“I think I remember this.”
“You do.” My voice sounds gruff. The painting is a brilliant, pale gray dove, on black. The art is heavy: chunky oil paint, caked on—in part because I couldn’t just be done with the piece. I kept fucking with it.
“You sent that to me,” she says. “A picture of you with it through email your freshman year.”
“I did.”
“I liked it.”
Did she? “…I still have it.”
She turns to look at me. “It never sold? I thought almost all your pieces had sold, the ones you listed.” I know why she thinks that. Someone wrote an article about me last year, and the article made that claim. Which means Amelia was reading articles about me last year.
“That’s true—but it wasn’t listed.”
“Oh.” She sounds surprised.
“It was for you.”
Eighteen
Dash
“It was?” The clueless look on her face makes me feel ill.
“I painted it for you, during the first few weeks that I was gone.”
Her eyes widen slightly, as if to ask, Well? What happened? When I don’t answer, she says, “Why?” The word is sharp.
“I missed you.”
Her brows rise as her lips press into a thin line. Then she turns away and walks into the foyer.
“Where is that painting now?” she asks as she reaches the door. When her hand touches the handle, she turns around to face me.
“In Burbank.”
“Hanging?”
“No,” I say.
“Then where? Where is it in your house?”
I frown, puzzled. “It’s in my closet.”
“Where you keep your clothes?”
“Am I missing something here?”
“Your closet in your room?” she presses.
“Well…yeah.”
“Okay.” The word is curt. She brushes a strand of hair out of her face. “Well I want it. Next time you go back to Burbank.”
“Okay.” I nod slowly. I can do that.
“Good.” She reaches into her purse and pulls her phone out, peering at the screen. “It’s been an hour. Thanks for letting me come over.”
She leaves quickly. I don’t think she meets my eyes one single time.
Half an hour later, I’m stretched out on the couch, drinking a second glass of wine and staring at my TV, which is off.
The doorbell rings.
I know it’s her before I reach the door this time.
“I’m still locked out,” she says. “It’s going to be a few more hours.”
“Would you like to come in?”
“Well, yes. If that’s okay.”
“It’s definitely okay.” I beckon her in, noting her white cotton t-shirt.
Amelia
I don’t know I’m going to do it until I step into his foyer. Then the words just tumble out. “I want to know now. Why? Why didn’t you come back that day, Dash? Scared to face me once you sobered up? Buyers’ regret? Did you have to prove it to yourself that you weren’t really obligated to me after what we did? Or did you just not give a shit?”
My heart is pounding in my ears as Dash’s eyes widen. His tongue runs lightly over his lower lip. Then he presses them together.
“C’mon—tell me. I don’t want excuses this time.”
His shoulders are tense. I watch him push his hands into his pockets. He looks old—so much older, with his short beard and his glasses and his big, thick shoulders; he looks like a stranger.
“Are you just that shallow? Obligation-free sex is your jam but nothing else? That would be really disappointing. I always figured you for a whole lot more than that, but what the hell did I know?”
He steps toward me, one hand emerging from his pocket, reaching toward me, like he means to touch me.
“No.” My feet move me back toward the door. My hand goes up in warning.
“Am…”
“No, you can’t touch me. The second you do, my brain stops, it just stops working. I can’t have that. I can’t have this just keep being physical!”
My head buzzes so loud and hard, for a brief second, I wonder if I’m going to pass out. But then he nods, and I can see the understanding in his eyes.
“I know.” He moves toward me, then steps back, as if remembering I don’t want that. His hand extends toward me. “Come here, Ammy. Will you come sit on the couch?”
I shake my head.
“Okay.” His handsome face is a mask of consternation, flickering on odd half-seconds with regret. He inhales deeply—and I hold my breath.
“I was scared,” he says after a moment. “I felt…unworthy of you. I knew what I had done was wrong. I didn’t plan to stay around. I didn’t even want to come back home and visit—”
“Why?”
“Why…?”
“Why didn’t you want to? I thought you had a decent enough childhood. I know your parents suck, and they were never there, but Lexie and I were. You had a lot of friends.”
His mouth has gone so soft, I can see it shifting as I look at him. It’s the sort of thing that I associate with extreme emotion, making him look like he might cry, although of course, I know he isn’t going to.
“It wasn’t you,” he says softly. “You weren’t the problem, I was.”
“I’m fucking drunk and I’ve been missing you for months. All I could think about up there was you.”
“What does that mean?”
He shakes his head, his hands back in his pockets, his eyes on the floor.
Earlier tonight, I thought since he said my painting was in his closet—somewhere close, somewhere he goes, not in the attic, in his closet—I thought maybe that meant he still cared.
“Were you too good for Sandy Springs?”
“Of course not.” He looks up.
“Then what was it? What kept you away, Dash? You fucked me over, it took years to figure out why you’d do something like that. In case you can’t tell, I never did!”
“I know.” I watch him clench his jaw. He seems so stiff and tense: his big body almost coiled.
“So you still have nothing to say.”
“There’s something wrong with me.”
“That you don’t care?”
He shakes his head, but I’m watching his eyes: his anguished eyes.
“I’m not a normal person, Am.”
“What does that mean?”
He swallows, but he won’t reply.
“It wasn’t you,” he finally whispers. “Can you trust me? Please? You were everything to me.”
“I’ve gotta tell you, that rings pretty fucking hollow.”
“I know.” His voice has a slight edge.
“So, what should I think? What would you think?”
“Can you come here?”
I spread my arms. “I’m right in front of you.”
“Come closer.” His words are thick and rusty.
“Why?”
He shuts his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Dash. It’s not enough. I need some space. I can’t stay away from you, and I can’t feel okay about this either.”
I turn around and go before I change my mind.
The next day, I call in sick and pay $200 extra to fly to Southampton early.
Nineteen
Dash
I was right about the week.
Lexie calls me Wednesday, while I’m working on a canvas in the guest room that I converted to a studio. “How’s it going?”
“Fine.”
“Isn’t this your break week?”
“Yeah.”