'm in some sort of limbo, okay? I really don't like my job, but I can't support myself doing what I love." I sigh and shrug. "And then there's E, and how he makes me feel."
She perks up.
"Like I'm on a see-saw," I clarify.
"Are you falling in love with him?" she asks gently.
Her question sends a zing of fear right into my stomach. I drop my gaze to my plate, and idly note how the colors of the chips pop against the green pickle.
And I can't talk because my mouth has gone dry.
"You are," she whispers.
I don't really even know him. How can I be falling in love with him?
"When am I going to get to meet this guy?" Alice asks.
I jab at one of the chips and it crunches into pieces.
"Want to go for a walk after we eat?"
She levels a look at me, but her face is contorting as she chews, so it looks odd. "We're going to find this guy while walking?"
"We're going to walk over to his place," I say and take a bite of the pickle. "And yes, you're going to meet him."
No more hiding, E.
She squeals and damn near chokes on the food in her mouth.
Alice finishes in record time, but I seem to have lost my appetite, so I wrap the rest of my sandwich up for later.
As we walk across to Dell Avenue and then up to Court E, I'm nervous about just showing up at E's place unannounced, yet filled with resolve that I'm going to do it anyway.
E lives on Court E, I think. How appropriate.
Alice is aghast. "So he's been right here all along?"
"Seems like," I say.
But he didn't want to tell me where he lived.
"And you've known this?"
"No," I say with a sigh. "But I did mention to him that you're looking for him and the rest of his group."
"And?"
"And I'm sorry, Alice, but he was pretty clear that the performance was a one-time-only thing."
"Nope," she says, and she's adamant. "Not if I have anything to say about it."
I duck my head and smile.
Because she'll find out.
There's a lady under a straw hat tending to the house's front garden when we arrive. She's on her knees, with a tray full of new flowers on the ground beside her, when she notices us coming up the walk.
"Can I help you?" she asks.
"Hi," I say. "I'm Bella and this is Alice. We're here to see E."
She stands and wipes the palms of her hands against the gardening apron she's wearing, and her brow is furrowed.
"E?"
"Your tall, gorgeous, copper-haired tenant," I say, and gesture towards the right, where E lives.
"I don't have a tenant," she says. "You sure you have the right house, hon?"
I glance away from her confused face to take a second look at the swing on the porch. The same welcome wreath is hanging on the door.
"Yes, this is the right house," I say slowly. "We were just here this past Thursday."
Three days ago.
But she's shaking her head at me. "I just got back from Washington yesterday. I wasn't home on Thursday."
And I'm reeling. Surely I've misheard her.
"Wait. You were here this Thursday?" she asks me. "At my house?"
"Y-You don't have a spare room off the side there?" I stammer.
"I do, but it's not habitable." And now she's frowning at me, looking at me with suspicious eyes. "How do you know that?"
Alice's fingers wrap around my forearm as I step backwards, crushing her toes.
"He… he showed me this past Thursday," I say thinly, as my eyes dart around at her porch, at the garden, at the pavers we followed to the room where E said he lived.
Just three days ago.
The woman turns and starts walking down the pavers. Confused, I watch her go, then I follow her, and Alice follows me.
And I'm walking like this is all just another dream I'll wake up from.
The woman is wearing khaki shorts that hit at the back of her knee, and sneakers that used to be white, but are now gray. She doesn't have socks on.
How can you wear sneakers without socks?
When we come to the side door with its dead potted plant, she produces a jangling key ring from her apron pocket. It takes her a little while to find the right one; I'm ready to scream by the time she tries it a third time.
"No one's been in here for months," she tells us as she pushes against the door.
It sticks. Apparently the painted wood door has expanded, and it won't budge against her weight.
"Can I try? Please?"
Because I have to see.
She gives me a long look, torn between suspicion and concern, then she steps aside. And my hand and shoulder are against the door, and I'm pushing and shoving, then backing up to throw my weight against it.
It cracks open with a loud squeak, and I stumble just inside the room.
The musty scent of dust and disuse hits my nose, but I hardly notice it as my eyes take in an assortment of cardboard boxes, old pieces of wood, and a rusty, wrought iron room divider propped up against it all.
"My husband keeps meaning to clean out this room, but he hasn't gotten to it yet," the woman says. Her voice sounds far away and tinny.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, but I say it only to myself.
This has to be a mistake.
"You see, hon? Nobody here. You must've been next door. Vera has a back room that she occasionally rents out. You might check with her."
I turn with a jerk and see the house next door. It's a red and black ranch-style.
He didn't take me there. He brought me here.
It doesn't make sense.
But I have to nod. Pretend that I just got confused. And somehow get out of here.
The woman is looking at me like I'm one pancake short of a stack.
And honestly, I feel that way.
I'm all inside out; my bright curves are turning into hard edges, shattering like glass, leaving behind shards sharp enough to cut.
"I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding," I say, and then I'm turning and tripping on my own feet in my haste to get away.
Because I know it's not merely some mistake.
I head back over to the sidewalk behind the row of houses where we live, and I'm running full out down Carroll Canal Walk where I first saw E jogging that morning.
That beautiful liar.
"Bella!" Alice is somewhere behind me.
But my anger and confusion gives me all this energy, and I have to run and run, or I'll scream.
"Just let me go," I cry. "I'll explain later."
If I can.
He lied to me.
He lies to me again and again.
But why?
It doesn't matter.
You can't trust a liar.
Get out now while you still can.
I run until I can't anymore, until another step would bring me to my knees. I've gone a circuit inside the canal, and I'm on the opposite side from home. Tears of exertion fill my eyes as I bend at the waist with my hands on my thighs, panting.
A pair of black Nikes enter my field of vision, and I straighten with a gasp.
It's E.
He's beautiful, striking as ever, his hair a fiery halo.
Face of an angel, soul of a deceiver.
His eyes are soft, hesitant. "Bella?"
"You just love making a fool out of me, don't you?" I bite out unsteadily.
I can't look at him. He makes me want to cry. Plus, I feel the worst urge to hit him.
How could he do this to me?
"You're no one's fool," he says softly, and takes another step near me.
I straighten with a hiss. "Right. That's why you lie about your name, what you do for a living, and where you live," I grit.
His eyes flash with anger and regret. "There's a reason why I can't tell you the truth," he says.
"Well, you can just keep your truth, then. This is the end of it. Your lies make me sick. I've had enough of them. Stay away from me."
And I turn to leave, but he grabs my arm.
I ball my hands into fists and swing the free one at his chest.
"Let me go. You don't care about me, you've made that clear. Let go!"
But he captures my swinging hand, and then he jerks me against him. His other hand raises to my head, cupping my face and chin.
"You don't know anything," he growls, and I swear his eyes turn violet before his mouth is against mine, sweet, insistent, probing. The sting of surprise and anger is still running through my blood, but this is what I've wanted for so long that it hurts to get it now. I feel myself sob, and I'm crying and moving my mouth against his desperately, and he seems just as hungry as I am. He moves his arms tight around my upper body, and he's solid and real.
"Bella," he breathes. "You don't know."
Stiffening, I bring my arms up between us, my palms against his chest, and push him away.
"Stop it! You can't just kiss me like that, not when the only things I do know about you are lies!"
There are tears on his cheeks, too, and he gazes at me openly, unashamed of his emotions. It takes me by surprise. He won't even tell me his real name, so how can he look at me that way?
"You know more about me than anyone else ever has," he says.
I scoff. "That's not real much," I say. "Every time I think you're leveling with me, I find out that it's another lie. How can you even live that way? Don't you ever want to be real to someone?"
He captures my wrists in gentle hands, even though I try to pull away.
"You," he whispers, and his tone is one of pain. "I want to be real to you."
But I'm shaking my head at him. "You're not, though. You're not. You can't be. So I want you to leave me alone. We have no future together, and I can't – won't – keep doing this with you."
His fingers tighten around my wrists, and I have to look away from his anguished expression.
"I help you," he says, and I hear the desperation in his voice. It matches the ache in my soul.
"You break my heart," I say, and the words come out all jerkily because my breath is coming in uneven pants. "I can't let you do it anymore."
I pull my arms free, and he stands there with his hands still raised and grasping at air.
I take a step back from him, then two more. He watches me with disbelief in his eyes, and his breathing is as uneven as mine.
It almost looks like his heart is breaking, too.
"You don't have a choice," he says. "You can't hide from me. No one can."
I swallow past the knife of pain in my throat. "Well, I may not know who you really are, but I know you're not God. And you only have the control I allow you to have."
"No, I have the control," he says illogically.
I see him through the film of gathering tears. "Not anymore," I whisper, blinking furiously. "Goodbye, E."
There's anguish and horror in his eyes, but how can he possibly feel that way if I'm not even worth the truth? How could he not know that something like this was eventually going to happen?
He must see or finally understand something in my expression, because his beautiful face falls. Needle pins of pain pierce my heart at the look of devastation he wears.
And then suddenly, he turns and runs away from me.
