My jaded bitterness cackled in disbelief. He was so full of shit. His words smacked of emotional manipulation. But my heart could only remember the way he made my pulse race when he touched me.
“I don’t know, Maxx.” I heard the wavering.
“Please. Visiting hours are on Sunday afternoons, one to three. It really would mean a lot to me.”
I chewed on my lip and rubbed at the sore spot in my chest. “Where are you?” I asked tiredly, wanting a few more answers before I ended the call.
“I’m at Barton House. Do you know where that is?” he asked, and I nodded, though I realized he couldn’t see me.
“Yeah, it’s that place outside of the city. On the farm, right?”
“Yeah, on the farm,” Maxx confirmed.
“So do they have you raising chickens and herding cows or something?” I asked, and tried really hard not to smile at the sound of Maxx’s deep, rich laugh.
“Thank God, no! Can you imagine me in shit kickers growing wheat or something? I’m not cut out for that crap.” I started to laugh, too, and it felt good.
Too good.
And I realized that was something we hadn’t done much of during our short yet intense relationship. We had been together for only a few months, but in some ways it had felt like years. We hadn’t had a whole lot of time for laughing and joking and just being two people enjoying each other. We had been consumed by things far darker.
“I don’t think I can, Maxx. I’m working really hard to move on. And this phone call, going to see you, that would be the worst thing for both of us,” I said finally, breaking the moment of easy familiarity we had been dangerously close to slipping into.
“The worst thing for me? Or the worst thing for you?” he asked, sounding a little angry but as if he was trying hard not to be.
“For both of us. I don’t see how seeing me can help you right now. We did nothing but hurt each other. That isn’t a place you need to revisit when it seems like you’re trying to get yourself together,” I said, wishing I didn’t have to put voice to that painful truth.
But it needed to be said. Even if stating the obvious hurt just as badly as the first time I had left him. “I can’t save you, Maxx. I never could.”
“I’m not asking you to save me, Aubrey. I’m just asking you to come and see me. To give me something—” He cut himself off and there was a brief moment of silence, and in that quiet I regretted ever answering the phone. “I’m sorry. This isn’t fair. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll let you go. Forget I called,” he murmured.
I snorted in disbelief. Unfortunately for me, forgetting was something I’d never be able to do. Then, because I couldn’t stand the thought of Maxx berating himself, I had to say something. “Maxx, it’s okay. I understand . . . I’m just not ready . . . I just think—” I was making excuses when I shouldn’t. I was trying to justify things that shouldn’t need justification.
“No, it’s fine. Take care of yourself, Aubrey. And I’m sorry. For everything.” His voice broke. “I love you, Aubrey. Always,” he whispered, and then I heard the soft click and the line went dead.
I dropped the phone on the ground and covered my face with my hands. I didn’t cry, but I couldn’t stop shaking. And I felt the loss of him all over again.
chapter
nine
maxx
“is your brother coming today?” Pete asked, and I had to stop myself from groaning out loud. Why did he ask me that every single Sunday, when the answer was always the same? Today was visiting day. My most dreaded day of the week. And the need to flee was there¸ prickling my insides.
I didn’t bother to answer him. I swallowed my annoyed hurt and continued to focus on the notebook in my lap. My hands were coated in oil pastels. Having the time and focus to immerse myself in my art was one of the most positive things to come out of this experience. It had never been a habit I spent a lot of time developing. I wasn’t the tortured artist who slaved over a picture to hang on my wall or something. The whole street art thing had happened purely by accident.
When I was young and fucked up, I had been hanging out with a bunch of dudes who thought tagging buildings downtown was a fun use of our time. They had handed me a can of spray paint and had left me to my vandalism. They had been busy writing dumb shit like Born in East LA and pathetic versions of gang signs. I painted a dead tree with fire for leaves. It wasn’t great by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a hell of a lot cooler than the stuff my so-called friends were spraying on the walls.
We had been chased away by a store owner who threatened to call the cops. The next week we had been walking by and I noticed all of the tagging had been erased—except for my tree. The store owner had never painted over it. In fact, it stayed there for years, until it had finally faded away.
I remember feeling a huge sense of pride in that. Even though, to most people, it would have been vandalism, that shop owner had seen something in my crude, amateurish drawing that he had liked. And that guy had made me feel, without ever saying a word to me, like maybe what I had created was worth something. To a fifteen-year-old boy who had recently lost his parents and was struggling with his sudden responsibility of caring for and worrying about a younger brother, that sort of confidence boost was a big deal.
But for some reason, I could never let myself get lost in painting on a canvas or drawing on a piece of paper. I had actually failed art class in high school. My teacher had called me uninspired and lacking focus.
It was the story of my fucking life.
But then enter Gash and the club, and that strange talent for graffiti took hold once again and it allowed me to express myself in a way I had never been able to before. And again, people took notice. Gash had loved the visibility it gave the club and the increase in revenue my little scavenger hunt produced. It had become the one bright spot in that whole ugly, sordid world.
A few gallery owners had even put the word out that they were looking for X. My secret identity. My alter ego. The man who had drawn the women on fire and the hands of God that were strewn about the city. Street art was edgy and dark and oh so hip. And these guys wanted a piece of that culturally relevant pie. I had even called one of them once, just to hear what he had to say.
The guy was with a local gallery. He had tracked me down through the club, and because I was a greedy bastard, I had jumped at the chance to make some serious scratch. He wanted me to bring a sampling of my art. I had thrown together a pathetic mess of crappy canvases that barely represented what I was capable of, high on my own ego and confident that my talent was unparalleled.
I remember taking a handful of pills before hopping into the taxi. I stumbled my way into the gallery, barely aware of what was going on. The guy, Tatum Randall, had been displeased when I had thrown my shitty work down on a table and slurred, “What’ll you give me for these?”
I had to give Mr. Randall some credit. He didn’t laugh at me or throw my sad ass out on the street. He picked up each canvas and looked at it. I was so fucked up I barely recognized the look of disappointment on his face. And more important, I really didn’t care.
“I’m sorry, X, I’m not interested in these,” Mr. Randall had said, putting the canvases back on the table.
I had scoffed and pointed to some of the paintings on the wall. “I could shit on a piece of paper and it would look a hell of a lot better than this stuff.” I remember having a hard time keeping my eyes open.
Mr. Randall had frowned at me. “Are you all right?”
I waved off his question. “So are you going to pay me or what?”
Mr. Randall had shaken his head. “I contacted you because when I saw your street art, I knew there was something special there. But this—” He indicated the pile of half-assed work I had produced. “This is not something I could promote. And clearly you aren’t prepared to take this seriously.”
I had tried to sit up straighter, but my bones were like liquid. I remember feeling as though I co
uld sink into the chair. I was having a hard time focusing on Mr. Randall or the fact that I was flushing this perfectly wonderful opportunity straight down the toilet.
Mr. Randall had sighed. “I’ll call you a cab.”
And right before I left, using Mr. Randall as support because my legs had stopped functioning at some point, the middle-aged gallery owner had looked at me with mild disgust. “If you ever get yourself together, maybe we could have a conversation.” He had practically shoved me into the back of the cab.
“But I can’t invest in someone who won’t invest in themselves. Good luck, X, or whatever your name is.” And that had been the last I had heard from Mr. Tatum Randall.
I hadn’t thought much at the time about how monumental that rejection was. I was fixated on the drugs. And the club. And being the god of the dark and seedy. But now I cringed as I remembered what an ignorant fool I had been.
After that, my art had returned to being that thing I did to get noticed. It was firmly entrenched in the world of Compulsion.
But then Aubrey came along and I found that my art could mean something else.
It could be about something else.
Confining my art to paper had never been something I was particularly good at. It had always looked like shit. And I wasn’t really accustomed to creating anything without being stoned. I couldn’t remember the last time I had picked up a brush when things weren’t fuzzy.
At first it had been a major trigger. The counselors here were big into art therapy and so we were made to spend a lot of time drawing our feelings. I had hated it. It felt wrong.
And every time I had tried, I felt the shadows of withdrawal. I never flipped out. I never lost my head. But I couldn’t draw anything.
Until I thought of Aubrey. And then words alone weren’t enough to express how I was feeling.
I remembered the time I had taken gallons of paint and drew the broken mirror on the sidewalk out in front of her apartment building. I remembered how pathetic and desperate I had felt. I had needed her to see how much I loved her. How much I needed her. How essential she was to my very existence. I also remembered how fucking high I had been.
But now, being stone cold sober, drawing her released the stuff pent up inside of me. All of the anger and disappointment and longing that I couldn’t give voice to. I had been conditioned over my short lifetime to keep it all bottled up and tucked away. Feelings were messy and I didn’t have time for all of that.
But then I had met a woman who had made it impossible for me to hold anything back. And now, here at rehab, struggling to make things work, all I wanted to do was draw it. To put out there all the things I couldn’t say. For the first time in my life, my art evolved. It was about me getting my head together. About focusing on what I was going to do with my life. How I could change for the better.
And I became sort of addicted to my art, like a placeholder for the drugs or something.
I smoothed the shadowed edge of the round cheek I had just drawn. My fingers caressed the lengths of long blond hair on the page. The picture was so accurate I could almost imagine Aubrey was here. In the flesh. It filled me with warmth to draw her. To paint her. To see her in my mind and to let my fingers create her. I could hold her close like this.
Forever.
I continued to smudge the line of Aubrey’s jaw I had just put on paper. If I closed my eyes, maybe I could pretend it was her. Delusions were my new best friend.
“Whatcha workin’ on?” Pete asked, clearly not getting the hint that I wasn’t in the mood for company. I was trying really hard to keep my mind off the fact that I had asked Aubrey to come today and she had said no.
I closed the notebook and tucked it under my pillow.
“Nothing,” I remarked, getting to my feet.
“Where are you going? The garden is off-limits; that’s where visiting hours are being held today,” Pete told me, putting some authority in his voice.
“Okay, thanks for letting me know.” I walked past Pete, ignoring his continued attempts at conversation. The common room was empty. Either everyone had visitors, or those who didn’t were holed up, depressed, in their rooms. It sucked being one of the few people without anyone to see them. But I refused to feel sorry for myself. I had lived most of my life alone. What else was new?
Unfortunately for me, I had been given a taste of what it felt like to share your life with someone who loved you. And I had gravitated toward it. I had held on to it, crushing it in my hands. And ultimately I had destroyed it.
Now I was left with the memory of what might have been. And that was so much worse than not knowing it at all. I looked at the clock on the wall. It was already 2:00. Only one more hour and I could pretend that visiting day had never happened. At least until next week, when I was reminded once again that no one would be coming to see me.
“Maxx, there you are.”
I looked up to find Stacey standing in the doorway.
“You looking for me?” I asked, flipping the channels on the television, already cursing myself for choosing such an obvious place to hide out for the next hour.
“Yes! You have a visitor. She’s waiting out in the garden,” she said, waving a hand for me to follow her.
I sat there, staring at her like an idiot.
She’s waiting.
“What?” I asked, not quite believing her. I couldn’t wrap my mind around what she was saying. When I had been admitted to Barton House, I had put only two names on my allowed visitors list.
Aubrey Duncan and Landon Demelo.
That was it.
“Who is it?” I asked, almost scared of the answer I would be given.
“She said her name was Aubrey. We checked your file and she’s an allowed visitor. Is that okay? Are you all right with that?” Stacey looked at me with concern.
My heart thudded in my chest and for a moment I thought I might pass out.
Fucking hell, she came. I looked at Stacey, who was watching me closely. I knew she was waiting for me to freak the fuck out.
And she had every right to be worried, because I was feeling mildly hysterical. On the inside, of course.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” I said, not sure I was telling the truth.
Aubrey had come.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I followed Stacey down the hall and out to the garden. I squinted in the bright afternoon sunlight and shivered in my thin T-shirt. Damn, I should have grabbed a coat. It was cold out here. And then I forgot about the cold. I forgot about the counselor who still stood beside me analyzing with her squinty eyes. Because there she was.
There was Aubrey.
My eyes drank in the sight of her. My senses were ravenous for her. And the gaping open wound in my heart oozed fresh.
She was looking down at her phone. Her long blond hair fell on either side of her face. I couldn’t see her expression, her hair obscuring her. But I could tell by her body language that she was uncomfortable. That maybe she didn’t want to be here at all.
I thought about turning around and walking back inside. That maybe as much as I wanted to be, I just wasn’t ready for all of this.
The sight of her set off a thousand urges I had been trying hard to suppress. The need for the drugs. The desire to lose myself in the soft waiting oblivion of a handful of pills. Anything to feel numb. But the loudest urge of all was the one that practically begged me to grab her and run far, far away. To forget all of this stupid rehab shit and to bury myself in her and never let go again.
“Are you all right?” Stacey asked, and I felt annoyed by the question. Fuck no, I wasn’t all right! I was losing my goddamned mind!
I nodded though and headed across the grass toward the table where the woman I loved sat oblivious to the insanity she had let loose inside me simply by showing up as I had asked her to.
She was still peering down at her phone when I approached the table. I pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down. Finally she looked up and I could see her face
for the first time. Her blue eyes widened as she took me in.
I knew what she saw. I had lost a lot of weight. Withdrawals will do that. My face had always been angular, but now my cheekbones were more pronounced. My hair was longer, almost hitting my collar. But at least I had lost the dark shadows that had always ringed my eyes, and the sallow pallor of my skin had disappeared.
“Hey,” she said softly, and the knot in my stomach loosened a bit.
“You came,” I said, smiling. I glanced down at her hands and saw that they were clenched tightly around her phone as if she would break it. She looked terrified. I wanted to reach out and take her hands but figured that would be pushing things. We weren’t together anymore. Aubrey wasn’t my girlfriend. I had no right to touch her, no matter how much I wanted to.
“I did. Though I’m not sure I should have,” she muttered, looking away. She fidgeted in her seat. Her anxiety was putting me on edge.
“Well, why did you?” I asked her pointedly, wanting to get past this awkward discomfort as quickly as possible.
“Because I needed to see you . . . one last time. You know, to make sure you were all right,” she said, rushing through her words as though they would bite her.
One last time . . .
I held my arms out. “Well, look away, Aubrey. Because I’m alive and breathing.” I wished I could curb the sarcasm, but her answer bothered me. What had I expected? Her to tell me she couldn’t stay away from me? That she had been wrong and wanted to be with me again? Had I really thought this would be our new beginning?
“You look . . . better,” Aubrey said, taking in my appearance. I wanted to know what she thought as she looked at me. I wanted to know whether when she saw me, she remembered everything as clearly as I did. I wanted to know if when she looked in my eyes she saw the man she loved or if she even felt that way toward me at all anymore.
“I guess so. I feel . . . better,” I responded.
She gnawed on the skin around her thumbnail, not making eye contact. “This place is nice. I always thought they were kind of like hospitals. Not like—”
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