Only Between Us

by Mila Ferrera

  Chapter Two: Caleb

  Romy’s cheeks turn a shade of pink that twists my thoughts into all kinds of forbidden shapes. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve just met this woman. She’s one of my students, not some horny sorority girl in a dark club. But I’ve been having trouble prying my eyes from her since the moment I saw her. She’s really cute, with short, reddish brown hair, big green eyes, and a tight little body, not to mention the delicate ink-work of a tattoo on her wrist. I want to slide up her sleeve and see what it says. But there’s something wounded about her, too, something that warns me not to get close. When I found her up here in my space, though, staring at my latest failure like she wanted to run her hands over it, it made me feel jittery and tense. And also, apparently, like an asshole.

  “You could have been up front about this being your space,” she says. “The game-playing wasn’t really necessary.” Then she stalks back to the black-haired guy I’d assumed was her boyfriend until I registered the way he was looking at Daniel when I walked in a second ago.

  “Hey, wait,” I call out, shouldering past Daniel, who’s frowning. I saw how he was eyeing her up, and that means I should back off, but I can’t. “Romy.”

  She pauses halfway to her friend, Jude, who gives me a warning glance, his eyes flashing with big-brother protectiveness. “What?”

  I jog over to her, wishing we were alone. “I’m glad you liked it.”

  Her posture melts a little. “Don’t destroy it. It’s exquisite.”

  I feel her words behind my ribs, deeper inside than I should. “I was … experimenting with something,” I mumble. “I never know what’s going to work out.” I poured my soul onto that canvas. And she saw it. She wanted to touch it.

  Her smile is faint but sweet. “It’s working out. Go with it.”

  “You know a lot more about painting than a beginner would.” I knew it from the moment I saw that dented toolbox of hers. She’s not like those women downstairs, who spread the word to their friends and come on Tuesday evenings to stare at my ass, like I’m the attraction instead of the joy of painting, of creating something from pigment and canvas. But Romy … the way she looked at her paints and brushes … it was like they were a means to salvation, and I totally get that.

  She turns away from me. “I know what I like.”

  God, the slope of her neck makes me want to close my teeth around it. What the hell. “We have an open painting time on Wednesdays. There’s no class, just a chance for people to grab a free easel …” I sound like an idiot.

  And Daniel saves me. “It’s a good time, no pressure. If you guys wanted to come and grab some tips, work on technique or whatever.”

  Jude puts his arm over Romy’s shoulders. “Thanks.” He gazes down at her, his fingers skating over the back of her neck, the place I was imagining tasting a second ago. But his expression is one of concern, not lust. “You ready to go?”

  She nods. She doesn’t look back. They walk together to the stairs and disappear.

  “Mine, dude,” Daniel says to me. “Back off.”

  “What?”

  “Romy. I saw her first.”

  “You did not.” My hands become fists as I realize how stupid we sound. Like we’re fighting over a toy. “She’s got a story, man. Leave her alone. She didn’t come here for that.”

  He grins. “I can change her mind.”

  “I doubt a quick fuck on the floor of your studio is going to do the trick. And aren’t you with Yelena?” She owns a few boutiques downtown and is one of the local rich people who love to come here for a little art … and a lot of sex. Daniel pretty much makes his living that way.

  He fiddles with a roll of floral wire someone’s left on the center table. “Yelena doesn’t care what I do as long as I’m around whenever she wants a ‘private lesson.’ Plus, we’ve been on for a few months. It’s time to move on.”

  “But not to Romy. She’s not your type.” I’m not sure why I even care, but I can’t leave it alone.

  “I don’t have a type. No worries—I was curious. She looks like fun.”

  “I’m not worried. She’s my student, which makes her my concern. Seriously. Leave her alone.” I grab his arm as he rolls his eyes. “I’m not kidding.”

  Something about my voice wipes the smile from his face. “Whatever. Fine.”

  I let him go. “Okay. Thanks.”

  “I wasn’t blowing smoke up your ass about your painting, though. You could finish that up and sell it. Maybe this’ll be the one for you.”

  My laugh comes out bitter. “Yeah. We’ll see.”

  He returns to his studio and I retreat to mine, the one dark patch of earth I control. In every other place, life has made me its bitch, but here, I’m the god. I’m the creator and the destroyer of worlds. I pull my phone from my pocket and check it, praying that all that awaits me at home is quiet and peace.

  No missed calls. My chest loosens. I send a quick text: call if you need anything. Then I unwind the earbuds, thumb to my playlist, press play and let it go, filling my head with noise, the bass and rhythm that scrubs all the shit from between my ears and keeps me from going nuts. I grab my palette knife and stare at the painting against the back wall. A fucking wound is what it is. Festering, bleeding, raw. Layer on layer of pain. Yeah, it’s just oil paint. Only pigment. But it came from me, and every slide and slice of my knife was intentional. It wasn’t some disconnected flail. It was me, mapping out what it feels like to live like I do.

  And I swear, Romy saw that. It makes me feel stripped down and bare, and I’m not sure whether I like it or not. But I practically asked her to come back on Wednesday, so that’s a hint.

  I have no right to be asking any girl for anything, except maybe a no-strings-attached fuck that’ll give us both a few minutes of satisfaction. That I can do. Anything else is an invitation to a freak show.

  I stare down at the palette knife in my hand and fight the temptation to stab it right through the canvas. In front of me I see everything, the ways I’ve fucked it all up, the things I’m lacking. I took the classes. I got the degree. But MFA doesn’t mean much in the real world, just like my mom said before she took off for Cali with my asshole perv of a stepdad. So I’m teaching classes at a co-op so I can have studio space. I’m letting rich cougars stare at my ass like I’m a stripper instead of a teacher. I haven’t sold a painting yet and probably never will, unless I’m willing to sell myself right along with it. It won’t be long before I have to choose between offering “private lessons” like Daniel does or getting what my big sis oh-so-respectfully calls “a real job.” Ah, the choices. Construction worker? Waiter? Both make me want to jam the palette knife through my own throat. But so does the thought of dropping my trousers for the forty-five-year-old wife of the head of the Chamber of Commerce.

  As if on cue, my phone buzzes with a text. It’s from Claudia Dexter, one of the women in tonight’s class and the wife of the CEO of some local furniture company. Daniel told me all about her. He told me to expect this.

  Can we meet tomorrow night to discuss your work?

  I stare at her words, then put the phone away.

  I grab a tube of phthalo green and another of alizarin crimson, and I mix them on the palette. What results is pure inky black, deep as space, deep as the dark night ahead of me. The paint is both a disguise and a big reveal, and in it I hide and bare my soul at the same time. Over and over, a stroke and then a scraping cut. Covering over the mistakes, preserving what’s worth saving. The beat in my head pulls me away from everything and steadies my heart until it pounds, pushing my blood through my veins, washing away my many sins.

  Romy’s voice is what keeps me from pulling the canvas right off the frame. Don’t destroy it, she whispers. It’s exquisite. Her words save the painting, for tonight, at least.

  But it doesn’t matter whether she comes back or not. That’s what I tell myself. She was a moment in time, a few words among millions, a few seconds amidst years. Her face is one o
f many; her body is one more thing I’ll want but never have.

  I wake with a start, nerves jangling. Tense and sweating, I hold my breath. Creak. My stomach turns and I taste bile. Slowly, I sit up and push the sheet aside. I check my phone—3:00 a.m. I stumbled in an hour ago and fell right into bed. I was having a dream. A nightmare, really, the one I have every night. I relax a little and start to lie back.

  Creak. No. Not a nightmare. It’s him. He’s here. Did Katie let him in? Why the hell would she ever do that? My bare feet hit the floor and I’m up. I won’t let this happen again. I’ll kill him if I have to.

  I’m in the hallway and prowling toward Katie’s bedroom when I catch myself.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  I force myself to a stop, bracing my hands on the dingy walls. I suck in a long, unsteady breath as my heart punches against my ribs. We’re safe here. It’s only Katie and me. I’m not a kid anymore, and neither is she.

  Just in case, I creep to the door of her room and peek in. My sister’s breathing is slow and heavy. She shifts, turning over. Creak. It’s the springs of her bed. Nothing more. She’s alone. I pivot on my heel and lean back against the wall, listening to her sleep. She seems so peaceful, so calm. I wonder what her dreams are like. She won’t tell me. I’m the last person she would tell.

  I rub away the tension in my chest and head into the bathroom, where I splash some cold water on my face. It all comes back so quickly, so easily. It’s been years, but it feels like it’s still happening sometimes. I don’t know how to make it stop. Everything I’ve ever tried has failed.

  I dry my face and head to the living room. I’m wide awake now, so I fire up the ancient desktop I picked up secondhand when the university’s computer lab was doing an overhaul. It chugs for a while before letting me open a browser to check my email. And as soon as I see the message waiting for me, it’s like hitting the accelerator on my pulse.

  It’s from my mom. I hold my breath and open it.

  Phil got furloughed from his job and money’s tight. Sorry I can’t help right now. Give Katie my love.

  That’s all it says. But it’s more than enough. I read every word a few times and then read what she’s not saying. I blame you, she tells me. Katie’s your responsibility now. Deal with it.

  “I am dealing with it,” I mutter. I’m just doing a shitty job. I push the heels of my palms into my eyes, watching the colors swirl. It’s better than punching my fist through the screen. Mom isn’t going to send a check this month, which means that I’m on my own. And I could do that … if I only had to worry about myself. I’m twenty-four, for fuck’s sake. I can stand on my own two feet.

  But Katie can’t. She might be twenty-two, but she needs someone to take care of her. And that someone is me now. But Mom promised to help.

  So much for that.

  I pull out my phone and click to Claudia’s text. Can we meet tomorrow night to discuss your work?

  I text back. Meet you at the studio at 9?

  My thumb hovers over the SEND button. Do I want to do this? No. But teaching classes at the co-op isn’t enough, especially not if I’m doing this alone. I send the text, my stomach roiling. And then I toss the phone onto a pile of dirty clothes and collapse onto my bed, emptied out. I punch the pillow and then pull it over my head, praying for simple, black sleep to drown me, bury me deep. “You’ll figure it out,” I tell myself. “You’ll make it right.”

  Whether it’s true or not, I have to keep trying.

  Chapter Three: Romy

  I dream about Caleb’s painting and wake up thinking about it. The luster and the depth sucked me right in, and I slid down walls of black and into the soft crimson pain of it. And it felt okay, because it wasn’t my own hurt. It wasn’t the explosion of red that comes with the memory of Alex’s fist colliding with my face.

  No, it was Caleb’s pain, and part of me wants to know what that’s all about.

  I sit up in my bed, in my new apartment furnished with the nearly pristine furniture my mom was going to throw out when she redecorated the guest wing. I need to shove Caleb and his artwork out of my mind. He’s not my therapy client. He’s my cocky art teacher for a class I might never return to. I have a lot to do this semester anyway. I might not have time for anything extra. In a year, I’ll have my degree, and I’ll be on my way to having a career. It’ll be a good life, helping people. That’s what I’ve always wanted to do. And now I know how easy it is to stumble into that place where you need help. You don’t have to be a reject or a loser. You don’t even have to be mentally ill. All it takes is bad luck and a moment of wishing or wanting or closing your eyes to what’s really going on in front of you. And just like that, you could be one of the damaged ones.

  Like me.

  I look down at my forearm, at the small tattoo I got over the summer, part of my determination to reclaim myself after losing my way so completely.

  Out of difficulties grow miracles, it says. I believe that. I have to.

  This afternoon, I start my internship. All the second year counseling students have their placements, twenty hours per week of practical experience, on top of our coursework. Jude is at the community clinic near campus, and I’m at the domestic violence shelter on the south side. We’ll all meet once a week on Thursdays for group supervision, and I’m dreading it because I know that Jude will be watching, seeing how I’m handling things. He was upset when I told him I wanted the internship at Sojourner House. Too close to what you went through, he said. You don’t need that. Go work at the kids’ psychiatric center or something.

  I told him to fuck off (in a friendly way) and signed up. I know about helplessness and worthlessness, and I know those women are neither, and maybe I can be a part of helping them find themselves again.

  I shower and get dressed and head to campus for my first class, Principles of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. Jude waves and holds out a coffee as I fall into the chair next to his. “Eric says hey,” he tells me. “And wants to know if you want to go to the film festival this weekend.”

  “Maybe. I’m still getting settled.” I was a third wheel for the entire second semester last year, and it’s time I found my own way.

  He gives me a cautious look. “Okay. Let me know.” His expression brightens a bit. “Are you going back for the open painting time at the house of gorgeousness tonight?”

  I laugh. “Probably not. I’ll see how much homework I have.”

  Then our professor walks in and starts class. Dr. Greer is a nice guy. He’s my advisor, and when I missed two weeks of class at the end of January, he actually tracked me down at Jude’s to make sure I was okay. Realizing I was in danger of failing all my classes, I told him everything, and he was amazing. He made arrangements for me to do make up work, referred me to a really good therapist colleague of his, even offered to help me get a restraining order.

  I did everything but that last part. I haven’t spoken to Alex, or even seen him, since the night he hit me. He’s in the law school, which is all the way across campus. Our paths haven’t crossed, thank God. Part of that is probably because I rarely left Jude and Eric’s couch last semester except to go to class. But this semester will be different. I’m going to live my life without all that fear. I’m not going to let Alex keep me from the things I want to do and the places I want to go. Not anymore.

  Dr. Greer smiles at me as he greets the class. He reminds the second years of our group supervision on Thursday and then launches into his lecture. I try to listen, but my mind keeps drifting back to last night, how it felt to have a paintbrush in my hand again, how it felt to stare at Caleb’s canvas. If I could express myself like that, I don’t think I’d need therapy. Maybe I will go to that open painting session tonight at the co-op …

  After class, I drive over to Sojourner House. Its location is confidential, meant to protect the women and children there from their abusers. Everyone there has to agree not to disclose the address, and the police do extra patrols in the neighborhood
just in case. There’s a tall wooden fence around the property, hiding the actual house from sight. I park on the street and press a button at the gate, and they let me in. I hear the giggles and squeals of children as I climb the porch steps and knock at the front door. A woman with blondish-gray hair and a ruddy complexion opens up and greets me cheerfully, introducing herself as Justine, the house manager. As she walks me around the house, showing me where I’ll meet with my clients, I wonder what Justine’s story is. She seems strong … but that doesn’t mean she didn’t get caught in the wrong kind of relationship.

  After all, for the first two months or so, I thought Alex was the man of my dreams.

  Once I’ve gotten the tour, Justine shows me the roster—there are six women and eight children living in the shelter right now. Most of what they need is crisis intervention and case management, help pulling themselves together and making good choices after all they’ve been through. As I listen to her tell me their stories, of Kelly, whose boyfriend raped her and threatened to kill her, of Lily, whose husband has been beating on her for years—and who she may go back to—my heart pounds and my palms start to sweat.

  Maybe Jude was right. Maybe this is too much.

  “Are you okay, Romy? You’re looking pale,” Justine says, her brow creasing with concern.

  “I’m fine, thanks. I’m hoping I can be helpful.”

  She smiles and pats my shoulder. “What they need is someone to listen without judging them. It’s harder than it looks to walk away and start over, and they need to talk to someone who understands. Can you do that?”

  I nod, determined. “Yeah. I can do that.”

  I glare at the blank page, this huge piece of creamy paper taped to my easel. It looks innocent enough, but it’s been persecuting me for the few hours. My palette is all set up, a few basic oil colors, cadmium yellow, phthalo blue, naphthol red, titanium white. My brush is in my hand. The bristles are clean.

  My mind is blank. I’m clenching my teeth so tightly that my head is starting to ache. This was supposed to be a release, my chance to express myself, and I’ve been sitting here at this easel in the back row all evening, staring. There are several would-be artists around me, some teenage girls, all sitting near the front, working feverishly. They remind me of me a few years ago, discovering the joy of putting brush to canvas or paper. There are a few gray-haired elderlies, one man and a few women, mostly painting fruit or landscapes. A few women from the Tuesday class are here, too, and their papers are dominated by images of the lake, a favorite inspiration for a lot of local painters. But I don’t miss how some of them keep glancing toward the stairs that lead to the studios, probably wondering where Caleb is.