Anything Between Us (Starving Artists Book 3)

by Mila Ferrera

  I’m not stupid enough to think the pain won’t fade. I’m not crazy enough to believe I won’t get through this. But I also believe I’m going to carry this little piece of her inside me, always, and no matter where I go, I’m always going to wish, just a little, that she were there. It won’t stop me from going, though.

  In fact, it’s kind of why I have to leave. I’ve already started to make my plans.

  Tom gives me a rueful look so filled with knowing that I go still. “You tell her … how you feel?”

  I shrug. “I tried.”

  Another grunt. “Stubborn girl.”

  “Yeah.” I both love and hate that about her. Seeing her outside this place a week ago, looking like the world was crashing in on her, it was all I could do not to pick her up and carry her back to my place. It was all I could do not to beg her to change her mind. After she walked away, I spoke with Cathy for a while. I didn’t know what Sasha had told her about me, about us, so I focused on Tom and how he was doing, dodging Cathy’s questions about my plans for the holidays and whether I might come over for dinner sometime.

  I asked if I could visit Tom, seeing as I live just up the street, and she was all excited. But when I asked her not to tell Sasha, her face fell. “I’d think she’d be so happy to know you wanted to visit him,” she said.

  “It’s a little complicated right now,” I admitted.

  She stared at me for a few seconds, and then she said, “She told you, didn’t she? About the testing.”

  “She did.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I hope you didn’t overreact.”

  “I told her I was in love with her,” I said, my throat tight. “Was that overreacting?”

  As if she felt it, she put her hand to her own throat. “Oh,” she whispered.

  I told her I had to get going after that, and she let me walk away with a misty smile that said she might have had a hint about Sasha’s reaction to my declaration.

  But now I’m playing checkers with Tom, and he’s shaking his head. He lets out a husky laugh. “Women,” he says.

  Then he makes some sort of complicated jump that takes out at least four of my checkers. I guess there are some things you just don’t forget.

  Aidan and Brent insist on going to the same bar where I met Sasha. I’m not sure why I agree, but at ten o’clock the night before Thanksgiving, that’s where I find myself. The students have hightailed it out of town, but there still seem to be plenty of people eager to get away from their families to have a few beers.

  I weave my way through the crowd, looking for my friends. I finally spot them on the far side of the bar, sitting right where she sat. My heart clutches with the memory of the first time I saw her, those dark, liquid eyes that made me feel like I was drowning, that smooth skin, that raven hair. I have to force the image of her out of my head.

  Brent waves over the bartender, the same guy who was here that night. Lee, she said his name was. There’s no glimmer of recognition in his eyes as he takes my order, but when he cards me and I hand over my veteran’s ID, he blinks down at it. “Ah,” he says, looking a little guarded. “You’re back.”

  “Hell, I don’t know why we haven’t come here every week,” Brent says, slapping my back. “That was one wild night.” His look tells me that even through the haze of alcohol that night, he noticed some things he shouldn’t have.

  Lee’s eyes narrow, like he sees it too.

  “He meant we enjoyed the drinks,” I say to him.

  “And the service, am I right?” says Brent, waggling his eyebrows and sending rage rocketing along my limbs. Lee and I both move at the same time, which means my friend ends up being hoisted up by both of us.

  Brent’s collar almost rips as we both get in his face, both holding handfuls of his shirt. His eyes are wide as he looks back and forth between the two of us. “No offense!” he says. “Holy shit, I meant no offense!”

  He sinks back into his seat as Lee and I let go. Then Lee and I look at each other. He gives me a slight nod and brings me a drink. “Thank you for your service,” he says before moving on to the next customer.

  “Um,” says Aidan from my other side. “I don’t know what the hell just happened, but that was kind of hilarious.”

  “Yeah,” says Brent. “Absolutely fucking terrifying, but hilarious.”

  “So how are things?” Aidan asks me. “Haven’t heard from you in a while. How’s your mom?”

  “She’s almost finished with this round of chemo. Then we cross our fingers.”

  “Man,” says Brent. “That sucks. I don’t know what I’d do if my mom got sick like that.”

  “Well,” says Aidan, trying on his accountant’s voice, “statistically speaking, you’re more likely to outlive your parents than they are to outlive you.”

  Brent reaches around and slaps the back of his head. “I’m just saying I don’t know how I’d deal, okay?” He looks over at me. “It must be good to be home, though, right? Here if you need them.”

  I look down at my drink. “Yeah,” I say. “But I’m leaving again. After the holidays.”

  “What?” Aidan looks shocked. “Like, back in the army or something?”

  “Nah. I’m still in the reserve, but that’s enough. I’m moving to East Lansing. Michigan State. I’m leaving first thing Monday to go apartment hunting. I’ll move and get settled in December so I don’t have to scramble when classes start.”

  “I thought you were going to Becker,” says Aidan, sipping at a beer.

  “That was the plan,” I say. “But I need a little distance. And East Lansing’s less than two hours away from my parents—only an hour from here. It’s not like I’m going overseas again.” But it’s far enough to get a new start, to not be reminded of Sasha every time I step out of my apartment, every time I meet my brother for a drink, every time I take a walk by the river. She changed everything for me there, and if I have to move on, I need to do it somewhere else. “It seemed like a good time to get a fresh start in a new place.”

  “Wow,” says Brent, setting down his empty glass. “Now I’m thinking about all the freshman girls on the campus who will all be scrambling to get in your pants. I mean.” He gestures at me and shakes his head while Aidan laughs.

  “Not really what I’ll be there to do,” I say. It’s hard to imagine being attracted to someone who just graduated from high school when Sasha’s still on my mind. Suddenly I understand the difference between girl and woman.

  “Do you know what you’ll study?” asks Aidan.

  “I was thinking public policy. Maybe government service.”

  “Bo-ring,” says Brent in a sing-song voice.

  “Oh, and business studies must have been so stimulating,” I say. “You’re practically James Bond over there.”

  “Hey,” says Aidan. “He makes enough money to buy his future wife three wedding dresses, and I’m sure that bought him some stimulation.”

  We all laugh, though Brent hangs his head. “Not as much as you’d think,” he grumbles.

  It’s a good night. I almost forget that I met her right here. I only glance back at the hallway she led me down a dozen times or so. I only find myself looking for her in the crowd every other minute. I only think about her every fucking second.

  This will get better. Her scent won’t be in my coat forever. I’ll stop pressing my nose to it to try to catch a whiff of earth-and-citrus at some point. It’ll fade, along with the sound of her voice in my ear and the way she looked as she came in my arms.

  I’ve survived this long, and I’m not going to fall apart. I’m walking wounded here, but I’m determined to put one foot in front of the other for as long as I have to.

  My phone buzzes with a text. It’s Nora. Are you sure about this? This is followed by a little tearful emoji that makes me roll my eyes.

  I shouldn’t have told her as much as I did. At the time, I was so fucking excited. So fucking sure. And she was easy to talk to and got excited, too.

  All of that
is over now. And by all rights, the right way to answer Nora’s text is to say, No. Don’t. I changed my mind.

  I owe this to her, though. I owe it to myself, too. And so I reply:

  Yes. I’m sure.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  Sasha

  I eat dinner with Dad in the dining hall. There’s a twinge in my heart at the sight of so many solitary old people, and I’m hoping a lot of them get visits tomorrow from their families. I’m taking Dad over to Cathy’s for Thanksgiving dinner. It won’t be for too long, and there’ll be lots of people around to keep an eye on him.

  And then I’ll drop him off here and go back to the house I grew up in, where I’ll continue the task of packing up his stuff, all the objects accumulated over a lifetime.

  Well. Not quite a lifetime.

  I walk Dad back to his room and give him a hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say.

  He nods. Then he smiles and tugs on a lock of my hair. “Stubborn girl.”

  “What?”

  He pats me on the arm, laughs, and shuffles into his room. The nurse, Lisa, gives me a sympathetic look and shrugs. “He’s feisty today.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh, he was having a good old time earlier, playing checkers with his friend.”

  I look around the unit, trying to assess which of the fragile-looking elderly people sitting on the couch might be able to play checkers. “Dad made a friend? That’s great!”

  She shakes her head. “Not a resident. His visitor. He’s been here almost every day this week.”

  My heart thumps. “Which visitor?” Is she talking about Uncle Bob? “Did he sign in?”

  “At the front, I’m sure. Celine brought him back.”

  Who the heck visited my dad? Thoughts of some scam artist trying to swindle senile old people fill my head. “Are you sure he was on our visitors list?”

  She frowns. “We don’t let anyone in who isn’t. They have to show ID. We care about security here.”

  “Okay, then what did he look like?”

  Frown upside-down, she says, “Ohhh, he was a cutie. Tall, blond—”

  Oh, my God. “And really, really polite?”

  She laughs. “Now that you mention it, yes. Every time he said his name, it was ‘Nate, sir. It’s Nate, sir.’” She imitates the low timbre of his voice as if it’s a joke. She has no idea what it means to me.

  “His name would have been helpful from the get-go,” I mutter under my breath.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing. Thanks. I’ll be back to get Dad tomorrow at two.”

  “I’ve already noted it in the chart. We’ll have him ready!”

  I thank her again and head back to the co-op. It’s usually empty at this time of night, especially the night before a holiday, but the second-floor lights are on. I’m not really in the mood to deal with anyone, but I can manage a quick greeting before getting to work. I’m making a vase for Dad’s room, something to warm the space, and a place to put the flowers I plan to bring him each day. I figure he’ll know he’s loved if they’re always fresh. Even when he can’t remember who loves him, maybe he’ll still feel it.

  With that plan in place, I trudge upstairs. When I enter the drafty space, Nora makes a little yipping noise. “I didn’t expect anyone to be here!” she says. “Especially you of all people!”

  She looks totally freaked out. “Look,” I say. “If this is about Nate—”

  She waves her hands. “Not about Nate! Why would it be about Nate?”

  “You don’t have to be all cloak and dagger about it,” I say in a flat voice. “It’s totally fine.”

  “Um.” She squints at me like she’s trying to puzzle out a response. “Thanks?”

  “I should get to work,” I say lamely.

  “I’ve been using the space heater,” she says, her pigtails bobbing on either side of her head. “But if you need it—”

  “Keep it,” I say. “I think you need it more than I do.”

  “But I can wear gloves,” she says, spreading her fingers to show off her fingerless gloves.

  “Yeah, but I was born and raised on the lakeshore, and this is nothing.”

  Her face falls. “I wish you people would stop saying that.”

  “Hey—you’re not headed out of town for the holiday?”

  She shakes her head and slides back onto her stool. “Lots of work to do.”

  “Really?”

  “Holiday orders. Business is good. Etsy—man. They do take a cut, and listings take forever, but it’s really a lifesaver.”

  I look over a display of her pieces, lined up next to a stack of cardboard jewelry boxes and a roll of raffia ribbon. Delicate metal worked with swirls and contours, wrought with incredible care. There’s a boho-chic feel to it that’s super popular these days, but at the same time, seems pretty timeless. “If you want, I can introduce you to Yelena. She owns the boutique downtown and sells some of my stuff. She’d probably like some of this.”

  Nora’s eyes go wide. “You’d really do that for me?”

  “Yeah, because your work is good,” I say.

  Her grin is so wide it’s almost alarming. “I am so glad to hear you say that.”

  “I’m only being honest.”

  “Well. I like your work, too.”

  “I’m glad.”

  We stand there, looking at each other. “I should get a few things done before it gets late,” I say. Then I pause. “Do you have anywhere to go for Thanksgiving dinner?” As soon as the words are out, I want to suck them back into my mouth. If she says she’s spending it with Nate and his family, I’m going to have a straight-up nervous breakdown.

  “No, nowhere to be. I think MacDonald’s is open. Hope so, at least.”

  A pang of sympathy shimmies through me. I understand loneliness more keenly and clearly than most, and Nora is definitely emanating that vibe. “On Thanksgiving? Look, I know you just moved here, but—”

  “I’ve never been into holidays much,” she says quickly. “They were never that fun.” She snorts. “And sometimes they were downright traumatic.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  A shrug. “No hard feelings. That’s my mantra.”

  No hard feelings. Suddenly I’m wondering how Nora ended up in our little co-op, on the eastern shore of Lake Michigan, when she hails from the desert somewhere. I’m wondering if she was running to something or running from it. I’m thinking the latter. But she looks skittish at the moment, and so I decide not to push it. The holidays make a lot of people brittle, and today, I’m one of them.

  “It’s a good mantra,” I tell her. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  She bites her lip and glances at my studio. “Yeah. I … maybe I’m gonna go for the night.” She starts to pack up, looking like she just remembered she left a burner on at home.

  I head back to my stall and set down my purse. And I see it as soon as I turn to my wheel, because it’s sitting right in the center.

  A cardboard jewelry box the size of my palm, wrapped with a raffia ribbon.

  I pivot on my heel in time to see Nora, still wrapping a scarf around her head, bolt for the door. “Nora!”

  She freezes. “Um. I really didn’t expect you to be here tonight, okay?”

  I shake my head, completely confused. “Did you leave this for me?”

  She grimaces. “Yes?”

  “Why?”

  Her shoulders sag. “This is so awkward.” She pauses for a moment, then drops her bag and gloves and scarf and hat. “But you know what? No. No. I’m going to say something.”

  “Oh, dear,” I mutter.

  She stalks forward, jabbing her finger at the box in my hand. “I made that. But it’s not from me.”

  I slide the ribbon from the box and lift the lid. Sitting inside, beneath a layer of tissue, is a cuff bracelet. Inside its metal boundaries is a crisscrossing of silver wire, swirling and entwining. In the center, held by all those threads, is an an
chor. I lift it to the light. “It’s beautiful,” I whisper.

  “We all have our reasons for running away,” Nora says. “I don’t know what yours are.”

  I tear my eyes from the bracelet to meet her gaze.

  “And I’m not sure why you guys aren’t together,” she continues. “He wouldn’t tell me everything. But he did tell me one thing.” She leans forward. “He loves you. A lot. And he wanted you to have that, even though you broke up.”

  “Oh. I … thought maybe you guys …” I swallow. “I figured you were hooking up.”

  “Honestly? I wish. But that’s not meant to be. No hard feelings.”

  It is a good mantra. I put the bracelet back in the box. My body is thrumming with a mixture of confusion and joy and sadness. “He didn’t have to do this.” He has every right to treat me coldly. But he lends me his coat. He visits my dad and plays checkers with him. And now this. “He didn’t have to.”

  She scoffs. “Honey, I know. And you don’t owe him anything, okay? I’m not saying you do. I’m not going to be one of those icky people who suggests that you’re supposed to be with someone you don’t want just because he gave you a piece of jewelry. That’s not what this is.”

  “Good.” I spend enough of my time telling myself what an idiot I am. I don’t really need someone else to do that right now.

  “But you should know,” Nora says. “He’s leaving.”

  “What?” Shock spreads in a cold web across my chest.

  “He’s moving to East Lansing. Leaving Monday.”

  “What?” I shout.

  She nods and gestures at the box. “Check inside. And have a good Thanksgiving.” She walks back to her pile of winter garb, scoops it up in her arms, and clomps down the steps.

  I sit on my stool and set the box on my table. I pick up the anchor bracelet and inspect it again. It looks so fragile; the metal threads seem so thin. But they’re entwined in a way that seems to hold the structure of the bracelet together. It feels solid in my hand. And all of the threads seem connected to the anchor in some way. I don’t know how Nora did this, but it’s absolutely exquisite.