Love Triangle: Six Books of Torn Desire

by Willow Winters

  But I accepted my mother’s ambitions in society a long time ago. As Christopher said once, It’s not exactly a hardship. Even if I do have to dive into cold water.

  All the pieces for the show are packed into foam-padded crates stacked along the foyer of the penthouse suite. Daddy’s paying the bill, of course. Mom’s last divorce gave her the smallest payout yet, which had less to do with a prenup and more to do with the man’s failure in the stock market. Only the main piece remains propped against the window, surrounded by tubes of paint and a disarray of brushes. I can’t seem to stop myself from dabbling at it, even though I’ve lost any perspective on whether I’m making it better or worse.

  Mom breezes from her bedroom in a casual blouse of ivory silk and skinny jeans, the perpetual cloud of Chanel achingly familiar. “Oh, baby, are you still working on it? It’s perfect, you know.”

  I twirl a dry paintbrush in my fingers. “This is the one they’ll write about.”

  She comes and gives me a kiss on the forehead. “I’m so proud of you. Everyone is going to be blown away by your talent.”

  Despite our weird money issues, I love my parents. Mom always supports me, and even if she can’t settle down to save her life, that only makes her human. Daddy is puzzled by everything I do, but he’s coming to the exhibit. Cancelled a business trip to Japan to be here.

  The fact that they’ll be in the same room for two hours is cause for concern, but at least neither of them are married to someone else right now. That makes it ten percent less likely to devolve into a screaming match by the end.

  I sigh, flopping back onto the oversize leather couch. “Don’t worry about me. I just need to stare at this for approximately twenty-four more hours, and then I never have to see it again.”

  Mom checks her lipstick in a gold-leaf mirror. It’s already perfect, of course. “Are you sure? I can stay in tonight. Sandra and the girls will understand.”

  “No, you should definitely go out. We haven’t been in NYC in forever.” It was back to LA after the relationship with the German count ended, and thank God for small favors.

  She smiles. “You’re the best daughter.”

  “I really am.” I blow her a kiss. “Now go have fun. That’s an order.”

  After putting a few smudges of Atomic Red on my cheeks, she floats out the door. It will be good for her to meet her girlfriends, even if they are a pack of conniving hyenas. She hasn’t been this excited since before Robert the day trader asked her to marry him.

  And besides, it wouldn’t help for her to hover over me. I really am going to drive myself crazy in the final hours leading up to the exhibit. This piece will get auctioned off at the end of the night, and the money will go to a charity to help victims of rape and abuse. There’s every chance that Daddy will be the highest bidder, not because he likes the painting but because money is the only way he knows how to show his support of my weird interests. Even knowing that, I can’t help but obsess over this piece.

  The other pieces show Medusa in various stages of her life; with her three Gorgon sisters, beautiful and pristine, being held down by Poseidon, being cursed by Athena for the “crime” of being raped in her temple, her hair turned to snakes, her face turning every man to stone. You would think that’s enough tragedy for the Greeks, but then they had to behead her.

  The other pieces tell the story of her life and death, but the centerpiece of the show is a simple portrait like the one that appeared on the wall of the gymnasium, sprung from my rage and fear and helplessness, the look in her eyes mirrored in every girl who walked the hallways with me.

  I had only a few hours between when the custodians went home and when school staff arrived in the morning, which meant I had to work fast—and that was good; the time limit gave me the intensity I needed to complete the piece. The painting in front of me is good. Maybe even my best work, but there’s something missing. A sense of necessity. That I would have painted the wall of that gymnasium or died trying.

  Maybe it’s impossible for something created to exhibit to match that intensity.

  Or maybe I’ve just failed at art in a spectacularly public fashion.

  My phone vibrates with a text from across the room. It’s probably Avery, my best friend from Smith College, who’s staying at a hotel in Times Square. If she offers to get drunk with me, that’s how I’ll be spending tonight, I already know.

  It’s Christopher.

  Two words and suddenly I can’t breathe. Is he texting me to wish me good luck the night before my big show? Does he even remember that it’s tomorrow? Or is this some random Christopher in a city that must have thousands of them, who somehow got my number and is now going to send me an unsolicited dick pic?

  My hands are shaking, which I prefer to attribute to nerves about the upcoming show than about the fact that Christopher is texting me for the first time. Heyyyy, stranger.

  There’s a full two minutes, during which my heart beats approximately twelve thousand times and I think of ten terrifying ways he might have been injured after texting me.

  I’m at the airport about to get in a cab. Do you have plans for dinner or are you going to an uber hip artist spot where they drink kombucha and complain about capitalism?

  A smile spreads over my face before I can stop it. He’s here in New York City. For me. And he’s possibly inviting me to dinner? The suite suddenly becomes a fun-house mirror, everything in all different shapes, leaving me dizzy and out of breath.

  Actually I’m in my hotel room, thinking about slashing this painting, but they only sent up a butter knife with room service. After a moment I send another text, You can come hang out if you want. There’s no kombucha but we can raid the minibar.

  No vandalism until I get there.

  I might have a sensitive artist’s soul, but I’m still a girl.

  A girl with an unfortunate, painful, and totally inappropriate crush.

  Which means I spring up and raid my closet for something other than a paint-splattered tank top and ripped shorts. I pull a brush through my hair, which is about all I can do before falling back on my bed, wondering why I want to impress someone I barely know. It’s not like I’ve never been on a date before. I’ve been on lots of dates, with frat boys who think I’m going to fawn over them for knowing how to kick a ball or making a reference to Kant. Whatever.

  I don’t think Christopher has ever tried to impress me. I also don’t think he wants to get me into bed. At least, he had me naked once and didn’t try anything. So where does that leave us? I’m not fifteen anymore, if that had ever been what kept him away from me. I’m eighteen now, and ironically more fully aware of my cluelessness as a sexual being than I was back then.

  It’s another hour until he knocks on the door.

  And I definitely don’t run to the door or stand in front of it for two whole minutes, trying to catch my breath and pretend like I haven’t been waiting for him since he sent that text. Since before that, if I’m totally honest. Since I sent the invitation, pretending I didn’t care if he ignored it.

  Since he dived in after me through the water, the first person to meet me where I was instead of where they wanted me to be.

  When I open the door, he looks rumpled and travel-worn and so handsome after being on a plane that it’s indecent. “Hey, stranger,” he says softly, his eyes a sleek ocean surface at night. It’s been three years since I’ve seen him, and he looks harder and softer at the same time.

  There are lots of ways I can say hello to him that will make me seem mature. Instead I throw my arms around his broad shoulders and press my face into his neck, breathing him in. “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever made, and everyone’s going to look at it, and I want to die.”

  He stands stock-still for a moment, as if too surprised to even move. Then his arms wrap around me. He holds me like the whole world could batter us from every side and we would still be safe clinging together like this. He holds me like I’m running out of air and he knows the way to the surf
ace. “It will be okay, Harper. I promise you.”

  There are embarrassing tears on my lashes when I pull back. “This would be less humiliating if I were throwing an artistic tantrum and throwing things. Crying is so pedestrian.”

  “I’m sure that vase would make a satisfying crash,” he offers gently.

  The weird thing is I know he would let me throw it, if that’s what I needed. Or cry on his shoulder if that’s what I need instead. “Come inside,” I say, dragging him by the hand so he has to scramble to grab the handle of his carry-on before the heavy hotel door slams behind him.

  I need a minute to compose myself, so I drop his hand and head for the minibar. There are tiny bottles of wine and rum and vodka. “Do you know how to make drinks?” I ask over the clink of little glass containers. “The only things I know how to make have the ingredients in the name, like rum and Coke or a whiskey sour.”

  “Sour isn’t an ingredient,” he says, sounding distracted.

  “Of course it is,” I say, glancing back at him. And then freezing when I see he’s standing directly in front of Medusa, staring at her like she has the secrets of the universe in her eyes. “Oh.”

  “Goddamn, Harper. This is… there aren’t words.”

  My throat suddenly feels dry, and I have to force myself to swallow. I feel strangely buoyant as I stand and cross the few yards between us. “Disappointing? You can tell me.”

  He looks at me like I’m insane. “This is incredible. There’s so much talent, but it’s the way it makes you feel her rage and her vulnerability that’s incredible. It belongs in the museums next to O’Keeffe and Kahlo, and even then people would stop and stare at this.”

  “I didn’t know you knew about art,” I say lamely.

  He shrugs, looking embarrassed. “I don’t, but I spent my free credits taking Ancient Greek Symbolism and History of Portraiture and the Female Gaze after you told me about Medusa.”

  My mouth must be hanging open in a way that’s decidedly unladylike, but he couldn’t have surprised me more if he said he was going to give away all his worldly possessions and become a monk. “You did?”

  “I’m a long way from an expert, but in my amateur and totally biased opinion, this painting is amazing. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Okay.”

  Dark eyes narrow. “You aren’t convinced.”

  “It’s not a bad painting, I’m not saying that. It’s just not the painting. The one I need to show considering I’m only doing this exhibit because of the one I painted on the gym wall.”

  “Is there a photograph we could enlarge?”

  I make a face. “No, that’s not the right way. I just need to show them…”

  “Spontaneity?”

  “Rage.”

  That slow smile again, the one I still remember clearly in my mind all these years later. It’s even more poignant now, knowing that he cares about me enough to take those classes. To visit me on my exhibit when he must have a million things more important to do. “Then let’s show them rage. Should we slash everyone’s tires while they’re looking at the exhibit?”

  “I like your dedication, but parking in New York City is a logistical nightmare already without adding in guerilla artistry to the mix.”

  “Fair,” he says. “So what do you have in mind?”

  “I want to paint something new for them. Something… real.”

  “Like while they watch? Performance art?”

  The idea dawns on me with a lurch and roll, the way the yacht moved beneath me. And then I’m falling with nothing to catch me. Only someone’s here to follow me down. “What if we went to the studio right now?”

  He looks exactly the right amount of scandalized. And being the pragmatist, he glances at his watch. “It’s midnight. How long do we have before they open?”

  “Long enough.”

  For a moment he studies me, and I think he’s wondering whether he’s going to go along with this crazy plan. Wondering more than me, anyway. If there’s one thing this man understands, it’s raw determination. He’ll be in it with me.

  A brief nod. “Breaking and entering it is.”

  That’s how we end up spending all night in a fancy SoHo art studio, its walls bare and white and waiting for the paintings that are stacked in my penthouse suite. That’s how I end up painting a Medusa in swirls of purple and teal and pink using a wooden folding chair as my step stool.

  I don’t know where they planned to put the centerpiece of the show. Probably somewhere front and center, where everyone would see it first. This one’s in the back of the studio. You have to look at every other painting first and turn the corner. And then she blazes at you in all her snake-fueled glory. She turns the viewer to stone, if Christopher’s look of awe is any indication.

  He turns to me, and I’m in awe of this, of him, of his bleary eyes and the smudges of paint from helping me. Of the expression of pride on his handsome face. How did we get here?

  “I don’t want to go,” I tell him.

  “We’ll be back in a few hours. But I’m pretty sure I should shower before then.” He touches his thumb to my cheek, and it comes away teal. “Probably you too.”

  “Should we leave them a note or something?”

  He hands me one of the paintbrushes, this one tinged with dark purple at the tip. “Sign it. That’s enough of a note.”

  I didn’t sign the one I painted in the gym, but I take the paintbrush and swirl my name into the bottom right of the painting, where one of the fierce snakes writhes. “How’s that?”

  “Perfect,” he says, his gaze locked on mine.

  My breath catches. “Thank you for helping me.”

  “No, thank you for letting me be part of this. I went to college with legends in the business world, and I’ve still never seen anything close to this.”

  “Careful, or I’ll start to think you’re complaining about capitalism.”

  He gives me the slow smile. “Never.”

  It’s devastating, that smile and that ambition. Devastating the way I can’t seem to look away from him, not even when he touches my cheek again. This time he isn’t wiping away paint. He cups my face and holds me still. His head lowers in slow degrees, giving me time to stop him.

  My body is incapable of moving right now. Even my lungs are frozen, my throat locked tight. Only my heart beats hard enough to hear. It pulses in my lips, waiting, waiting for him.

  I spent a good part of the past four hours painting lips that are the focal point of this piece—lips that are full of feminine beauty and eternal regret, of desire and revenge. I’ve worked through the meaning of every rise, every indent, translated the shadows, but now that I look at Christopher’s lips, with their masculine utility, I don’t know what any of it means. There’s a secret code written all over his skin, the message plain if only I could read it.

  His mouth meets mine, and for a moment the warmth stuns me. I can only stand there under the gentle press of him, feeling the heat spread through my face and down my neck. Down my stomach and into my legs.

  He touches his tongue against the seam of my lips—a question. And I open my mouth in answer, letting him sweep inside with sleep-drunk desire. We shouldn’t be doing this. There are so many reasons why this is wrong, but his hands on my waist feel impossibly right.

  A sound comes from me, a moan that would embarrass me if I were thinking. I’m only feeling. Only falling and letting him catch me, as if we’re meant to do that forever.

  His tongue slides against mine, and it’s so intimate I have to gasp. The rush of cool air in my mouth, when he had been so hot, wakes me from the strange slumber. I look into eyes dark and heavy-lidded and more shocked than my own.

  He takes a step back, letting his hands fall away. “Shit,” he says softly.

  I haven’t kissed very many boys in my life, not enough to hear all the things they might say after they do it, but this response seems particularly disheartening. As does the way he can’t seem to look me
in the eyes. “Shit?”

  His throat works. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  Why not? That’s what I want to ask. Something to soothe this tangle of hurt and hunger inside me. Instead I say, “Is this because Medusa’s watching? She’s actually not as innocent as she looks.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t.”

  My laugh sounds a little maniacal. “It’s kind of weird that she looks innocent at all, right? That’s not what people usually say, like, ‘oh, she has that girl-next-door look with the snake hair.’ But there’s definitely something innocent about her.”

  “Harper.”

  “She’s not shocked because you kissed her.”

  “You,” he says gently. “I kissed you.”

  “And then you said shit, which I feel like I should tell you, in case you didn’t already know, is not the best thing for a girl’s self-esteem, mythical creature or otherwise.”

  “I’m not sorry I kissed you.”

  “Then why did you stop?”

  “Because you’re high on adrenaline right now. And paint fumes.”

  “You’re doing the whole white-knight thing again, aren’t you? Only this time you’re saving me from you. Boys who think they know better than me are very annoying.”

  “I don’t think if I had kissed you when you opened the hotel room door, you would have been nearly as receptive. Tell me that isn’t true, and I’ll kiss you until we both run out of breath.”

  I consider lying, because I want to know what happens when we’re both out of breath. But I’m a terrible liar, which is how I got caught for doing the painting in the gym even though I hadn’t signed my name. Besides, he’s right about one thing—I wouldn’t have let him kiss me if I hadn’t been delirious from lack of sleep. Does that make the kiss more real or less?

  In the end he leaves me on the sidewalk in New York City, a heavy-lidded bellhop standing with the door open, steam rising from grates in the flush of an industrial dawn.

  Chapter Eight

  INCOMPARABLE

  The studio loses their minds, chastising me over e-mail and talking about procedures way more than any place with the words “creative genius” in their Facebook bio should. Thankfully I sleep through most of that, and by the time I wake up at three p.m., Professor Mills has smoothed things over.