Things are quiet until they call for boarding. No one says anything else about who is sitting where so I assume we’re all sitting in our respective seats. The rest of the trip home is uneventful. By the time we reach our connecting flight in Atlanta, they’ve obviously kissed and made up.
Nate drops Sera off first and sets her suitcase on the sidewalk. She hugs us both goodbye and says, “Don’t forget Markus Finstin a week from Friday, Bastian!” She waits for us to leave before moving toward her house. I turn in the seat to watch her and wonder what lurks inside her home she’s so unwilling for anyone else to be a part of.
33
Sera’s presence since New York has been sparse at best. Her texts are almost cryptic but as infrequently as they’re coming it’s hard to decode what’s said. The longer she’s away the darker things get for me. I’m not accustom to going days without seeing her or hearing from her. She’s just as integral a part of my life as Nate. I recognize how macabre my art is with just a couple of days of her absence, and Nate has pointed out, several times that I’m borderline stalking her.
I’m not following her around but my attempts to ensure her safety include passing by her house, her studio, and the cafe she loves so much. When I see her, I stop to watch and make sure nothing is amiss. I catch a glimpse of her here and there but without getting close, I can’t tell much about how she’s doing, although it appears she lost weight. It’s only been three days since I’ve seen her and we’re going to the Finstin opening next Friday, but somehow she looks gaunt, as though a strong wind could take her away.
The customary five-thirty knock comes. I don’t bother getting up knowing he’ll let himself in. I never have figured out why the gangly motherfucker knocks to begin with. Seeing me on the couch, he stops and closes the door behind him. “Damn, Bastian. Are you back to this?”
Sitting on the couch in jeans with no shirt is not my norm. “Back to what?”
“You sitting around while life passes by.”
“Nah, I just got out of the shower. I’ve been working all day.”
“Really, how many trips have you made by Sera’s today?”
“Fuck off.”
“What are you working on?”
I point him in the direction of the painting.
“Jesus Christ. This is dark.”
“Not all of life is love and roses, Nate.”
“Yeah but it isn’t emaciated women on death’s doorstep, either. This is almost grotesque. Her skin is barely hanging on her bones, her breasts look like a ninety-year-old woman’s, and if that’s what a woman’s pussy looks like at that age, I’m not interested in making it to my later years.” He turns his nose up but it evokes emotion, just not the emotion he normally feels when he sees my work.
I shrug. “Just trying something new.” It’s a lie, and he knows me better than to believe that shit, too. He’s going to call me out in, three, two, one—
“Bullshit. This is all about Sera going off the grid since we got back from New York.”
“I don’t get it. I didn’t do anything to her. She doesn’t know about anything that happened that night. She was mad at you but that rift seemed to be mended by the time we took off. So why’s she avoiding me?”
“Bastian, why do you think I’ve never gotten married?”
“Because women are afraid having your offspring will rip them in half?” I give him a shit-eating grin to tell him I’m fucking with him.
“No, asshat. Because women are fickle. They’re like fashion. Their style changes with the season and what’s selling. For whatever reason, something besides you has her attention. Who cares?”
“I do. I’m worried about her.”
“So call her and ask her what’s up.” His world is always so much more simplistic than reality.
The truth is I’ve tried and if she answers the call is brief and her response is very short. Usually she just doesn’t pick up. My mind goes wild when she doesn’t answer, knowing she’s not answering because he’s there and either won’t let her or it’s not worth the pain she’ll endure if she does. Each unanswered call triggers a trip by her house or out looking for her, just to know she’s all right. It’s all in vain really. I rarely see her; her car parked at her house is meaningless. The curtains are always shut and unless it’s dark outside, I can’t tell if she’s even there. If she’s at the studio, that, too, is meaningless. It’s just a sighting of an automobile because I can’t go in to ensure she’s breathing. The only time I get any real comfort is if she’s sitting on the balcony at Rulatta’s, and that only happened once. Two days ago.
I’m sleeping less, obsessing more. Whoever this guy is has known about me from the start but never had any issue with us spending time together. It’s obvious she’s only talking or responding to me when he isn’t around. The more time that passes the more I realize he’s with her round the clock. At least the last few days he has been. Ever since we got back from New York. She never told me what she had been doing when she disappeared from Nate. Hell, maybe this man knows the truth and has put some sort of restrictions on her.
My guess is her relationship with him is nothing like mine with Zane, who I have effectively avoided since my return. I told him I wanted out. He didn’t listen, so I figure he can deal with whatever bullshit I throw at him until I’m ready to move forward. He can’t punish me, unlike Sera who pays the price often. I keep telling myself to give her some space. I’ll see her next week and I can talk to her then when I know she’s safe, but I’m starting to wonder if she’ll show for Finstin.
Each day that passes, I hear less from her. She quit answering her phone altogether and texts are one-word answers. At least three times a day, I drive by her house, the nighttime visit being the most important. With lights on, if I wait long enough, I can usually see her move in front of a window. I don’t get to see her per se, but I can see she’s okay enough to walk and there doesn’t seem to be any foul play. Sitting outside her house, there are no other cars in the driveway but I haven’t seen her near a window, either. I text her.
Me: We still on for Finstin on Friday?
I don’t have to wait long for her response, which is encouraging.
Sera: Of course.
Me: Great! What time do you want to swing by?
Sera: I’ll be at your house at 6pm
I take a chance and send her one more message.
Me: Can’t wait. I miss seeing you.
She never responds.
The last interaction of any kind I had with her was Tuesday. Her car hasn’t moved in days. There’ve been no lights on at night. Worried doesn’t even begin to describe what I’m experiencing. Something isn’t right, but, without a response, there’s little I can do to help her.
34
I’ve been looking forward to this evening since she told me about it in New York. Tonight is the black tie opening at The West End Gallery for Markus Finstin. I’ve never seen any of his stuff, but Tara’s impressed with his work. Sera went to grad school with him and said he’s a genius. I’m an addict of all forms of art, visual, performing, vocal; I appreciate the effort that goes into all of it. The idea of dinner and an opening with Sera doesn’t make me sad, either. I haven’t seen her since we got back and have had little to no contact, but she texted me this morning to confirm our plans tonight.
Every opportunity I have to spend time with her brings peace to me, even though I know she’s struggling with her own demons. The slices of life she spends with me reassure me she’s safe. There’s so much of her she keeps a secret from the rest of the world, but when we’re together I experience a part of her she doesn’t share with anyone but me. I relish those moments, whether it’s coffee, lunch, museums, or just walking down the street to her studio. I’ll take whatever I can get, but tonight is formal and the closest thing to a date we’ve ever had. All of our encounters before tonight have been last minute, quick calls to see if the other is busy, meeting between meetings, and quick bites to eat while work
ing. But tonight I get her for the whole evening, as my date. The trip to New York doesn’t really register. I hardly saw her and things were tense when I did.
Buttoning the pants on my tux, I notice how far I’ve come in the time I’ve known her. My tux fits like it was made to. I’m not where I want to be, by any means, but my career has life again. Art is flowing from my hands like it did before Sylvie died. I’m completely resurrected, and starting to sense happiness. The last two weeks have been a visit to the past I don’t care to continue, but looking in the mirror, I catch glimpses of the man I used to be. The one Sylvie loved. I’m stronger, even if it’s only a façade. I’ll fake it until I make it.
The situation in New York reminds me daily I have the ability to define who I am. I’m bound and determined to become the type of man Sera needs in her life. The blip with Emily and David was just that: a blip, an experience that showed me that’s not who I want to be. That part of the culture isn’t one I need to experience again. I’ve tried to come to terms with the hedonistic affair, and accept it for exactly what it was. Some days I do better than others.
I know she cares for me but I need her to see I can give her a healthy, dominant guy—one who can steer her in the direction she wants to go. It becomes easier the more I practice; it’s not as forced as it was months ago. Being assertive is absolutely something you can learn if you have the drive to do it. I will never be an ass because it’s not who I am, but, if she needs someone to exert control, to show they care about every move she makes, to guide her, I can be that man in my own way. I straighten my bowtie with a final glance at my reflection. Sylvie would be proud, and that makes me smile.
I wanted to pick Sera up but she insisted on coming to get me. She’s hiding more than she did when we first met. I think her situation has gotten worse, but she refuses to acknowledge what she’s going through as abuse, and, until she accepts that, she won’t get help or get out. I just bide my time, and wait for the day she opens her eyes to the realization I’ve been here waiting.
She’s right on time and steals my breath the moment I see her. She has on a pale yellow dress that highlights her features perfectly, a gorgeous silk shawl, minimal jewelry, and heels that make her legs look a million miles long. She’s stunning. My heart races as her lips turn up in smile. “Hey, Sunshine,” she coos.
“Back at you, beautiful.” When I extend my hand, she takes it, and allows me to spin her for a full-body view. “Wow. If you ever decide to give up sculpting you could have a career on the runway.” I’m not blowing smoke; she truly has the look of someone you’d see on a catwalk. It’s not the plastic image you find in magazines. It’s the exotic, unusual, exaggerated features that you have to study to determine if they’re ordinary or exquisite. I decide on the latter of the two. I can’t take my eyes off her, scanning her from head to toe. The sight never gets boring.
Laughing at me only brings more beauty to her already glorious face. “You ready?” Completely blowing off my compliment, she lets me escort her out to her car.
I offer to drive but she waves me off and sends me around to the passenger side. With the door open, in typical woman’s fashion, there’s enough shit in the front to open a small boutique.
“Just put that stuff in the back seat.”
Carefully, I place her supplies in the back, along with a jacket, a sweatshirt, and a camera case. As I gingerly place the camera bag in the back seat, the embroidery catches my eye as I shut the door. My brow furrows—surely I didn’t see what I thought I had. With the door open again, I lift the black case to see the elaborate, red, embroidered F. Ferry’s undeniable logo. It’s on all his equipment, and it’s how he signs everything. It’s always in the same identifiable script. Raising my head, camera in hand, I watch her fiddle with her face in the mirror. “What?” she asks innocently, noticing me still in the back.
“Are you working with Ferry?” She hasn’t seen the bag.
“No. Why?” The confusion mars her face as fear crosses her eyes.
I don’t respond verbally when I hold up the bag with the logo in her eyesight. Time seems to slow as each muscle in her face falls and her shoulders slump. “It’s not what you think, Bastian.”
I wasn’t thinking anything until she told me it wasn’t what I hadn’t thought it was. The pieces all start to fall into place; mentally, I scroll through the disappearing acts, the awkward looks he gives her the few times we’ve seen him together, his hostile warnings to stay away from her, the bruises, the trips her beau was taking, the disappearing in New York. It all fits with Ferry. Every. Single. Fucking. Detail.
“Goddammit,” I mutter under my breath as I acknowledge what she’s hiding and what I was too stupid to see. Slamming the backdoor shut, I get in and throw myself into the passenger seat, slamming that door behind me. Turning sharply, I glare at her. The lies, deception, the perpetuated stories, and the evasion of the truth cause the anger to boil to the surface. “He’s the one, huh?”
I expect waterworks. That’s what women do to manipulate men, especially when they’ve committed some atrocious crime; they believe tears are like kryptonite. But I’m not fucking Superman. Like a fool, I believed I was her fucking friend and that I was his, too, until recently. But they’ve both used me like a damn puppet. It explains how he knew about my interest in BDSM, about Zane. My guess is he knows about what happened with Emily and David. He played me like a fiddle, and I fell for his fucking song. Her eyes are wide, scared, and hurt, but there’s not a tear to find. She waits. It dawns on me she’s expecting me to react the way he does.
Newsflash.
I’m not Ferry any more than I’m Superman.
I’m just a man who loves her. I run my hand through my hair and release a heavy sigh, resigning myself to whatever she imparts on me next.
Her back presses against the driver’s door. She moves as far away from me as possible without getting out of the car. She’s still unwilling to answer my question. “I’m not going to hurt you, Sera. I thought you knew me better than that.” Devastation washes over me. Ferry had become a close friend prior to the Le Musee trip and Sera thinks I’m the same monster. She’s hidden from me for over a year. Her fear in leaving is she thinks all men are the same. What a cliché! “Please relax. Can you tell me what’s going on? How the hell have I missed this for a year? How did you both manage to keep it from me when I was constantly working with him and hanging out with you? How were we all out of town in the same city together and I didn’t get the memo?”
Her eyes cast downward to her lap in shame. She flinches when my hand finds her chin, lifting her line of sight to my own. Clearing any signs of anger, all she sees is a friend, an understanding man, one who won’t judge or condemn. I purposely soften my tone when I say, “Please help me understand, Sera.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know why, in all the time I’ve spent with Ferry, you’ve never once mentioned you were even friends with him, much less sleeping with him. You could have easily told me you guys knew each other beyond exhibits and never compromised his identity or who he is to you.” It takes an enormous amount of effort to keep from sounding accusatory, but fuck, really? How the hell did she pull this shit off? Am I really that fucking daft?
“We have dinner reservations in twenty minutes, can’t this wait until another night?” She stares out the window behind me.
“I don’t think so but if you want to ditch the evening we certainly can. We can go somewhere else to talk.”
“Tara’s going to be pissed if we don’t show up.” The crack in her voice tells me she doesn’t want to let Tara down but possibly wants to allow someone else to know the truth she’s held in for so long.
“Switch seats with me.” She doesn’t argue this time; she just hands me the keys as we cross paths in front of the car.
We had planned to go to dinner, then the gallery, but the opening starts at seven. Executive decision made, we go straight to The West End to make our app
earance. It dawns on me she had to get permission from Ferry for this evening to have happened in the first place. If she’s not seen where she’s supposed to be that could cause more problems than she already has, but I’m confused why he’s allowing her to be here at all. He hasn’t spoken to me since we last saw each other in New York, and he’s obviously been preventing her from doing so since our return.
As I open the gallery door for her, she dons her game face. No one we come in contact with, including Tara, has any idea she’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Her emotional fortress is erect but it’s not going to hold long. There’s no rush to get through the pieces, so we admire them while Sera points out things she thinks I might not otherwise see. I illustrate his use of color and light refraction, enjoying the beauty in the twisted metal he concocts. As usual, Tara is spot on, and Sera was right: this man is a genius. He’ll be successful. His career is likely catapulting tonight with The West End acknowledging his talent. It’s no exaggeration. Tara has the pull of any New York City gallery. He’s fairly well known internationally, but this will send him soaring in the states.
I recognize the change in her demeanor when she has more than she can handle. On the verge of a meltdown, she plays the obligatory game as long as she can stand. Saying our goodbyes, we wish Markus all the success in the world. He’s gracious, and appreciates our attendance. I’ll never adjust to people knowing me and thinking of me as one of the greats of our time. It’s an honor and a huge responsibility. With her arm tucked into my own, I accompany her back to the car. I help her in while again admiring her unrecognized beauty. She doesn’t see it, which makes her even more appealing. Humility is an elegant quality to possess, and she has it in spades.
“Where to?” I ask.
“There’s a bar on the edge of town. It’s typically pretty low key, an older crowd. We can talk there without interruption.”
I sense her hesitation. “Is that what you want to do?”
“No but not because I don’t want to tell you. I’m ashamed to.” Her eyes close when she says the word ashamed, her voice almost inaudible.
Chimera Page 22
