I’d thought about that a lot, in my dreams, during my runs. If I hadn’t seen him at the hotel, if I’d kept running past, if I hadn’t stopped for a drink of water, would I have been content not knowing where he was, what he was doing? But I didn’t feel like it was luck that had pulled us back together. It felt more like a rubber band that’d been stretched beyond its limits, snapping together before it could completely break.
“Were you surprised to find out?” she asked me gently.
I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“Maybe he should have told you.”
I shook my head violently. “No. Noooo.” I downed my tea. “We haven’t spoken in three years, Elaine.” I set the cup on the saucer a little harder than I’d intended. “It’d be kind of a dick move for him to reach out just to tell me he was engaged to someone else.” No, that was something I would do.
Elaine laughed lightly and finished her own cup of tea. “More?” she asked, picking up my set.
“No, thanks.”
She poured another one anyway and set it in front of me. “Six told me you had a showing.”
“It’s really not that big of a deal. It’s just a co-op. A bunch of artists rotate so we can all have a showing. I wouldn’t have been accepted in a big gallery or anything.”
“Oh, hush. Six showed me the painting…” Her eyebrows scrunched together and she pulled her phone out of her smock. “Here.” She turned the screen my way. My love serpent painting. When I’d caught him looking at it from behind the counter, he’d taken a photo. “This, this right here, is brilliant. You’ve articulated love, and how it sometimes feels to love, with only the one word. Oh, Mira, I’m so impressed.” She placed a hand over her heart.
“It’s just a painting,” I said. Because that’s what it was. It was still truth for me, that love was something I wanted, even if hurt, even if it took everything from me. I’d wrap myself up in the kind of love Six could give me a hundred times if it meant never losing him again.
“It’s not, Mira. The woman is being suffocated by the very thing she wants. And she’s holding it to her, encouraging it to keep suffocating her. It’s beautiful. So beautiful. I want to buy one of your paintings. I’d like to buy this one, but I think this one should be reserved for someone special. Someone who will see it, connect with it, and love it as much as you did when you made it.”
I found myself falling slightly forward, my chest pressed to the table. Elaine’s words made me unsteady. That kind of sincere love for my painting was something I didn’t think I’d ever find. My paintings had been for me. I was often self-conscious at the thought of sharing them, so this showing would be the first time so much of me would be on display. “Thank you,” was all I could manage to say. I scratched my wrists, tugging my sleeves down. “If only everyone thought that about them.”
“The ones who get it, will. And those are the only people you should pay attention to.” Elaine was watching me with a look that made me hurt. I could bask in that kind of pride, but it was uncomfortable to see, uncomfortable to take at face value. Instinct—or maybe it was the voices—told me she was just trying to make me feel better. That she didn’t really mean it. “It’s vulnerable, putting your heart and soul on display for the entire world to devour. What if they don’t respect it, because they can’t understand it? What if they mock, because they don’t have the same talent? Negativity is often bred from a place of self-consciousness. It’s easy to nitpick something when you have—in your mind—skin in the game—competition or some insane belief that someone else’s accomplishments diminish your own. Take it from me. I’m too afraid of the what-ifs to ever unveil my art to anyone other than those who are worthy of enjoying it.”
I knew I’d end up with critics. I’d probably end up with more than I expected, even. I was preparing myself for that, even as I was guarding my heart from it. There was only so much criticism I knew I’d be able to take from people who weren’t me before I shut everything down. “But you’re so good, Elaine, you should. Bring some pieces to the co-op. I’ll smuggle them in.”
She laughed and waved me off. “That’s kind of you, dear, but I’m quite content sharing my pieces with myself.” She tilted her head to the side, a small smile curving her lips, and reached across the table to clasp my hand. “I want you to know, because I have a feeling you aren’t told enough, that what you are doing is brave. And you should be proud of yourself, for putting these pieces out there and for letting everyone see your hurt.”
Oof. She’d hit the nail on the head with that comment. I was so self-conscious about it that I pulled my hand from her grasp. “Not all of it comes from hurt.”
“Of course not. But sometimes loving means hurting.”
It was the simplest explanation for how I felt. I loved Six. And it hurt that I did. I had to change the topic before I went out of my fucking mind. “Show me what you’ve been working on.”
Elaine led me into her studio, still a mess of color, canvas, and tools. She held up a few paintings for me to peruse, some to touch, to feel her through the layers of paint and medium.
“Are you ready for your showing?” she asked me.
I nodded, crouched down as I studied a painting of clouds. I’d helped her with this one, showing her the effect of dried paint flecks in an acrylic impasto, how the dried navy blue paint had given a deeper shadow to the clouds across her canvas. “I’ve been ready for a few months.” Which was true, on paper. But false in the sense that I still hadn’t chosen which paintings to display.
Painting had replaced drugs, but I didn’t just paint. I poured parts of my soul onto canvas. I carved. Words in my head, words that taunted me with their ugliness, words that I made into tragic, beautiful images.
“I probably have too many. It’s hard to decide.”
“I’m excited to go.” She crouched beside me, fingers following mine along the curve of clouds. I owed so much to this woman, for giving life to the man I’d loved with not just my heart, but my soul, the very thing that kept me tethered to the earth. She’d created art when she’d created him.
“Don’t buy anything,” I warned her with a reminder. “If you want something, you can have it.” It was the least I could do, considering that nearly every single painting at the showing was inspired by Six, in some way or another.
She tsked. “An artist doesn’t make a living by giving things away.”
I sank back on my haunches. “Good thing I’m not an artist then,” I said with a smile and a wink.
I pulled myself to standing and reached a hand for her, helping her to her feet. Her skin was soft and seemed paper-thin in mine. I was reminded of her mortality. Feeling as if I was teetering on emotionally shaky ground, I accepted the hug she offered and held her in my arms, letting her scent and the soft beat of her heart soothe me.
She was so much like Six in her silence, but where Six gravitated towards dark things, she gravitated to the light. And somehow, in some way, both of them had seen something in me worthy and wanting for love.
I was so wrapped up in my thoughts of Six that when his voice rang out from behind us, I thought I’d imagined it.
“Mom?”
“Back here,” Elaine called, pulling back. She looked at me briefly before shielding her face. It’d only taken a second for me to see what I suspected.
She knew he’d be here. She knew he’d be coming.
I didn’t have time to prepare, didn’t have a second to lose the emotion I’d given into with Elaine’s hug, before Six was filling the doorway that separated the hallway from the studio.
Upon seeing me, his body stilled. He watched me from the doorway as if I was something deadly, something to be tiptoed around, something to keep his guard up around.
“Six.” This time, I spoke first, breaking the silence.
Beside me, Elaine wrung her hands. “I have everything you want upstairs,” she said to Six, moving away from me and around her son in the doorway. “I’ll be right back.�
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I watched him with narrowed eyes, worried that there was an opening here for Six to see through me. He shifted in the doorway, staring.
“What are you doing here?”
Of all the things I expected him to say, this wasn’t it. After leaving things teetering when he’d left Brooke’s house, I felt imbalanced.
“She invited me.”
“Really.” He didn’t believe me.
I crossed my arms and then uncrossed them when I realized how defensive it appeared. “Apparently,” I began, “someone told her about my showing. Sent her a photo of a particular painting, in fact.” I thought of all the things I wanted to say, things that would die in my mouth.
I’m feeling a little emotionally weak these days, thanks to you.
How could you promise to marry Victoria?
Why didn’t you make me the same promise?
You are a stranger to me.
You were my home once.
I hate you.
I want to hurt you.
I love you.
The last one was the most stubborn to admit, sliding in and around my mouth. I bit the tip of my tongue, hard enough to silence it from breaking free.
“I shouldn’t have told her,” he said, successfully hurting me.
“But you did. That’s why I’m here.”
“You have a car?”
“I took a cab.”
“You can afford one?”
The question was meant to inflict pain, but unlike his other statement, it missed its mark. “I’m gainfully employed, so yes, I can.”
“Hm.” He looked me up and down, and I wanted to hurt him the way he was hurting me. Was this what I had done to him for ten years? Was this my penance?
“Great idea, by the way, offering your services to Tori.” His inflection was sarcastic.
“Right. Tori.” I practically spat the nickname.
“It’s her name.”
“Vic-tor-i-a,” I said, stressing each and every single fucking syllable.
“Mir-a-bel-a,” he replied.
Glaring, I crossed my arms over my chest. “That’s different. I don’t introduce myself with that name.”
He cocked his head behind him. “I saw you two had tea. Did you have whiskey in yours?”
He really wanted to hurt me. “No, I’m sober.”
He laughed, a laugh unlike any of his other laughs. It wasn’t kind. “I’ve heard that before.”
“You said yourself I’m a liar.”
“Many times, if I remember correctly.” His eyes narrowed when he said that.
“Why did you pick Christmas for your wedding?” It popped out, a reaction to the hurt I was feeling. I wished I hadn’t said anything, until I saw his face. His eyes relaxed for a moment, as if he felt some sort of regret before they hardened again.
“Because I’d like a happy memory for once.”
“You’re such a fucking liar,” I hissed, emphasizing fucking with all the power I could. “Victoria says you’re not close to your family.” I lifted a hand to gesture around the room, making the fact that we were in his mother’s home painfully obvious. “You’re lying to her.”
“I’m not lying,” he said, his features smoothing. “She’ll be my family. The most important person in my life.” He said each word slowly, like he knew each word was torture. “I’ll build a family. With her.” With those words, he dropped an anchor on my chest.
I sucked in a breath and bit my lip to keep my hurt from tumbling out. Bit so hard I tasted the metallic tang of blood. I ran my tongue over my bottom lip while I stared at him. “Why are you trying to hurt me?”
“To prove I still can.”
I wanted to lunge across the room, hit him with fists full of rage. They were words I’d said before to him, but not with malice in my eyes. Did that make him better, I wondered? I wanted him to have the power to hurt me, but I didn’t him to destroy me to just to prove he could.
“Well, congrats, asshole. You can. Happy now?” I hadn’t meant to say it to him, but with blood boiling and my heart tearing, I had little control of what came from my lips.
“An eye for an eye, Mira.” I shook my head at him and turned to walk away. His hand touched my shoulder, pushing me gently, but not without heavy purpose. “You hurt me, remember? You pushed me away.”
I looked down at my shoulder and shrugged, removing his touch. I couldn’t deal with that, with the warmth of his skin on mine while his words were filled with acid. “We weren’t good for each other, Six. We’re still not good.” The honesty tore me apart. It was the first time I’d spoken that out loud.
“Bullshit.” His voice was low, and he advanced on me, backing me into the wall. “That’s a lie, and you know it.”
“Which part is a lie? You’re the one who said you worried I hurt too much while we were together. I’m just giving your words back to you.”
“And you told me that wasn’t true,” he reminded me. “So either you’re lying or I am.”
“It’s probably me.” My brain hurt. I didn’t have the energy for the verbal volleying. “Why don’t you just leave me alone?” I asked, knowing I sounded meek.
“You’re the one who followed me. You’re the one at my mother’s home.”
He’d been so crucial to my life, the reason I breathed, the reason I didn’t drown myself with a bottle of pills. But did that make us good for one another? I remembered the good times as strongly as I remembered the bad times. I understood Six on another level, and he’d understood me in kind. It seemed like the ones who knew you so deeply, so intimately, had the power to hurt you more than anyone else. How was that good?
I pushed against him, willing him out of my path. When he didn’t budge, I met his eyes. “Move.”
“Make me.” His eyes were on fire, his arms came up to cage me in. He was waiting for a reaction.
“I’m asking you to move.”
“The Mira I remembered didn’t ask, she fought.” He leaned forward, his lips inches from mine. “She took.”
My lips trembled, and my legs went weak. I was simultaneously feeling the connection—our connection—and feeling a peculiar sort of soreness in my chest. “I’ve changed. I don’t want to be that person anymore.”
“I don’t buy this weak and vulnerable Mira. I don’t believe it. I know you have that fight inside. That was always a part of you, no matter what you did.”
“It’s still there.” I covered my tattoo with my hand. “I’m just better at picking my battles.”
Looking in his eyes, I saw the war raging beneath the surface. He wanted to push, to pull, to figure out who I was now. Was I the Mira who’d fallen madly, deeply, insanely in love with him? The Mira who fought him, who challenged him, who tested his patience?
Or was I the Mira who’d embraced sobriety—albeit begrudgingly—the Mira who’d strived to hurt herself less? Had I turned over a new leaf, or was I still setting them on fire for fun?
“Am I one of those battles?” He always looked at me like that, as if I was an unspoken question in his mind.
And in this moment, I hated him.
“You’re not one I can win.” I ducked down and away from his arms, hurtling towards the door before he had a chance to make me fight.
My chest burned, it ached. It felt good.
I hated him so much.
I loved him more.
18
It was the second night of little sleep.
I stretched across the sheets, to the cool space beside me. If I closed my eyes, and if the voices stayed silent, I could still smell his cologne as if he was still there, still warming my bed. If I relaxed my body enough, I could nearly feel his weight against it. My favorite sound, his heartbeat, still echoed in my head from time to time, and I found my fingers tapping along to its beat across the empty pillow. I could conjure up his taste easily enough, as he’d been the last person my lips had touched. My hand moved to my lips, remembering his warm spice and whiskey taste.
I saw him everywhere, especially in my bed. It wasn’t the bed we’d shared, but the bedroom was where we’d continually found each other.
My legs twisted in the sheets and I saw him sitting at the edge of the bed, pulling his jeans up. I heard the zip and rustle as he reached for his shirt. I smelled his aftershave, heard his whispered goodbye, felt the brief brush of his lips against mine—as real as any reality.
His image dissipated, reminding me that I was alone.
I’d loved him with all five senses, so immersed he was in my body. He was a ghost in my home, a reminder of what I’d let go.
It was incredible to me that I could go years without booze, taste it again by accident, and still not crave it the way I craved Six after going years without seeing him.
Even as he had hurt me the night before, I practically craved it. I wouldn’t be picky with the attention he gave me, and even as I knew that was an unhealthy thought, it was the only one I knew was honest.
A big part of me needed him to hurt me, took a sick sort of satisfaction in it. To prove our connection hadn’t died when I’d ended things three years earlier.
I felt the ache, felt Six’s absence fully.
I’d always said I would do that to him. That I would make his arms remember the feel of me, that I would force him to forever acknowledge the blank space that only I could fill: between in his arms, his lips, his legs. Inside his very soul.
Instead, I was the one walking around the world with an emotional limp, missing a small piece of myself that I knew Six alone carried. I was incomplete. I wanted to be the ghost that haunted him, the way he haunted me.
I had to think, to plan, to figure out what I would do. Their wedding was weeks away, and after a text from Marco, I learned he was taking over the catering for the wedding. Which meant I couldn’t poison the cake.
But there needed to be some kind of conclusion, some sort of ending. The back and forth was exhausting. Like the swirl, I thought, my eyes finding it. There had to be a break, a point where the swirl went off the page, finally.
I just had to figure out when that was.
Pieces of Eight Page 17
