by Lisa Lace
“Vincent’s using you to get to me,” Ethan says quickly, trying to talk faster than I can scream. “I don’t know what his end game is, but he’s not your friend.”
“I don’t believe this. I don’t believe you. You’re saying that Vincent is only seeing me because he’s trying to get to you? By what, dating a girl you haven’t seen in eleven years? If you cared, Ethan, I would have seen you before now. It would be pretty fucking stupid of Vincent to try and use a woman you don’t give a damn about as bait.”
“I love you, Lily.”
“Love? You don’t know what love is, Ethan! You left me here, and you’ve only come back because your ego is so huge that you think everything is about you.”
“You don’t know Oswald like I do.”
“Don’t I? Vincent seems like a good guy to me. He’s respectful and patient, and he doesn’t fuck me and then disappear.”
“Are you saying you haven’t slept with him?”
My eyes widen with disbelief. “Are you really asking me that?”
“I don’t want you to get hurt. You’ve got no idea what you mean to me.”
“Oh my God, you’re unbelievable.” I stand with one hand on my hip. The other picks up my cell from the coffee table. I hold it up to Ethan. “I met him on your stupid app. I met him through your algorithm. You might as well have set us up yourself.”
“I think he hacked the system to get to you.”
“Why? Because it’s impossible that someone smart, rich, and handsome might match with someone like me?”
“You know that’s not what I’m saying.”
“I’ve got no fucking idea what you’re saying. You come in here with flowers, acting like you’re here to offer an apology, but in reality, you’re just trying to get dirt on your rival. I can’t believe you’ve got the nerve to even show up here after what you did to me.”
“I am here to apologize, Lily, but I’m trying to warn you, too. If you don’t want to see me again, fine. But don’t see Vincent either. He’s up to no good.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do or tell me who to date. Vincent treats me like a real human being. He appreciates me. He notices that I’m different from all the girls who’d screw a guy just for his wallet. But you? You treat me just like any one of those girls who’d fuck you for a free meal. Are you so used to having whoever you want in your bed that you’ve forgotten that some of us have feelings? For some of us, it’s not a cheap thrill or a shot at getting noticed in the press. I waited for you, Ethan—for years. I don’t know how I could ever think you were the same person you used to be. I lost you years ago.”
“I’m sorry for how I left back then. I was young and stupid, and I didn’t know how to say goodbye.”
“And last week? What was your excuse then?”
He falls silent, looks down at the ground.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you, Ethan, but I don’t want to be a part of it anymore. I’ve wasted enough time waiting for you to pull it together. Go back to New York. I don’t ever want to see you again.”
“And Vincent?”
“Go!”
“He’s a liar, Lily. He’ll tell you anything you want to hear, but it’s all just games.”
“Then you’ve got something in common, haven’t you?”
“Lily.”
“Get out of here, Ethan. You’ve done enough.”
He leaves. I pick up the sunflowers he’s left behind, twist them up in my hands, go to the window, and throw the petals down on him as he exits onto the sidewalk. I see his shoulders slump as the flowers rain down. Then he steps into his limousine and disappears again.
Ethan
“Cute town,” Jennifer says. “Funny, I can’t imagine you growing up here.”
I follow her gaze around the low skyline and wide streets of Payson. There’s more space here than in New York.
There’s room to breathe.
I nod toward Molly’s Café, tucked down a side street, with the same curling red letters hanging above its door. “That’s where I drank my first espresso. Hated it.”
Jennifer laughs. “What happened? Nowadays I know I better not even talk to you until you’ve had your morning coffee.”
“I guess I found a taste for it eventually.”
My eyes linger on the run-down, cramped café with the cracked curb out front and smeared windows. I smile.
I sniff the toxic black liquid and reach for the warm milk sitting in a plastic jug on the fold-down table by the counter.
Lily stops me. “You’re meant to drink it black!”
“What? Why?”
“That’s just what you do.”
Holding the chipped white china, I pick out a spot for us at two bar stools by the window, looking out at the street. There’s a barber shop opposite. A large man with at least three chins is having what few hairs he has left on his head trimmed by an elderly barber with a terrific gray mustache.
Lily takes a tiny sip from her cup, pretending she likes the flavor, and leans her head against my shoulder, shutting her eyes, content. “I like it here.”
“There’s a better coffee shop opening up the street, you know. They’ve got lattes and Frappuccinos. Stuff that tastes half decent.”
“I know,” she says, “but it’s not the same. I like it here. It’s understated. I can think in here.”
“Really?”
She sits up and smiles. “Sure.”
Her eyes wander around the other people in Molly’s. They all look down and out—a workman with embedded dirt under his nails, a waitress on her break with a blank stare, an elderly woman sitting alone in a booth. Everything inside Molly’s seems to be in slow motion.
“You go to a chain store, and what do you get? Everybody rushing in and out and pretending they’re a part of something. People come to a place like this because they’re outside all that rush and buzz. They’re out of step with the world.”
I look around at the same people, raise an eyebrow, and grin. “Or they’re broke.”
“Artists are made in places like these. They’ve got soul.”
“They’ve got stains.” I look at a damp patch on the ceiling that’s been steadily spreading for months.
Places like Molly’s have lost their appeal to me since Mom died. It depresses me that she worked in joints like this for years, under damp ceilings, surrounded by the outer circles of society. It feels empty and sorrowful in here.
“You take everything too literally,” Lily tells me. “Sometimes you’ve got to tap into what’s under the surface. Yeah, I like this place.”
I turn to face her, a teasing smile on my face. “Okay, Miss Artiste—and what exactly do you spend your time thinking about when you’re here?”
She smiles and reaches above her head, stretching. Her top rises, and I see the smooth skin of her navel, the ridge of her hip. I remember prom night—the first time we made love.
“I think about all sorts of things,” Lily says, that dreamy smile growing. “Traveling, and what I’ll do when we get back. The next thing I’ll paint. Whether a flower chooses when to blossom, or is surprised when it sees the sun. How many books have ever been written. I make up stories for the people sitting around me: who they are, where they’re from, what they’re struggling with. I think about how I’d capture it in a picture. I allow my mind to do whatever it wants to do.”
I listen, and I both admire and envy her. Lily’s mind is truly free; she lets it wander fearlessly. I have to rein my thoughts in, or else they drift into guilt and then blame, and I grow bitter. “I can see why you like the café. Coffee is another thing.”
She grins. “You’ll learn to like it. Trust me.”
We stay for hours and talk. Nobody asks us to leave; they refill our cups for free. I guess it’s nice that we’re not rushed. We’re allowed to just be.
After a long monologue about all her dreams, she says, “Only a few days left until graduation,” she says. “Then we’re both free.�
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I smile, but don’t reply. Inside, I’m panicking. I haven’t told her I’ve been accepted to Columbia. She still doesn’t know I’ve decided to go.
“We can spend the summer planning where we’ll go first.”
I know I won’t stay for the summer. I have a job lined up in New York that will help me save for the first semester. I’m leaving three days after Lily’s graduation.
“Our time has finally come.” Her eyes are filled with fantasies. “Thank you for waiting for me, Ethan. I know these last two years have been hard.”
I’ve been working in a factory and hating every second. Since my own graduation, I’ve grown more and more indifferent to work, and life. Even Lily’s dreams don’t inspire me anymore.
She deserves better than a man who can’t make her dreams come true.
“It’s beautiful out here,” Jennifer says, tilting her head back to gaze at the peaks of the Mogollon Rim. “Very different from the city.”
“It gets old after a while.”
Jennifer rolls her eyes. “Trust you to take the romanticism out of it.”
“What romanticism? It’s just hills and dust.”
“And New York is rats and Broadway. Sometimes you truly connect with the soul of a place. This place has got something about it.”
“Lily used to say the same thing.”
Shooting me a sideways glance, a knowing smile creeps onto Jennifer’s face. “It’s sweet how much you remember.” She looks around again. We’re almost at Main Street now. “And this is where it all happened, hey? The love affair that brought Ethan Steele out of the Big Apple. I can’t wait to meet this girl.”
“I have to make her forgive me first.”
Lily
Tonight is my third date with Vincent.
I try on the same dress for the hundredth time. I’ve cycled through everything in my closet over and over, and nothing seems good enough. I flop down onto my bed tearfully and pull Biscuit into my arms.
“Shouldn’t this feel exciting?” I ask out loud. Biscuit nuzzles her head under my chin and tries to wriggle away because it’s time for food. I follow her to the kitchen, setting down some cat kibble. I lean against the wall, staring at the ceiling. Cracks in the plaster.
“Come on, Lily.” I mutter to myself. “Stop thinking about him.”
Ethan is on my mind. I know he shouldn’t be, and that thinking of him is a pain I don’t need, but the memory of our night together keeps replaying in my head. When I close my eyes, it’s all utterly vivid—the two of us reuniting, in love again.
Except it wasn’t love again, was it?
I pick up a magazine from the counter. It’s already turned to the article about Oswald Solutions, featuring a picture of Vincent sitting casually before dozens of computer screens.
He’s handsome. I stare at his photograph and tell myself I don’t know how lucky I am. What girl wouldn’t dream of a billionaire whisking her away on his yacht, and telling her how special she was under the glowing moonlight? This could be something real, Lily.
I return to my bedroom and put on the pale pink bodycon dress that I wore to a friend’s wedding last summer, followed by strappy heels I found in a bag at the back of the closet. It was a pair my mom bought and passed on to me, since they were too small for her. I’d thrown them in my closet and abandoned them until now.
Standing, I twist in front of the mirror. I wonder if my legs are too wiry, or my frame too slight. There’s nothing you can do about it anyway.
I put on some pale pink lipstick, brush my eyelashes with some light mascara, and run a brush through my hair one last time. Then, I sit by the window, waiting for Vincent to arrive.
He shows up in style; another limousine. Vincent steps out to open the passenger door for me. When I step out onto the sidewalk, I can see other residents leaning out their windows to get a better look. There are some camera flashes, and I scurry to the car. I feel like a mess in an old dress and someone else’s shoes.
I smile quickly at Vincent and dip into the vehicle. He slips in at my side and motions to the chauffeur to drive. “You seem flustered, Lily. Is everything okay?”
I smooth down the tight material of my dress, my skin flushed. I nod. “Yes. I just feel embarrassed with people taking pictures. I look horrible.”
Vincent sets his hand on my knee, as he catches my eyes and smiles warmly. “You look magnificent. I’m proud to have you on my arm tonight. You’re a beautiful woman.”
My flush deepens. Vincent always knows precisely what to say to make me feel special. “Thank you, Vincent.”
I sit back and finally take a good look at him. He’s wearing a crisp, white shirt, the collar open, no tie. His smart pants are black; his belt, Italian. The Rolex on his wrist must be worth thousands. His hair is swept back.
He looks like a movie star again.
I draw in a sharp breath. “Where are we going tonight?”
He smiles. “You’ll see.”
A short while later, we pull up outside The Galleria, an art gallery that I’ve been to many times before. Right off the main street, it sells pieces from local artists—although I’ve been unable to pitch my own. I like to go there sometimes and dream that I see my own work on the walls. “An art gallery?” I say. “What a lovely idea. This is really sweet of you.”
“I’ve booked a private viewing. Let’s go inside.”
It’s a gallery I’ve been to thousands of times before, but I’m impressed with Vincent’s initiative, and that he’s arranged a date which would mean something to me.
It’s empty when we arrive. Vincent has the key. I don’t think I’ll ever get over how effortlessly he takes control. Every door is open to him—almost literally.
The building is divided into eight separate rooms, each of which houses a different collection. Four of the spaces are usually dedicated to the highest-profile local artists. The other four contain special collections.
I head straight for the first area—I haven’t seen the latest collection yet.
As I stand before the first oil painting, I know I recognize the work. The swirling white and blues of the sky, the elegant brushstrokes of a golden field, ivy green trees. I turn to Vincent, confusion on my face. “They don’t usually do prints or replicas here.”
He stands behind me, a knowing grin playing on his face. “What do you mean?”
“This is a Van Gogh. Cypresses.”
Vincent crosses his arms across his body and looks at the landscape, his head tilted to one side as though scrutinizing it. “Indeed it is!”
“They usually do local art here. Weird.”
“You know, I might have had something to do with that.”
I look back over my shoulder at Vincent. He’s grinning from ear to ear like he’s burning to tell me something. I smile in anticipation, my voice slow, “What did you do?”
He circles his arm around my waist, looking over my shoulder at the Van Gogh. “I may have called in a favor with the Met.”
“As in the Metropolitan Museum of Art—in New York?”
“Let’s simply say that I’ve made some very valuable donations over the years. Sponsored eight exhibitions. I’m a ‘friend’ of the Met.”
I turn back toward the canvas, trying to understand what Vincent is saying. “Are you telling me that this is an original Van Gogh?”
“On loan, for one night only.” He gestures around the gallery. “In fact, the whole collection is here only for tonight. I handpicked the pieces I thought you’d most like to see.”
My head starts to spin with wonder. I have never left Arizona; many iconic and brilliant masterpieces have been out of my reach. Now Vincent has brought them here—all for me. “I can’t believe you did this.”
“Do you like it?”
I turn in small circles on my heels, drinking in the works of art that I see around me. I nod, happy tears filling my eyes. “I love it.”
“Take your time, Lily. It’s all ours, all night.”
I run to the next canvas, depicting melting clocks in a barren land. I gasp. “Dali?”
“The Persistence of Memory. One of my personal favorites.”
I’m completely in awe of the painting. My hands are covering my mouth, and I hardly notice that Vincent has pulled me even closer, his chin brushing against my hair. I can smell his woody cologne.
“He never did tell anyone exactly what it meant,” I say. I gaze at those dripping clocks, feeling myself become lost in interpretation. “It makes me feel kind of hopeless, though, when I look at it.”
“It does?” Vincent replies. “I feel liberated. He’s painted a world where time doesn’t bind us.” Vincent himself has created a world where time doesn’t bind us. A whole gallery, an entire night.
The next picture has me shaking with delight. My voice comes out as a squeal. “Monet!”
“Lilies for my Lily.”
My Lily.
The painting, The Water Lily Pond, is one of my favorites. It shows a bridge arching over a pond of pink and white lilies, painted fluidly, no lines in sight. The color forms a soft, pure image.
I turn to Vincent, my palms against his chest. I almost kiss him.
Almost.
I run to the next canvas. Vincent slowly follows with his hands in his pockets. He seems to find my reactions to the art more interesting than the masterpieces themselves.
We spend hours in the gallery, and I’m enthralled by Vincent’s knowledge. Someone who knows art like I do; a chance to share my passion.
“View of Toledo, El Greco. One of only two of his surviving landscape pieces,” I say. I stare at the stormy scene with its wild overcast skies and darkly etched buildings.
I tell Vincent a bit about the piece. “His landscape shows the city he lived in. The artist was born in Crete and lived in Rome before he moved to Spain. Yet, Toledo is the city he captures out of all his travels. It looks fearsome, doesn’t it? I’ve always wanted to go.”
“I went to Toledo once to try and see this very scene—did you know that El Greco moved the cathedral to fit into the image? I guess he couldn’t bear to leave it out.”