“I’m sure. I can’t look at any of it anymore, it hurts too much,” I say with a voice overflowing in sadness. “I have to force myself to move on.”
“Move on?” she weeps.
“I’m sorry, but I have to . . . for me.”
“Please let me come see you, dear. Let me say goodbye to you properly and not over the phone.”
“I’m sorry, Carol. I just can’t. I’ll text you with the details of the storage unit once I can get everything arranged,” I say quickly and then hang up before anything else can be said.
I’m scared to look at Declan, scared to see his reaction to all my deceit. I keep my eyes down when I walk out of the kitchen and into the living room. I pick up my box and head over to the door where he meets me.
“Look at me,” he says, and when I do, I respond thickly, “I hate all of them.”
“I know you do, but you can breathe now. It’s over with and you don’t ever have to be a part of those people again.”
“I’m ready to go,” I tell him as he takes the box from my arms and we leave, locking the door on all the haunting memories that remain in that apartment.
I ONCE SAW a poster that read Art is an Attempt to Bring Order Out of Chaos. I don’t remember where I saw it, but for some reason, I’ve always remembered it. Maybe that’s why my brother turned to sketching. Our lives were beyond chaotic. He didn’t start drawing until he was in his early twenties.
We used to ride the buses. It wasn’t because we needed to go somewhere; we rode them to feel like we were going somewhere. I’d sit next to him and watch as he sketched random passengers. He was talented. We both knew his talents would never get us out of the slums, but he didn’t do it because he had expectations; he did it to escape.
While Declan is with the columnist from Forbes, I flip through Pike’s sketchpad. I ghost my fingers over his lines, over his shadows, over every inch of paper that his hand would’ve touched. He drew me more beautiful than what reflects in the mirror. Every picture is amazing, and I wish people could’ve seen him the way I did. He was so much more than a drug dealer covered in tattoos that parents would shield their children from when they’d see him walking down the sidewalk.
He was a savior.
My savior.
The sound of the door unlocking catches my attention, and I’m happy to see Declan.
“Sorry that took so long,” he announces when he walks in and shrugs off his suit jacket.
He loosens his tie that’s tucked into the navy vest of the tailored three-piece suit he wore for the photos. Walking over to me, he leans over the couch I’m curled up on and kisses me.
“What’s that?”
“Pike’s sketchpad.”
He takes a seat next to me, asking, “May I?” as he holds his hand out.
I pass him the pad and watch as he looks through a couple of drawings.
“These aren’t bad,” he notes before turning to the next page that happens to be a sketch of me sleeping on a ratty couch we found at the Goodwill.
He stops and scans the image for a while before saying, “He loved you, didn’t he?” When I don’t respond, he looks at me and adds, “He’s drawn every detail perfectly down to the faint scar you have right under your left eyebrow.” He then traces the scar on my skin with his finger. “How did you get it?”
“I was thrown down a flight of stairs and busted my face up.”
“Your foster dad?”
“He was mad at me for . . .” I stop as shame builds.
“For what?” he presses, and when I still don’t respond, he says, “I don’t want you to hold anything back from me.”
I’ve already told him all the filth from my past, so I don’t know why this wave of embarrassment has come over me, but I push through it and answer him. “I’d been tied up and locked in the closet for a few days. I had been sick earlier that day and wound up not only defecating on myself but also throwing up. When he let me out, he was furious. He started kicking me in my ribs and then threw me down the basement stairs.”
He tosses the sketchpad onto the coffee table and pulls me into his arms quickly. I don’t cry, but that doesn’t mean the memories don’t inflict pain. Declan coddles me like one would a child, and I let him, because it feels good to be nurtured by him. His embrace is hard under his flexed muscles, but I find a way to melt into him anyway. I know he’s upset with what I just told him because I can feel the tension in his body, so I keep quiet to allow him to calm himself down, and he eventually does.
“I never got to see where Pike was buried,” I say after a good amount of time has passed.
“Why not?”
“I was scared. I was afraid to link myself to him and get busted for my con,” I explain. “When Bennett and Pike died, and when I thought you were dead too, I laid low. But since we’ve been back, I can’t stop thinking about where he is.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”