by Skye Warren
Heavy sketch paper sits on top of the table, waiting for me to draw. Except I don’t want to see Giovanni’s face again, not like earlier. I’m haunted by his ghost, but he isn’t around me. He’s inside me.
I could do some studying instead. Or maybe browse Buzzfeed until I’m tired enough to sleep.
They would both be safe enough.
But there’s some kind of demon inside me that flips open my laptop. Some horrible impulse that clicks the bookmarked link. Why do I keep doing this? I can’t seem to stop myself.
The obituary is short and unbearably impersonal. There’s no picture.
GIOVANNI COSTAS, 18, of Henderson, Nevada, passed away of unknown causes.
Unknown causes. My mind had filled in a thousand horrifying possibilities in the years since I found this record online. What happened to him after I left? I remember his slight smile in the dim moonlight, the warmth of his body as he lay beside me. Those memories are bad, but even worse is my imagination—his body beaten, bruised. A bullet in his heart. Someone had hurt him, killed him, most likely because he had helped me. Whatever he did to distract them so that my sister and I could escape, cost him his life.
The temperature in the large room seems to drop a few degrees, and I shiver. On my darker nights I imagine that he haunts me. Selfishly I sometimes wish that he would, if only so I can see him again. The loft remains empty, light wavy on the knotted hardwood floors as clouds cross the moon.
The trill of my cell phone makes me jump.
I slam the laptop lid shut, feeling guilty and somehow afraid. I never told anyone about seeing Gio’s obituary, even my sister. Especially not my sister. She worries about me enough without knowing that I’m grieving.
Sure enough, the phone screen flashes her smile. I snapped that picture while Kip was behind her, pressing his face into her hair. The bliss on their faces burrows under my skin, uncomfortable and hot. Like anyone who’s been burned by love, it hurts to see two people so happy together. I can’t stop looking, though. Can’t stop pressing on that bruise.
“Hey, Sis,” I say into the phone, my voice a little husky with lingering emotion.
“Are you okay?”
“Of course I am.” Only barely, I refrain from saying that I’m always okay, that she has me wrapped up so tight that it sometimes feels stifling. I know it only comes from a place of love, but sometimes I long to break away from her caring arms as much as from my father’s harsh grip.
“I haven’t seen you lately,” she says, her tone contrite. She knows she can be overprotective, and she tries to curb it. Well, Kip helps her with that.
I may have missed a couple of Sunday dinners.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy with school.” And with not telling her about my boyfriend. At least I won’t have to keep that secret anymore. After tonight I’m officially done with Shane. “How have you been?”
“Good.” The smile comes through the line loud and clear. “It’s our third anniversary.”
I flop onto my bed, her happiness stealing away my earlier gloom. At least one of us can be lucky in love. “So what did he get you?”
“Too much. This gorgeous ruby necklace, an all-day spa gift certificate—for two, by the way, so I expect you to come with me. We’ll make it a girls’ day.”
“I don’t want to think too much about this, but are you sure he didn’t mean for you two to go together? Isn’t that a thing people do? Couple’s massage or something.”
She gives a snort-laugh that still manages to sound delicate. “There’s enough money on this thing for two full days of body wraps, facials, massages, and who knows what else. Either you’re doing this with me or they offer an entirely different kind of couple’s massage at this place.”
A flush crosses my cheeks like it always does when someone mentions sex. You’d think being friends with Amy would have inoculated me to this kind of embarrassment. “Okay then, count me in.”
“I can schedule us for the day after tomorrow? After the big reveal, we’ll have something to celebrate.”
I blow out a breath. “Sounds great.”
“Hmm,” she says. “Nervous?”
This is one of the upsides of having an overprotective big sister. She knows when I need to talk. “Only a lot. People are going to take one look at it and think I’m a hack.”
“You mean the amazing, creative, breathtaking piece of art my talented sister made? Yeah, I don’t think so. They’re actually going to think it’s too good for the Grand, considering it used to be a strip club.”
“Umm, they’ll be attending a re-opening gala at said strip club.”
“Hypocrites come in all income brackets.”
“I feel like that should be on a fortune cookie.”
“And don’t worry. Actually, forget I said that. I know you’re worried. That’s part of the artistic process. But while you’re worrying, know that people who love you are going to be standing by your side tomorrow night. And we all see what a shining bright star you are.”
“That should definitely be on a fortune cookie.”
“Trust me, grasshopper. Everything will work out.”
Her words are the warmth and reassurance I need. “Thank you.”
“Anytime. Kip and I will pick you up tomorrow night at six.”
“I can drive.”
“Ha! In that neighborhood? Kip would have a heart attack.”
I’m not sure it’s Kip who would have the heart attack, but I can go along with this. “Okay, pick me up at six. Then the next morning, all-day spas. I want something completely wild and luxurious, like a gold-leaf body wrap.”
“Done.” I hear the smile in her voice. “Now get some sleep.”
“Good night.”
I click off the phone. The orange pieces linger on the pencil ledge, uneaten. I’m not hungry anymore, but I gather them into my hand and carry them across the room. They roll and rest around the glass of water that sits there, half-empty. I take a sip, and the coolness soothes my throat. Stop thinking about ghosts.
The whole apartment is humid from the open window, the evening’s rain steeped in moonlight. I stretch beneath the sheets and curl my body around a pillow. The streetlamp winks at my window, and my eyes fall shut, again and again, snapshots in the dark.
A space between sleep and waking suspends me, turns me inside out. I can’t quite breathe, but I can’t drown. I try to pull myself awake, but exhaustion weighs me down.
Minutes pass, hours.
The sheets wrap around my limbs, trapping me. Sweat slicks my skin, but I can’t fight the heat or the damp. Can’t do anything but fight.
Giovanni’s face hovers above me, incorporeal and wavy. “You grew up,” it says, harsh and accusing.
“Wait.” I know he isn’t real, he can’t be real, but that doesn’t make me any less desperate. My arms reach out, grasping at nothing. “Don’t leave me.”
I wake up panting, alone in my apartment. A dream.
That’s all that’s left of him, of us—a memory.
Streaks of purple break the sky in half. Morning is here. I don’t feel rested at all, even though an entire night has passed. Maybe I’m getting too old to visit clubs so late. Without Shane, I won’t have any reason to. That’s probably for the best. I don’t need another night like this.
Today I have studio time reserved at the university. Since I’m up so early I can walk the halls of the university’s art museum. It doesn’t open to the public until nine, but department students can get in anytime.
With a small groan, I push out of bed and check my phone.
There are a bunch of texts from Shane. I don’t want to read them.
Something dark compels me to.
WTF? Where are you? I get fucked up and you run out on me?
At the emergency room. Hope you’re happy.
I cringe a little at that one. Part of me feels like I should have stayed with him, taken him to the hospital, and taken him home at the end. Except he’s the one
who wouldn’t take no for an answer. How messed up is it to want to comfort your own attacker?
At least I have a text from Amy to boost my spirits.
That bouncer was big in all the right places
That pulls a smile from me—and a blush. I’m glad she went back and had some fun, even though my night ended early. I send back a wink emoji. His heart?
You are such a dork. I love you.
The clock reads 5:30 a.m. If she went back to see him after midnight… Why are you still awake?
Walk of shame
A smile tugs at my lips. Didn’t want the big bad bouncer to wake up and see you?
Boys are so needy
After Shane’s behavior last night, I can’t really disagree. Needy, pushy. I’m done with them, I type. While I wait for her to answer, I delete his messages and block his number.
For real?
I know she doesn’t mean all boys. She wants to know if I’m serious about breaking up with Shane. You were right about him.
I’m sorry
Don’t be. I’m over it.
She sends me a sad-face emoji. Do you need help finding a rebound? I know a bouncer.
That makes me laugh. No rebounds, but I do need hair and makeup for this thing tonight. And maybe some wine.
Then I’m your girl. I’ll come over at four.
I set the phone on the nightstand beside the glass of water. An invigorating breeze wafts in from the open window. I might have to leave it up more often. For now, I close the window and flip the lock.
A quick shower strips the lingering anxiety from my dream. By the time I’m dressed in slouchy pants and a purple cami, my hair tied in a wet knot, I’m ready to face the day.
I take a campus bus to the art building and my student ID lets me into the museum wing. There’s a Rembrandt and Van Gogh in here, though not the recognizable pieces. The collection is eclectic, built through decades of different curators and styles. I love turning a corner and finding something new to examine in a painting I’ve already seen.
But this morning I head for a picture I’ve looked at too long to be surprised. My favorite piece in the exhibit. This one was done by a university student, who went on to some acclaim before settling down to teach art at a high school in Toronto. Such a mundane end for an artist who created this, a photography piece. Not my usual medium, but only film could have captured the eerie flash of night, the splash of trees, the faint silhouette of a face framed by leaves and sky.
I see Giovanni everywhere, even here. Sometimes it’s a comfort that I can still remember him. Don’t leave me. Other times grief twists my stomach inside out.
Why can’t I forget?
Only here, alone in a maze of white walls, staring at a dusty old print, do I realize. The orange pieces I opened last night, the ones I left on my nightstand—when I woke up this morning, they were gone.
Chapter Five
The statue I made for the Grand is an angel, my tribute to the women who worked on that stage. To my sister, to Lola, to Candy. They danced with strength and with grace, rising above the base lust of their customers. They danced to survive. The angel’s dress drapes her body, revealing more than nakedness, the stone fabric wet. Her lips curve in a tempting smile while her eyes are solemn. The vixen and the innocent, wrapped into one holy package.
That piece came easily to me because I knew what it should be. Gratitude for my sister, reverence for the other girls. They drove my design just as much as the proportions and measurements.
My plan is to sculpt the counterpoint next, the archangel Gabriel. Except whenever I draw even the simplest of sketches…I see him instead.
The blank page yawns in front of me, but I can already see the shade beneath his cheekbone, the curve of his eyebrow, the pillow of his lower lip. Frustration burns in my stomach. I want to move past this. I want to move past him.
“You need a model.”
I jump, almost tumbling off the hollow metal stool I’m on. Amy slouches against the large table behind me, messenger bag slung over her shoulder, the scent of fresh pine radiating from her. She raises one eyebrow at me, and I know she’s right. Most sculptors work from models. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again. But the angel came from a different place, a deeper place. I want Gabriel to be the same way.
“No models.”
“But they’re so pretty. And so naked.”
I scrunch my nose at her. “You just want dibs on him when I’m done sculpting.”
She drops her bag on the table and begins pulling out her work. The quilt in the corner covers a wire-frame mermaid that looks a little like me. I modeled for it, but the shape of wire is loose enough that it’s not entirely obvious. Which is a good thing because the piece will be shown in our class gallery at the end of the year, where my sister and her husband will be.
“Maybe,” she says, her eyes flashing with…worry? “Then again, maybe not. You could ask Shane to do it. And in that case, I think I’d have to pass.”
My eyes narrow. “Why would I ask Shane?”
“Well…he’s already here, for one thing. And looking pretty desperate for a way to make things up to you.” She shrugs. “He does have the muscles for it.”
“Oh my God.” I glance around wildly as if Shane is going to suddenly jump out from under a table. The studio space is large, designed for multiple students to use, but we have to reserve time so it’s not too crowded at any moment. “What do you mean, he’s here?”
She pulls out a worn leather satchel that contains her wire-cutting tools. “Downstairs. I didn’t let him follow me in.”
Like the museum after hours, art buildings require our student IDs on the weekends. I rush to the window and peer down at the stone steps, where a very rough-looking Shane waits. His clothes look rumpled, his jaw covered in a sheen of dark-blond scruff. From one story up I can see the dark shadow of a bruise on his cheek and a cut on his lip. “Oh no,” I murmur.
“Ignore him,” Amy says in a tired voice, as if she knows I’m not going to listen.
She’s right. I can’t leave him down there, especially once I spot the bouquet of roses hanging from one fist. I’m not going to get back with him, but I can’t ignore him either.
He has the grace to look abashed when I open the door.
“Shane,” I say, but I don’t know where to go from there. Why did you come here? It’s over.
“I know you’re mad.” He holds out the flowers, waxy petals glistening in the sunlight. “I fucked up. I had too much to drink, and Rick was being an ass—”
“Rick is always an ass.”
“You’re right,” he says, contrite. “You’re completely right. I’m done with him.”
“You can’t be done with him. You’re both on the football team.”
“I mean it. No more late nights. No more partying. I know you don’t like it, babe. Last night was a wake-up call for me.” He runs a hand over his bruised jaw and winces. “I’m ready to make a change.”
Tenderness swells up inside me. Maybe that’s crazy, considering the way he pushed me against the club wall last night. But I’ve always had a weakness for dangerous men, part survival instinct and part reckless desire. “I can’t do this anymore, Shane.”
“That’s what I’m saying, babe. Let me fix this.”
“I can’t see you anymore.” Can’t continue a cycle that isn’t healthy for either of us. And most of all, I can’t pretend I’m not in love with a dead man anymore. “I’m sorry.”
His expression flickers with hurt, with anger. “You’re pissed. I get it.”
“I’m not angry.” My voice comes out mournful enough that I know he believes me. “I’m done.”
He sucks in a breath. “Don’t do this to me, Clara. I need you.”
It’s one of the few times he’s used my real name, and it transports me back to that first meeting at the coffee cart, his uncertainty, his charm. The need clenching his fists in my hair the first time we kissed. There’s some part of
him that does want me, need me. But nothing can really happen between us. It’s not only about his asshole friends or his tendency to drink. It’s about me being hung up on another man.
“Shane…what happened after I left? Who was the guy who stopped you?”
A scowl darkens his face. “I never saw the bastard clearly. By the time that fucking bouncer came around, he was gone.”
Something trembles inside me—uncertainty? Hope? God, I’m so messed up. A shadowy image flashes through my mind, a familiar face. I’ve sketched it so many times. “They didn’t catch his face…like on a security camera or something?”
He snorts. “Security camera? It was fucking nighttime. Besides, no one was looking at tapes. The bouncer told me to get lost. Said I wasn’t welcome at that club anymore, that he’d blacklist me from the entire Party Row.”
I can’t help but wonder how much of his sudden desire to stop partying comes from that. “Shane,” I say as gently and as firmly as I can. “I’m sorry, but it’s over.”
His expression hardens, and I see the sharp edges of the man who hurt me last night. Cold eyes rake over my cami and loose pants, my toes peeking out the bottom in my flip-flops. “I can’t believe I waited for you. Rick was right about you. You’re just a frigid bitch after all.”
The sun flicks through leaves, blinding me for seconds at a time. I watch Shane cross the plush green university lawn.
I know I did the right thing in breaking up. Shane’s parting words proved that, if nothing else. But it still lends a somber air to the afternoon. Tonight is my big break, but I can’t shake the feeling of danger. Of dread. I had the same feeling the day my sister and I had to run. The same day Giovanni died.
Chapter Six
“Without further delay, please let me present to you all an incredible artist and lovely young woman.”
Candy hands me the microphone with an encouraging smile.
I climb the small steps to the temporary stage, my heart thumping inside my chest. A hundred of Tanglewood’s wealthiest people fill the courtyard, swathed in linen and silk and jewels. Some of these same people frequented the Grand when it was a strip club, anonymous and furtive. Now they’re here with a mixture of pride and disdain—and the same prurient curiosity as before.
