“No?” I ask, my eyebrow still cocked. “Because I can certainly arrange a sleepover.”
“I’m sure,” she says wryly. “But no. Thank you for the invite, though.” She’s laughing now, her blush fading. “Truly, thank you for the offer of your beach. I can paint the lake from memory, but it’s always nice to actually be there looking at it. A new view will be great. Artists are visual people.”
The air seems to whoosh out of me for some reason and I don’t even know why. Perhaps it is the thought of her sleeping over. Or maybe it is the sound of her voice. It seems to have a profound effect on me.
I step toward her and she looks uncertain, but she doesn’t move away.
“Men are visual too,” I tell her softly, my eyes frozen on hers. “So I understand. But there is something that bothers me, something that puts me at a disadvantage. And I really don’t like feeling disadvantaged.”
“What is it?” she asks, her eyes not leaving mine.
“You’ve seen me at my worst. Maybe you should see me at my best.”
My words hang between us, heavy and charged, and I don’t know what the fuck I am doing.
“When are you at your best?” she asks hesitantly. And I can see from the determined look on her face that she is trying hard not to feel intimidated. I’m impressed. She’s like a kitten standing up to a lion.
“In bed.”
My answer is simple. And her eyes shoot sparks in response.
“You’re kind of arrogant, aren’t you?” she demands, her hands on her slender, paint-spattered hips. “A simple Thank you for saving my life would suffice. I don’t need for you to carry me off to your bed to show your gratitude.”
I pause for a minute before I try to smooth her ruffled feathers.
“Calm down,” I tell her quietly. “I’m sorry. It’s a habit. I was just joking. Sometimes I have an inappropriate sense of humor. Thank you for the other night. I’m sorry I didn’t say it before.”
She purses her lips and then sighs.
“It’s okay,” she answers. “And you did say it in the hospital. You didn’t need to come here and say it again. I have been wondering though…” and her voice trails off.
It’s her turn to stare at me now and her gaze is contemplative. I stare back unflinching.
“What?” I prompt. “What have you been wondering?”
“Why did you do it?” she asks softly. “Why would you do that? It seems like you have a wonderful life.”
I’m surprised again. This girl is very direct and doesn’t hesitate to say what she’s thinking. And she thinks that I purposely tried to kill myself. What the fuck?
On the one hand, her direct attitude is refreshing. I have a feeling that she doesn’t play games. But on the other hand, it’s annoying as hell. Because sometimes I like to get lost in games so that I don’t have to provide any real answers.
But I have a feeling that Mila doesn’t tolerate bullshit.
“It was an accident,” I shrug. “I was being careless. It won’t happen again.”
She’s still staring at me and I fight the urge to flinch. It’s like she’s looking inside of me, trying to pick me apart and examine me. I don’t like it.
“Really?” she asks. She sounds doubtful, unsure. “I hope not. If you’re lying, I hope you get help. I might not be there next time to save you.”
She turns on her heel and heads for the back room. And just like that, Mila the artist with the wholesome smile walks out of my life.
I’m surprised by how much I don’t like the feeling.
Chapter Seven
Mila
I’m dreaming again.
As I walk down the aisle of a local church with the morning sun slanting through the windows, I know that I’m dreaming. I know it because I’ve visited this place a thousand times since my parents died.
The dream is always the same.
Nothing changes.
Because of this, I know that I won’t be able to wake up until it is finished.
I sigh and glance down.
I’m wearing the same black dress that I wore to their funeral. It is fitted, yet flowing; somber, yet feminine. It is what I wear each time I have this dream, an endless reminder of that horrible day.
With one black-slippered foot in front of the other, I pad down the aisle. I have no control of my feet. They are moving on their own accord. I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. My right foot settles into the carpet, then the left. Then the right.
Propelling me forward.
Before I know it, I’m standing in front of two caskets, basking in sunlight, at the front of the church. One is white and lustrous, one is black and gleaming.
Good and evil.