The Edge of Us

by Veronica Larsen

  I set a hand to my stomach, the contents lurching from side to side and making me ill. I can't stand to look at him for another minute. He sat back for so long, watching me hurt and denying me the answers he held all along.

  "I have to go," I say, half turning from Tobias.

  "I knew you wouldn't be pleased with me when you found out. I knew one day I would have to tell you. But in my selfishness, I hoped the end of my days would come before I had to admit this to you."

  A coldness beyond my control creeps across my heart. I don't want to feel like this toward Tobias, I want to forgive him right now before walking away. But I just can't, it's just too much for me to take in.

  There are a lot of things I wish I could say to Tobias, but I turn my back on him and head back through the house and out the front door. I tell my driver where I want to go, but even as it leaves my lips, the address feels foreign on my tongue.

  New questions replace the old ones.

  Why did Cole leave instead of telling me the truth?

  Sometimes it's not the act, but the covering up of the act that's worse. I might have been able to forgive the relapse, but how can I forgive him for disappearing?

  It's a long drive back into the city. The worst part is, even after reaching my destination, I have to wait on the elevator as the numbers tick past and I climb all the way to the top. Finally, the elevator pings to a stop and the doors open.

  I've never gone looking for Grant. I've never cornered him in person to demand answers because I knew he wouldn't tell me anything Cole didn't want me to know.

  This time it's different.

  This time he'll have no choice.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ANDREW

  I SHOULD KNOW BETTER than to go looking for it, but I flip right to the end of the paper and stare at my ex's picture among the slew of garbage headlines she doesn't deserve to be a part of. It's like a part of me enjoys watering the seed of self-loathing sitting right in the center of my chest.

  Tearing my gaze away, I shut the paper and stare at the trashcan, but instead of throwing the paper out, I clutch it tighter and head to the front desk.

  Janet's on a phone call, but I hang out waiting for her to finish. When she notices me, she grows self-conscious, biting her lip and tucking her hair behind her ear. Not unusual behavior for her, at least around me.

  "Everything alright?" she asks me when she hangs up the phone.

  I smooth out my face, realizing my expression was taut. Her eyes lower to the newspaper I set on her desk.

  "Can you cancel my subscription to this?"

  Janet tilts her head. "Uh, it's not…it's the office's paper."

  "Right," I say. "Cancel the subscription."

  "But, Mila—"

  "She'll be fine with it."

  Janet blinks a few times, making me aware of how I'm coming across.

  "I'd appreciate it," I add, softening my tone.

  Still, she eyes me with curiosity, her gaze softening along with my voice. She catches herself and glances down at her notepad. As she scribbles a note, she mumbles something that sounds like, I'll see what I can do.

  The tension in my chest relaxes. I glance over my shoulder at Mila's office door, which is ajar, then at my watch.

  If it were any other day, I wouldn't think twice about the fact Mila has been out of the office all morning. But it doesn't sit right with me today.

  Just yesterday, Mila returned from her lunch meeting upset. She told me behind closed doors how Cole tricked her into meeting with him alone. To say it pissed me off would be an understatement. I told Mila I would talk to him, but she blanched at the idea. She insisted the best thing I could do was stay away from him, and I agreed, but only because I'm on thin ice with her as it is.

  I called her late this morning to fill her in on a meeting she'd been waiting for me to have, but her phone went straight to voicemail. It's not like her to be unavailable during the workday. The inkling something is wrong has only grown as the day has yielded no sign of her.

  "Do you know where Mila is?" I ask Janet. "I've been trying to reach her all day."

  "She's been out in meetings."

  Multiple meetings might account for her phone being off. Sometimes she turns it off and only checks it between appointments.

  "Thanks," I say, starting to turn before I think of something else. "Do you know who the meetings are with?"

  "Yes, the Kreislers."

  "Kreislers. As in both of them?"

  "That's right."

  I stare past her for a few seconds.

  Hearing she's meeting with the Kreislers makes me wonder if it could be another trap.

  Would Mila fall for it a second time?

  "Hey, Janet?" I give her a small smile and her eyes grow a fraction. "Could you do me a favor? I've to get ahold of someone but I don't have a number for them."

  "Sure. What's the name?"

  "The name is Cole Van Buren, he's the owner of an exhibit here. I've got the address of the gallery if that helps."

  Janet nods and jots down the information I give her. Her gaze fixes on her computer screen as her fingers tap away at the keyboard.

  I know how badly Mila wants to handle everything herself. But she continues to undermine the effect her ex has on her. This might just be the one thing that drags her under. Being independent isn't the absence of outside support, it's knowing when to ask for it. She understands this in business, but in her personal life she's always been defensive of anyone stepping across the parameters of her independence. It's part of what I like most about her and part of what drives me crazy.

  "I found something," Janet says.

  I come around the desk to look over her shoulder at the address and number she's pulled up.

  "What's that?" I ask. "Is that a residence?"

  "No. It's a business, but this is a different one from the one you gave me."

  I tap the desk, staring at Janet.

  I'd been holding out hope Cole was only in the city on a temporary basis. But it's not just the exhibit he's here for. He's got another business here, an excuse to stay as long as he wants.

  The discovery only solidifies my decision.

  "Put the call through to my office," I tell Janet.

  Janet swallows, and I think she knows exactly who Cole Van Buren is and why I'm trying to reach him. Mila will be upset when she finds out, but I'm willing to risk that. The alternative is to watch her unravel again when he's done playing his games.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  COLE

  TODAY IS ONE OF those rare days I'm grateful not to have to stare at her face. I work instead on the thick strand of hair swirling overhead. It blends from black to gray as it transforms into a tiered skyscraper. The brush moves in long strokes as I add color to the sketch of the building. I take careful steps down the ladder as I move back downward.

  For a moment, I forget where I am. The cars honking and people yelling in the distance fade an octave as I watch the way the thick gray paint adds fresh color to the dirty wall, giving it new purpose.

  "Mr. Cole!"

  The urgent shout breaks my focus. Sounds of feet scurrying across the cement bring my attention down to where my students are supposed to be painting. Instead, they are rushing across to where one kid shoves another one for what looks like the second time.

  "Shit," I mutter under my breath.

  I hurry down the ladder, keeping my eyes on the spot where Mannie and Aidan stare each other down, inches apart.

  "Say it again, bitch," Aidan says. "I fucking dare you."

  Concern flickers across Mannie's face and for a moment, I'm sure he'll back down. He's at an obvious disadvantage being the smaller of the two. But then Mannie looks around at everyone watching him. To these kids, backing down from a fight is worse than getting your face pummeled.

  Mannie shrugs, tilting his head to the side. "I said, your mom's a fucking—"

  I reach them just in time and pull Mannie back by the shoulder.<
br />
  "That's enough," I say. "Someone tell me, what happened?"

  A chorus erupts at my question, where everyone around me tries to give an account of the events, sprinkled with swear words and personal opinions irrelevant to the current situation.

  I put up my hands. "Quiet, quiet. Okay, look. I need you all to get back to it, this mural isn't painting itself."

  Everyone slowly disperses.

  "Mannie, Aidan, not so fast. You two, come here."

  They both sulk to a stop. Crossing their arms, they approach me, but both avoid my eyes. It's easy to forget just how young they are. These kids look like they could be finishing up high school, but they're barely thirteen.

  I lower my voice when they reach me.

  "What's going on with you two? I thought you were friends."

  "I'm not friends with that punk ass—"

  "No, no, no," I say, cutting Mannie off. "If you're going to diss someone, you're gonna have to get real. None of this generic crap. Mannie, why are you really mad at Aidan?"

  The boy shrugs, staring past me.

  "Aidan?" I ask. "Why are you mad at Mannie?"

  "Because he's a punk ass bitch—"

  "Alright…maybe you two need to mull over exactly why you're angry before you start beating each other's faces in. Does that sound reasonable?"

  Both kids shrug. I know I'm not bringing my A-game at the moment, but the least I can do is send them home with their noses intact.

  "Mannie, you go wash the brushes—"

  "What? That's some bull—" he starts, cutting off when I raise an eyebrow at him. "Man, whatever."

  Mannie stomps off to the stash of used brushes. I turn to Aidan, who's staring past me with a hardened expression on his face. It would've been easier for me to send Aidan off by himself to clean the brushes, but he's the most difficult kid I've got. The one everyone else has given up on. The last thing he needs is to be sent off on his own when he's upset.

  "Come on," I say, "I need you on the ladder."

  He had already started shaking his head, dismissing my request, until it registered. His eyes grow incredulous. "You want me up there?" He points to the wall above the ladder. "Thought we weren't allowed on the ladder."

  "You'll be fine, don't be scared."

  Aidan's lips turn up. "Never said I was scared. Just thought you had rules and shit."

  "I do. And sometimes I change them…and shit."

  His smile threatens to widen but he holds it back.

  I set a hand on his shoulder and usher him toward the wall. We stand in front of it in silence for a few seconds, watching the others recommence their duties. Half-a-dozen kids wield paintbrushes over the side of the building, the mural coming to life with every brush of color.

  "Alright, everyone, listen up," I say. "Aidan here is going to risk breaking his neck on the ladder. Anyone have a problem with that?"

  I thought there might be some groaning about wanting to climb the ladder too, but those who turned sluggishly toward me as I spoke go back to painting without saying a word. I guess I overestimated the ladder's appeal.

  "I'll take that as a no," I mumble.

  Aidan and I stare up to where the woman's hair twists into the Manhattan skyline. I point to the highest skyscraper. "You can finish that one up."

  "For real, Mr. Cole?" Aidan asks, his enthusiasm peeking through before he manages to contain it. "Yeah, alright."

  I hand him the wet brush and he gets to the top of the ladder. Aidan fills in the first layer of paint with careful deliberation, making sure to not get any paint outside of the sketched margins of the building.

  "You're doing great," I say.

  "Yeah, whatever," he shoots back.

  I shake my head. As dismissive as he pretends to be, I remember how good it felt to be told I did something right at his age. Because the truth is, I rarely got told I did anything right. People like Aidan and me, everyone expects us to fuck up. They expect it so much they encourage it in the way they accept it, as though it's all we're capable of anyway. No one tells a kid like Aidan he can be better, they only remind him of how bad he is.

  "Yo, Mr. Cole?" Aidan says, eyes on the brush. "Who's this girl you keep drawing?"

  I stare up at him.

  He points down to the image of the woman on the wall beside me.

  "The girl in your murals. Is she your daughter or something?"

  "Why would you think she's my daughter?"

  "Because she's little and she always got something bursting out of her, like she's having a fit."

  "I don't have any kids," I say.

  "Ah, I got it wrong."

  "You can't get art wrong. Art is whatever you want it to be."

  Aidan nods, lowering the brush to admire his work. He scratches his nose with his forearm, the brush dangling from his hand.

  "What do you want it to be?" he asks.

  I blanch at the question and he notices.

  "My bad," he says. "That was a dumb question."

  "No. No, that was a great question. When you make something, Aidan, there are only two things that matter: what you want it to be and what it makes other people feel. That's it."

  Aidan stares past me toward the street as though mulling over my words.

  "You just look so old," he says, "thought for sure you had a couple of kids."

  "I'm not old."

  "You old, Mr. Cole. What are you? Thirty?"

  "Get back to painting."

  Aidan starts to turn his attention back to the mural but something catches his eye on the street behind me. He points with the brush and asks, "Who's that guy?"

  Several people walk along the street, but it's easy to tell who Aidan is referring to. A man emerges from the line of parked cars. He stands out like a sore thumb in his sharp black suit. Even at this distance, our eyes connect. He follows along the broken fence, past an overturned shopping cart, and enters the parking lot. I frown.

  "That's an old friend of mine."

  TWENTY-NINE

  MILA

  "MILA ZELENKO, TO WHAT do I owe this grand pleasure?"

  The mild amusement on Grant's face is something I'm familiar with, but it annoys me all the same. I glance down at his business attire. His tie is loosened and he's not wearing a suit jacket. He's either getting ready to go out or just getting in.

  "You don't look surprised to see me," I say as I move past him.

  He closes the door behind me as I step farther inside, taking in my surroundings. Nothing much has changed in the near decade since I was last here. Neutral colored furniture glows under the light of the sun, which shines in from nearly all directions. It's dizzying at first, after walking in from the dimly lit hallway.

  "I thought you might end up here at one point or another," he says, fixing his tie. "But if you're looking for Cole, you just missed him."

  I blink a few times before recovering. Of course Cole is staying here. I shouldn't be surprised, yet my stomach did a flip at the thought of unintentionally coming face-to-face with him.

  "I didn't come here looking for Cole. I came here for you."

  Grant's carefree expression slips a fraction. "How can I help you?"

  He heads into the living room toward a suit jacket draped over one of the chairs. I stay where I am, crossing my arms and eyeing him carefully.

  "You can help me by telling me what happened to Cole on my wedding day."

  Grant hesitates as he reaches for the jacket, head turning enough to put me in his peripheral. He picks up the coat and slips his arms into it, keeping his back to me.

  "I already know what your father did," I say. "Now I want to know what happened after."

  He turns back around, letting me spy the incredulous look on his face.

  "My father told you? Wow. I thought he'd die before he owned up to that one."

  I swallow at the casual way Grant throws around the idea of his father dying. I'm sure his father is immortal in his eyes. Grant misses my reaction. He straightens th
e front of his suit and clasps the first button before walking over to me again.

  "Sorry, Mila. I don't think I should be the one to tell you."

  He tries to pass me but I step in front of him.

  "Really, Mila? You're like four-feet tall. What are you going to do? Fight me? Come on, get out of my way."

  "No." Arms still crossed, I stare up at him, eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring.

  "You can't face him, can you? You don't want to hear it from him."

  "I'll decide if I want to talk to him, if and when I have all the facts," I say.

  The idea of it makes me nauseous. Nothing I've learned changes what I went through all those years. But it doesn't matter anymore.

  Grant looks off to the side and shakes his head, then drags a hand across his mouth.

  "It's not like he remembers much of it anyway," he mutters.

  "I know you found him, Grant. I want to know the rest of the story."

  He nods, still looking past me. His chest falls on a resigned exhale.

  "My father called Cole up to his suite to have a talk with him," he says. "When Cole didn't come back, I went looking for him. I found him sprawled out on the floor. It was fucking scary. I thought he was dead, and I didn't know what to do. His father came in after me and saw him too. He arranged for Cole to be snuck out to the hospital. There was some press covering the wedding and he said he didn't want a scene. I thought he was trying to protect you and Cole from the embarrassment, but it became clear later all he cared about was covering his own ass, protecting his company name. It took years of public relations to fix Cole's image and his father preferred for everyone to think Cole walked out on you rather than to know he'd relapsed. Cole was in no condition to weigh in on the matter…"

  I wait, but he doesn't continue.

  "There's more. What happened after?"

  He shrugs. "Cole was in the hospital for a few days, then his father took him straight to a rehab somewhere out west. That's all I know. I didn't see Cole until almost a year later. He disappeared again on and off. I don't know what he was up to, but I know he wasn't doing well. Not until three years ago."