I nod, wanting to be alone.
As I begin the show on Spider’s side of the room, I see right away that the pieces are done in charcoal, like his sister’s. I move from piece to piece, realizing it’s organized as an autobiographical journey. There’s one of Cate playing in the snow outside their childhood home. I study them intently, noting the bold strokes and modern feel. I smile. He really is so incredibly talented.
Is there anything he can’t do?
I gasp when I come to one of me . . . waiting tables at Jo’s Diner, my hair in a braid, wearing that horrible polo. It’s a profile, and my lips are full and lush as I bite on my bottom lip. I look so . . . beautiful and achingly young.
My heart thunders.
The next three drawings are all of me.
One of me with a copy of Jane Eyre in my hand.
One of my naked back with my face hidden, the focus on the butterfly tattoo with his cell number inside the wings.
Finally, there’s one of me outside his apartment building in Dallas, sitting on the park bench. My face is upturned as if I’m looking for him and I have my school uniform on.
I clench my small beaded handbag, emotion whipping through me, and instinctively I move on, needing to see how this ends.
The next few pass in a blur though I study each one, each one a depiction of himself.
Spider doing a line off a small mirror.
Spider’s head on a table with a bottle of whiskey next to him.
Raw and real.
I struggle to contain my feelings. I can’t break down here, not when this isn’t really about me. It’s about him.
I come to the end, another self-portrait of him looking into a mirror, his guitar strapped on his back. His hand rakes through his hair and his face is sharp and lean, his eyes open and clear. It’s entitled Recovery.
I wipe at my eyes and head to the restroom just off to the side, avoiding everyone. Standing in front of the sink, I wipe at my face, and once I’ve gotten my mascara straightened out, I wash my hands, still teetering on losing control.
I have to see him. I have to tell him that I don’t care if he can’t say the words, I want to be with him anyway.
I don’t even know he’s followed me into the restroom until I raise my head to grab a tissue.
“Rose.”
I turn to face him, whipping around and sucking in my breath.
He looks incredibly handsome in black slacks and a gray sweater. A leather cuff is on his wrist and a silver necklace hangs around his neck, accentuating his tan skin and the highlights in his dark hair, but it’s his eyes that have most of my attention.
There’s need in them.
“You paid for me to go to college? And Oscar?” I don’t know why those are the first words out of my mouth instead of a compliment about his art, but since Robert handed over the folder, I’ve been in shock.
He gives me a short nod as he leans against the doorjamb and crosses his arms.
I shake my head at him, recalling the contents of the folder, the little things that had surprised me. “You made sure I got into the Krav Maga classes even though the waitlist was ridiculous and you even called the owner of Bono as soon as I applied for a job?”
He nods.
I swallow, feeling emotion tearing at me. “I used to wonder why I was so lucky in New York.” I bite my lip. “How did you keep up with me?”
He exhales, his eyes scrutinizing my face, memorizing it. “For a while I had someone watching you periodically . . . nothing intrusive . . . just to make sure you were okay. Robert would keep me updated about things you wanted or mentioned, and I’d try to make it happen for you. It wasn’t anything big.”
“Why not let Robert pay for NYU?” I feel like he would have.
“I wanted to do something for you, Rose. I worked for that money and it was mine. I wanted you to be happy and have your friend with you.” Anguish crosses his face. “I hurt you so much.”
“Why do all this?” I ask, spreading my hands.
He smiles, though just barely, as if it hurts to do anything more. “I think you know why.”
I nod.
His chest expands as his eyes sweep over me, and I know what he sees: a girl who dressed just for him. My dress is pure white, a slinky backless number that clearly shows my tattoo with my long hair up in elaborate curls. The skirt is a ridiculously short bit of tulle that flounces against my thighs when I walk in my silver stilettos.
“You’re beautiful.”
His words are like a balm to my soul.
“Thank you.”
He comes closer and touches my face gently as if he’s afraid I might vanish.
I close my eyes.
God.
I want to be his everything.
I want him to be consumed with me.
I want to be the person who keeps him on the straight and narrow.
I want him to not be able to get out of fucking bed unless I’m next to him.
I want him to crumble if I walk away.
I want him to love me forever.
I say those things to him as tears run down my face.
His face looks broken as he falls to his knees.
“Rose, I’ve been thinking about what you said. It’s always been my intention to get you back someday, but everyone always leaves me,” he says, his voice low. “The day Father dropped me off in Texas, I swore I’d be cold and hard and ruthless for the rest of my days. I swore to never let anyone rip my heart out, but then you came along . . . and I got so fucking lost in you.”
I touch his cheek and he leans into me, his lips brushing my hand.
“I didn’t admit it to myself until I was on the plane to LA, but I fell in love with you the moment we kissed, but I was a fucked up mess, and I didn’t deserve you. I couldn’t drag you down with me. I had to give you a real life without me, had to give you something so when we met again, you’d know I was ready for forever.”
“You’ve been my forever since I was eleven.” I drop to my knees in front of him.
He takes a deep breath and wetness shimmers in his intense gaze. “I love you, Rose, more than anything. I’m sorry I didn’t say it earlier. If you still want me, if you still want us, then I’m right here.”
My heart flies.
“Of course I still want you. I love you,” I whisper. “I can’t go on another single day without us together. I’m sorry for needing to hear those silly words. All we need is each other—”
He kisses me, cutting me off, his lips clinging to mine.
“Forever,” he says in my ear.
And it was . . .
A FEW YEARS LATER
Spider
“SIR, YOU CAN’T CARRY THAT on the plane.”
I arch my brow at the ticketing agent. She’s around fifty with a halo of blonde hair and bright pink lipstick. Normally, I can make any female do my bidding with my cocky grin and fancy English accent, but truth be told, I don’t try as hard as I used to.
“Indeed.”
She nods.
Her nametag says her name is Gwendolyn, and I smile, even though I’m beat from the three-month tour we just wrapped up in New York.
“Gwendolyn . . . may I call you Gwen?”