The Lion and the Artist

by Veronica Sommers

  "There are two bathrooms," Carynne says. "We'll all be sharing. The lock on the back bathroom door doesn't work, so if you're in there, hang out the little 'Don't Disturb' sign. And Cliff, no opening the door when the sign is out." She hip-checks her boyfriend Cliff, a lean guy with an abundance of black curly hair and a pair of bright dark eyes. I've only met him a couple times, but apparently he's a bit of a prankster.

  The boys drop our luggage on the floor of the back bedroom, and then Carynne pushes them out and closes the door. It's just her, and me, and Laura. Carynne grins, her brown eyes shining. Her black hair has frizzed into a glorious cloud around her head, and she's practically glowing. "I think Cliff might be planning to propose this week," she whispers.

  "Aw!" Laura reaches out, taking Carynne's dark hand in her pale one. "So exciting!"

  "That's a little fast, isn't it?" And then I wish I could snap back the words, because Carynne's face falls and Laura's eyes widen. "I mean, you've only been dating for two months."

  "But we're in love!" says Carynne. "Real love, okay? It's perfect. And when you know, you just know."

  "Yeah, Mari." Laura frowns. "Come on, not everyone is as cautious as you."

  Cautious. I guess that's one word for it. Gun-shy might be nearer the mark, because I loved Jeremy with my whole heart, wide open, until he literally smacked the sense back into me. The shock I felt that first time he hit me was worse than the pain pulsing through my face. And then he struck me again, harder, and I didn't even fight back. I just let him do it, because I couldn't believe it was happening.

  Carynne is watching me, concern crinkling her forehead. "You okay? With Jeremy being here, I mean? Cliff really wanted to invite him, and Laura said it would be fine. I mean, you two broke up a while ago, right?"

  "Two months ago. Yeah, it's fine." I smile through the lie.

  "Okay, good. And don't worry, this is not some weird triple-date situation. Cliff's cousin Max will probably show up later this week too. He's a cutie. Fresh blood, ladies!" She grips Laura's shoulder and mine. "So you won't have to fight over Oakland all week."

  "Oakland? Ew," I say, too fast, too emphatically. Carynne raises her eyebrows.

  "Wait, you don't like Oakland either?"

  "She hates him," Laura inserts helpfully. "Thinks he's a debauched, obnoxious playboy who can't keep it in his pants."

  "And that's exactly why he's here," Carynne says, grinning. "He's fun and charming, and he's from a wealthy family. What's not to like? Hell, if I didn't love Cliff so darn much, I'd go after a piece of that ass myself."

  "You girls are welcome to him," I say, moving past them to the door to hide my reddening cheeks. "I'm not interested in Oakland's ass, and there isn't much to him beyond that and a pretty face."

  I open the door and there he is, holding two frosty bottles of water, condensation dripping over his fingers.

  He heard me. It's obvious from his wide eyes and parted lips. Is it my imagination, or does he actually look wounded?

  "I thought you might be thirsty," he says. "After the run."

  "Thank you." I take the bottle, pretending not to hear the chorus of half-muffled titters behind me. Snatching one of the bottles, I push past Oakland in the narrow hallway and escape to the back porch of the house.

  It's quiet out here, and peaceful. I sink onto the cushioned porch swing and rock gently to the rhythm of the waves. From this vantage point, I can see the sweep of pale beach beyond the dunes, stretching into the distance on my left until it merges with the dim, faraway shapes of other beach houses and hotels. To the right, the land mounds into a hill that runs out into the water, forming a rocky point with a tumble of boulders around its base. Probably strong currents near there. I make a mental note to be careful if I venture out that far.

  The screen door bangs, and Jeremy plunks himself down beside me without asking for permission. "It's decided. Outlets this afternoon." His freckled face twists wryly. "Just my jam."

  I nod and glance away from him.

  "Marilyn," he says. "Don't shut me out, okay? Think about everything we had together. You've had time, now, right? I thought if I gave you some time—"

  "Time? Because time fixes everything. Heals all wounds—literal and figurative."

  His reddish eyebrows curve in a frown. "Hey, I've been working on myself, too, okay? I'm not drinking anymore." He holds up the can of sparkling water in his hand. "Trying to like this hellish stuff. Did some yoga. Damn, some of those girls can stretch! You should try yoga, Marilyn." He jostles my shoulder.

  His charm is eroding my walls again. Why, why do I turn helpless around him? It's as if, when he's there, my personality shrinks and fades, while his becomes dominant. I'm scarcely conscious of it happening until I find myself smiling meekly and nodding while he chatters and laughs boisterously, commanding the conversation.

  I used to like it. He used to make me feel safe, and his dominance in the bedroom meant that I didn't have to exert myself much for him to be happy. But now, I'm not sure that I want to be his Marilyn again. I've spent the past two months becoming a new Marilyn—stronger, steadier, less liable to take crap from other people.

  Jeremy wraps an arm around me, squeezing my shoulders. "I think we've got a second chance here, babe. A do-over, for both of us."

  I rise from the porch, taking another swig of my water. "I don't think so, Jer. But I'm happy to be friends. Just friends."

  His eyes narrow, but the expression passes quickly. He shrugs. "I've got a week to convince you otherwise. Challenge accepted!" He pumps his fist dramatically.

  -2-

  Never Really Over

  When I go back inside, the others are already in a flurry of preparation for our trip to the outlets—which of course requires each one of us to be in our cutest outfits with our hair and nails impeccably done.

  The shopping actually helps me relax. I've got money set aside for this, and as long as I stay within my limit, I'm good. Every sale sign, especially those in the 50-80% off range, makes me feel a little happier. Even better is the fact that the boys hang out in a totally different area of the store. Laura and Carynne and toss each other cute shirts, try on caps and broad-brimmed summer hats, and experiment with necklaces of all styles, from chokers to bibs to collars. We spritz the sample body sprays on wrists and inner elbows and necks, until we all smell like a crazy perfumer's laboratory.

  It's fun.

  We're in one of the shoe stores when it all falls apart.

  It starts with a wailing cry, the high pitched nasal kind that comes from a kid who's tired beyond the limit, and probably hungry, too. I know the sound from my high school babysitting days.

  I don't look at first. I figure that a mom in that situation could do without a bunch of strangers' eyes fixed on her. But then I hear the repeated whisper-yells of "Stop! Stop it! Stop!" and then a single, loud smack.

  The child wails louder, and my head snaps up.

  Laura's eyes meet mine over the shelves of shoes. "Just let it go, Marilyn," she whispers.

  It's not my business. But I watch the mom out of the corner of my eye as she throws the toddler into the double stroller, next to another baby who also starts to cry.

  I feel bad for the young mother—I really do. Coming here, trying to get out of the house and do a little shopping, only to find that she has outstayed her kids' capacity for good behavior.

  But nothing excuses what I see her doing—the second smack on the cheek of the toddler, the surreptitious pinches of chubby arms and thighs. The harsh words spit into the child's ear, threats that he's too exhausted to comprehend.

  I take a step toward them. I'm not sure what I'll do, what I'll say—my heart is pounding and my palms sweat, and in my head I'm screaming that it's wrong, wrong, wrong.

  Laura grabs my hand. "Seriously, Marilyn, don't interfere."

  I wheel on her. "Why the hell not?"

  "You'll just cause a scene and make her more angry. She can't hear you right now—she's too mad. And i
f you yell at her, she'll probably just hurt them worse when she gets them home."

  "I don't—I don't know. I think I should—"

  But when I turn back around, they're gone. The young mother's head is bobbing ferociously above the racks and displays, heading for the exit.

  The moment when I could have spoken has passed.

  I can't decide if I feel more relieved or guilty. "I should have said something. What is wrong with you?" I hiss at Laura. "What if no one ever talks to her about it? She won't get help. And if she's willing to do that in public, imagine what she does to them in private."

  But Laura stands her ground. "It's not your place. You're not helping the kids by fussing at their mom in this setting."

  "So your alternative is to do absolutely nothing?"

  "Yes!"

  "Whoa, whoa!" Carynne steps between us, wearing a pair of spotted stilettos and carrying glittery gold heels in her hand. "What's the drama? Why you two fightin'?"

  "Never mind." I move away from Laura, studying a rack of shoes with feigned interest.

  We meet the boys at the food court shortly afterward, the tension still thick between me and Laura.

  We're just sitting down with our food when people begin to hurry toward the food court, flooding out of the row of shops we just visited. A loud alarm rings along the walkways, echoing between the buildings.

  "A fire." Cliff frowns, peering around. "What do you think, babe? Should we go?"

  "Let's go," Carynne agrees. "Come on, y'all, pack up your doo-dads and munchies."

  Groaning, Jeremy rewraps his sandwich. I grab my precious bags of bargain clothes, and we all join the flow of people heading for the parking lot.

  Behind us, sirens shrill, horns buzz, and two fire trucks roll through the passage between the outlets, grinding to a stop outside a shop across from the shoe store where we saw the young mom.

  "Weird," says Carynne. "We were just over there. What if we'd gone into that store instead of going for food?"

  "You might have burned to a crisp, baby." Cliff hugs her shoulders. "But as that's a sports equipment store, I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have set foot in there."

  "Don't you put me in your lil sexist box, Cliff Murray." She pokes him in the chest. "I can be sporty."

  "Yeah? Whatchu got in here?" He pries open one of her shopping bags. "Aw yeah, these heels'll be perfect for hiking. And this little thing—" he holds up a slinky dress— "this'll do for your next CrossFit class, yeah?"

  "Shut up." She bops him with a swayed hip. "You know I like to look fabulous."

  "And I sure appreciate it." He ducks his head to kiss her.

  I can't help grinning at the two of them, and I glance at Laura, hoping to exchange a shared smile with her at their cuteness. But she's staring at the ground, her face darkened and her eyebrows drawn. Either she's still mad at me, or our proximity to the fire freaked her out.

  "Hey." Oakland moves up to walk beside her. "You okay?"

  She looks up at him, and he gives her a small smile. My heart does a strange flip-flop. He looks so sweet, so caring, so—

  A hand smacks my butt, and I jump ahead. Jeremy bursts into laughter. "Got you!"

  "Seriously?" I roll my eyes at him.

  "Hey, just trying to lighten the mood." He keeps pace with me and Oakland and Laura move ahead, talking quietly together. I can't hear what they're saying, and I'm not sure why I so desperately want to know. "What's up?"

  "Hm?" I say vacantly.

  "Are you good? You seem distracted, or sad." He moves in front of me, walking backward. "Smile, babe. You look so pretty when you smile."

  "I don't feel like smiling right now, Jer."

  "Too bad."

  "Jer, you're about to walk off the edge of the—" He stumbles, nearly collapsing into the parking lot. "—sidewalk. I tried to warn you."

  He laughs, righting himself with a bound and a flourish. "All part of the plan."

  He's in rare form today, teasing me incessantly, joking, cutting up like a high schooler, clearly trying to coax out as many smiles and laughs as he can. And because he can be charming, I do smile at him, and laugh at him, all the way through our ice cream stop and the ride back to the beach house.

  But he's exhausting, too, so when we get to the house, I slip into the girls' shared bedroom with the excuse that I need to do some work. It's kind of true. There are some art pieces I want to post on Instagram and set as "for sale" on my shop. My art doesn't sell at premium rates, but I make a decent bit of side money off it. Mostly I do fan-art commissions and digital art of original characters designed by writers and gamers. It's fun, and it sells.

  By the time I'm done posting the pieces, my bladder is demanding attention. Too much coffee and then a smoothie on top of that—I'm done for. But Laura is in the front bathroom. She's been in there for a while, and when I tap on the door, she curses, sniffles, and tells me to go away. I'm not sure why she's still upset; but I know better than to press her for information. If she wants to talk me about it, she will, when she's ready.

  In the meantime, I need a toilet—so I hurry to the bathroom at the back of the house, carefully placing the "Do Not Disturb" sign. The others are all in the living room, talking, so it shouldn't be a problem.

  I pull down my shorts and underwear and sit down. When I'm done, I stand, pushing down the lever to flush the toilet—and at that moment, the door bursts open.

  Jeremy's grin tells me he did it on purpose. His gaze darts down to my exposed area, and I scramble for my underwear—but of course they're twisted into my shorts and won't cooperate.

  "Jeremy, get out!" I hiss at him.

  "Chill, babe," he says, propping a shoulder against the doorframe and crossing his arms. "It's nothing I haven't seen before."

  I manage to pull up the underwear, but before I can get my shorts in place, a hand grips Jeremy's shoulder and hauls him out of the doorway. Careful not to look at me, Oakland reaches in and pulls the bathroom door shut.

  "Don't embarrass her like that," says Oakland, his voice muffled by the door.

  "Hey, man, I didn't know anyone was in there."

  Oakland reads, very slowly, the words "Do. Not. Disturb. See that, Jer? Plain as day. Right here on this little sign."

  "Yeah, whatever." Jeremy's grumbling fades as he walks away.

  I finish washing and drying my hands and stalk out of the bathroom, head held high. Oakland is a few steps away, leaning against the wall, checking his phone.

  "You okay?" he asks without looking up.

  "Just fine," I reply. "I had it handled."

  "Of course you did. I'm surprised you didn't kick him in the balls. You seem like the type."

  "I seem like the type to kick guys in the balls?"

  "Definitely."

  "Well, maybe I am. But my pants were sort of around my ankles at the time. So. There's that."

  He looks up and grins, a big, warm smile that makes me smile back before I realize it. I resume my frown the next second and walk away, to the sound of his faint chuckle behind me.

  We spend most of the next day out on the beach. It's beautiful weather—warm and sunny, with a brisk breeze. I'm not the shy type—at least, not usually—but for some reason, I feel awkward when I take off my cover-up and drop it on my beach towel. Jeremy stares at my bikini-clad body openly, his eyes drinking in my figure while a stupid grin spreads over his face. And I feel other eyes on me, too—bright green eyes that, when I turn to meet them, always seem to have just flicked away from me to some other point of interest.

  Time to quit hanging around on the beach and go catch some waves.

  I'm not the lie-on-a-towel-and-work-on-my-tan type. When I'm at the beach, I'm there to bury my legs in the sand, to body-surf the waves. I'm all in. Maybe I get it from my mother. Anytime we took a beach vacation, she'd be out in the waves, arms spread to the wind, laughing—or scrunching her toes in sand, crouched over a sandcastle with me, her stretch marks and pudgy parts on full display. She sim
ply didn't care. My body is slim and smooth now, but I hope I'll have her kind of courage when I'm older, doughier, and more wrinkly—the kind of courage that doesn't give a damn about what others think, and just enjoys the hell out of life anyway.

  Laura seems to have gotten over our earlier disagreement and, true to her word, she helps me avoid the boys, for the most part. We body-surf and swim, build strange sand shapes and flop on towels to drink before going out in the water again. Lunch is simple—sandwiches that are gritty with sand in them despite our best efforts—and popsicles, a dessert choice I would have avoided if I weren't so warm and thirsty. Jeremy watches me eat my popsicle with such obvious lust in his eyes that I want to smack him. I throw the unfinished half in his face and run out into the waves before I realize that my actions were basically an invitation for him to chase me. And chase me he does, through surf and over sand, until I squeeze myself between Carynne and Cliff just to avoid being tackled to the ground.

  "Enough, Jer," I say, gasping for breath. "You win."

  "What's my prize?"

  "No prize. Just the knowledge that you have more stamina than me." I flash him an evil grin. "Which we both know isn't true in all areas of your—performance."

  "Oooh, burn!" crows Cliff.

  Jeremy flushes. "I'd rather be fast than frigid."

  My smile disappears. His most frequent complaint when we were dating was how much work he had to do to make me come. He apparently thought it should be fairly automatic for me, synchronized to his own climax. An unrealistic and uninformed point of view.

  Why the hell did I ever date him? Why didn't I see in him all the faults that I see now? I must have been truly, idiotically blind. And that scares me. I never want to be so deluded in a relationship again.