by Mila Ferrera
I was wrong.
I have no idea if Phil started up on her again when she went back there. Shortly after she turned eighteen and moved back in with them, I got drunk enough one night to go over to their house. I backed Phil into a corner and told him I’d kill him if he laid a finger on her. I wasn’t a little boy anymore and he couldn’t slap me around like he used to. I practically begged him to try, just so I could kick his ass. He was shaking. He knew I was serious. He might have fooled my mom, but he couldn’t fool me.
My mom threatened to call the police if I didn’t leave.
Katie stood next to her as they watched me go. She looked triumphant. That hurt worse than anything else.
But I have to wonder if Phil couldn’t help himself. Once a perv, always a perv, and Katie decided not to go to California with Mom and Phil when they moved last May. She showed up at my doorstep instead. I thought that was a good sign, but she still acts like she hates me most of the time. Every once in a while, I feel this glimmer of affection, like her old self is trying to break through, but it never lasts long.
I pull into Amy’s driveway. She’s got a nice life, our older sister. Her husband, Derrick, seems all right. He and I used to toss a football back and forth when I was a kid. And my nephews are adorable. Even Katie can’t be miserable when they’re around, which is one of the reasons I wanted her to come. As we get out of my old pickup, Amy appears in the doorway with Reeve on her hip. His chubby hands are fisted in her shoulder-length brown hair.
Katie grins and skips over to them, like her outburst in the kitchen is a distant memory. I twirl the keys around my finger and get out of the truck. Amy and I have never been that close, but she’s the only family member I have who’s even halfway healthy, and I think that’s good for Katie. When Katie came to live with me, I reached out to Amy, trying to reconnect. Sometimes I think Amy wishes I hadn’t.
My phone buzzes with a text. Claudia. Melvin doesn’t come back until tomorrow. Come over again tonight. I shove my phone back in my pocket and follow Katie along the flagstones toward the front door. Derrick owns a landscaping business and his yard is always perfect. “You guys ready for lunch?” Amy calls.
“Yes!” Katie cries, then puts her arms out to take Reeve from Amy.
With a glance at me, Amy hands the toddler over and watches as Katie lifts the boy high in the air, his legs kicking furiously. I can tell Amy’s worried but trying not to show it. “Derrick and Damien are out back. We’re trying to exhaust the kids before it starts to rain.”
As if on cue, there’s a distant rumble of thunder. It’s sunny right now, but I can see the storm clouds gathering. We trail Katie and Reeve inside, where they head to the deck off the kitchen. Through the slider, I see Amy’s already got the meal set up, and my stomach growls.
She smirks. “Saved your appetite for my house, huh?”
“We don’t have a ton of food back at the apartment.” It’s the truth, but it still makes me feel like a loser. “I’ll pick up some groceries tomorrow.”
Amy tucks her hair behind her ear and goes into the kitchen, where she takes some potato salad out of the fridge. I hear the sound of laughter through the screen door. Katie and Reeve, along with Derrick and Damien, who’s five, are out back by the swingset. I wish I was out there with them, especially when Amy says, “How much do you want this time, Caleb? Spit it out.”
My fists clench. She’s making me feel like a beggar. “Katie has a new prescription. If you could just cover—”
She turns around and stares at me. “Another one? Who’s her doctor again?”
I roll my eyes. It’s not like she ever takes Katie to her appointments. I’ve asked her a few times when it was really hell on my schedule, but she’s always got something to do. “Dr. Prihadi.”
She makes a face. “Does he even speak English?”
I run my tongue along my teeth. “Perfectly, seeing as he’s from Grand Rapids. He makes time whenever she needs to see him. And trust me, she needed it this week. He said this Seroquel med might help with her depression because the other pills weren’t enough. But it’s expensive.”
“Is she in therapy?”
“Yeah. She switched up. She’s seeing a Dr. Lancaster? She goes to sessions on her lunch hour. She says she can walk there.”
“How do you know she’s actually going?”
I lay my hand flat on the counter, even though I want to slam it down. “Do you expect me to stand guard over her twenty-four-seven? I have to work. I pick her up and drive her anywhere she needs to go. I take her to all her appointments. I make sure she takes her meds. I put out the fires. I pay the fucking rent—”
Amy’s mouth twists with anger. “You come into my house and say words like that where my children can hear you?”
I take a step back as my temples throb with dull pain. “I’m sorry. It’s been hard lately. I’m trying to make more money.” And if you knew how, you’d think less of me, assuming that’s even possible.
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Derrick could use some guys for fall clean-ups. Long days, but he pays cash.”
“Amy, my schedule’s really weird. I have lessons during the day, classes in the afternoon and at night, all day on Saturday—”
“But obviously they’re not paying well.”
“Could you loan me five hundred, then? I’ll pay you back.” It feels too shitty to ask for it outright.
“I’ll talk to Derrick.”
“Katie’s your sister, too,” I say quietly. “And Mom’s not sending money anymore. She said she would. That she’d do it for Katie. But I think she’s decided she’s done. And now you—”
Amy flushes a lurid shade of pink. “Don’t start, Caleb. I don’t need to be reminded. It’s not like I don’t have responsibilities, too. We’re not exactly made of money here.” She gestures around like that should be obvious, but all I see is a nice house and a nice backyard, new SUV in the drive and new clothes on her back. “If you’d let go of this ridiculous dream of being some grand artist and join me here in the real world, maybe things wouldn’t be so hard for you,” she hisses. “Now. I’m going to take this salad out there, and we’re going to have a nice meal, and you’re going to watch your mouth in front of my boys. If you want a single cent from me, don’t ruin this for everybody.”
She marches toward the door, potato salad in hand, and I hear the words she leaves hanging silent and unsaid in the air between us. Like you ruined everything else.
Chapter Nine: Romy
I twirl my brush on my fingers and roll my shoulders, working out the cramps. Caleb had mentioned an open painting time on Sundays, so I called up this morning to find out when. Daniel answered the phone. He seemed excited to hear that I might show up.
I was here at five sharp, before anyone else. I’d spent the whole day restless as hell. I went out to the lake and sketched for a while as Eric’s words filled my head. You need to reclaim your power … I play with the hem of my ratty painting t-shirt.
After seeing Alex last night, it feels like there’s not much to claim. Just a wishy-washy puddle. Why can’t I be strong? I used to be able to stand up for myself. So why couldn’t I do it last night, when I needed to the most? How do I get that back?
I return my focus to the draft painting I’ve been working on for the past few hours. It’s the front of Sojourner house, but I’ve distorted it, twisted it up. I’ve done it in choppy strokes with ugly colors. It’s terrible, but at least it’s something. There’s a rough shape there, but I don’t know how to capture the anguish inside.
Wind rattles the windows of the classroom and rain taps at the panes. It’s been storming all afternoon, and the steady roll of thunder tells me we’re not through it yet. I’m not looking forward to going out in that. An elderly lady near the front of the classroom is packing up and pulling out her umbrella. Daisy comes down the steps and offers to walk her out. A tubby middle-aged guy with a dent on his barren ring finger keeps glancing back at me hopefull
y, and it’s making me squirmy. I’m thinking about giving up for the night when Daniel comes clonking down the steps and pokes his head in. “Romy,” he says, his face transforming with the brightness of his smile. He looks me up and down, taking in my stained t-shirt and long hippy skirt. His blond hair hangs shaggy over his forehead. “How long have you been here?”
“Awhile. Just playing with something.” I nod at my sad draft painting, and he tilts his head, like he’s trying to figure it out.
“Intense,” he finally says, which means it sucks and he’s too nice to say it. His eyes meet mine. “It reminds me a little of Caleb’s stuff.”
“Except that Caleb’s actually good?”
His mouth quirks up. “Debatable.” He laughs when my mouth drops open. “I’m kidding. I love Caleb’s work. Always have.”
“How long have you known him?”
He takes the stool next to me. “Nearly ten years.”
“You went to high school together?”
“Yeah. His foster family lived next door to my parents. Nice people. They moved away a few years ago, though.”
“Foster family?”
He nods. “He’s had a pretty rough go of it. Never complains, though. Never has.”
“Poor Caleb,” I murmur, thinking of his paintings, all that pain.
Daniel is watching me with a shrewd, amused expression, and I realize I’ve probably given myself—and my interest in Caleb—away. My cheeks get warm, but before I can change the subject to something safer, Daniel yanks up the hood of his jacket and heads for the door. He slaps the middle-aged guy on the back as the man exits the classroom.
“I’m headed out, too,” Daniel says as he pulls his keys from his pocket. “If you’re the last student here, turn off the classroom lights?”
“Sure. Nice chatting with you.”
He opens the front door, and I hear the hiss of rain before he plunges himself into the storm. Puzzled, I turn back to my painting and try to add a bit of intensity and feeling to the image. It’s … it’s not like Caleb’s. His paintings virtually bleed emotion, and mine is flat. Hopeless. I scowl and pluck it from the easel, crumpling it up and tossing it in the garbage. The recycling bin is too good for it. As I’m turning back to the easel, the front door slams, and muttered curses echo in the entryway.
It’s Caleb. He stalks past the classroom, not even bothering to look in. He’s not wearing a jacket—only a soaked t-shirt and jeans that hang from his lean body. Rivulets of rainwater drip from his hair, flowing down his neck. He stomps up the stairs, leaving wet sneaker footprints and scattered droplets in his wake. His head is bowed and his fists are clenched, but he walks slowly, deliberately. Like he knows where he’s going and what he’s going to do. A shiver of anxiety streaks down my spine as I watch him. I rack my brain, trying to remember if anyone else is up there. But I think everyone has left for the night.
I sit there in silence, straining to hear him up there, and a cracking, splintering, clattering sound from upstairs gets me moving. I make sure my phone is in the droopy pocket of my skirt, and I head up the steps quietly. Something crashes to the floor as I reach the top, and I hear a desperate, low curse as I walk through the door. Caleb is nowhere to be seen, but I haven’t taken two steps toward his studio stall when one of his paintings comes flying out, a long slash carved right through the center of it. Ruined. No.
I jog to the end of the room, no longer afraid, my chest filling with horror as agonized curses echo from Caleb’s ten-by-ten-foot space. I lean back as another ruined painting skitters along the floor and comes to a stop in front of me. It’s been ripped completely off its frame. The boy, looking at the closed door. Destroyed.
I peek into the space to see Caleb approaching the large painting at the back of the studio. He’s holding a sharp palette knife in one hand. His breath is rasping in uneven bursts. He raises the knife, but there’s no paint on its edge.
“Don’t,” I say, just loud enough for him to hear me.
He whirls around and grimaces when he sees me. “Why are you here?” he demands. “You, of all people,” he mutters under his breath.
I should step back. He’s much bigger than I am, and he’s barely under control, but he’s in so much pain that I can’t leave him like this. “I was here for the open painting time and saw you come in.”
His hair hangs over his face as he bows his head. “Open painting time’s over.” He turns away and stares at his painting, but he doesn’t raise the knife again. “And this is private space.”
This is my cue to leave. But—“Caleb, I don’t know what’s happened, but don’t destroy any more of your paintings tonight. You’ll regret it tomorrow.”
He laughs, raw and hoarse. “Romy, I have so many regrets that I’m not sure I’d notice if I added a few to the pile.”
“I would regret it tomorrow, then.”
He looks over his shoulder. “Why should that matter to me?” His voice is a razor, a challenge, but I see it in his eyes. It’s not a throwaway question. He really wants to know.
“Because once the art comes out of you, it doesn’t belong to only you, not anymore.” I take a step forward.
“Are you saying it belongs to you?”
I shrug. “I’m saying it belongs to the world, but if you needed something concrete, sure. Part of it belongs to me …” I take another step forward.
“You make it sound so nice. But that’s the problem. No one wants them.” He turns away. His shirt clings to his body, and his bare arms are goosebumped. He must be freezing. Did he walk here from somewhere? What’s happened to him?
I edge a little closer to the stack of paintings against the wall. There are five left. They represent hours and hours of his work and thought and effort. “I … if I had enough money, I would want one. I know there are people who would feel the same.”
He looks up at the ceiling. “God, Romy, can’t you let me break down in peace?” He swipes his hand over his face. I wince as the palette knife comes within a centimeter of gouging his cheek.
“Is that what this is?” I ask gently. “Are you breaking down?” I want to keep him talking. The longer he does, the more chance he has to calm down. To come back to himself.
“I think I might be,” he whispers. His phone buzzes and he rips it from his pocket, gripping it so tightly that I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. “Fucking—stop it—fucking leave me alone,” he grits out, then presses the power button and the screen goes dark. He looks like he wants to throw it to the ground and stomp on it, but instead, he drops it into his toolbox. That alone tells me he’s regaining control.
“Someone’s bothering you?” I ask.
He makes a pained sound in his throat, but doesn’t answer.
“Are you going to paint now?”
He shakes his head. I hold my breath and reach out. My fingertips touch the back of his hand, the one that grips the palette knife. He tenses, but doesn’t pull away. Slowly, I uncurl his fingers from the knife, and I take it from him and drop it into his toolbox. When I raise my head, he’s looking down at me. “Why are you here?” he asks.
“Because it seemed like you needed someone.”
He leans away from me as another strangled sound comes out of him. And that’s when it hits me. He has no one. Maybe he’s lost the person or people who held him together, or maybe they were never there in the first place. Daniel told me Caleb lived with a foster family, so I wonder how long it’s been, that he’s had to fend for himself. My hand finds his.
“I’m here.” It’s all I can think to say. “You can tell me to leave if you want, but otherwise, I’m here.”
He pulls his hand from mine. “You don’t want to do that.”
“Like I don’t want to look at your paintings?” I tease.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Where did you come from, Romy? And why now? You’re making things more complicated.”
My smile freezes. “I am? I-I didn’t mean to.”
He turns t
o me, twisted locks of damp, dark hair skimming his cheeks. “I know you didn’t mean to. But you’re doing it all the same. Every minute you stand here makes things harder to figure out.”
“What are you talking about?”
His eyes squeeze shut. “Nothing. Never mind.”
“Do you want me to leave, Caleb?” I search his expression, trying to figure out what’s going on for him.
He opens his eyes. Stares at me. “I don’t think it’s fair to ask you to stay.”
“Why?” I shiver as his gaze traces along my collarbone and slides up to my face.
“Because I’m a mess.”
“And that means you deserve to be alone?”
He flinches, like everything inside him is raw and tender, like the slightest touch or word can hurt him. “I don’t know what it means. I’m just giving you an escape hatch. And I’m suggesting you take it.”
We are inches apart. Outside, there’s a clap of thunder so loud that I feel it beneath my feet. The lights flicker. Caleb’s gaze meets mine. I lay my palm on his cheek, his stubble rough against my skin. He seems like a wounded animal tonight, shrinking from anything that might hurt him, but as my fingers brush the hair at his temples, he lets out a long breath.
Then, mirroring my movements, he puts his hand on the side of my face. His thumb skims my cheekbone. “What are you doing?” he whispers.
“I’m not sure. What are you doing?”
“I have no idea.” He ducks his head, brushes his lips over mine, and pulls back quickly. The slightest touch, but I feel it in my bones. His eyes lock onto my mouth, and his other hand rises to my face, framing my cheeks with his palms. He tilts my head up. “Say ‘no,’” he says quietly. He touches my lips with his again, lingering a bit longer, sending a wave of intoxicating warmth flowing through my body. “Say ‘stop it, Caleb.’”
I shake my head and weave my fingers into his hair, my curiosity and desire for him taking over. For maybe the first time since my encounter with Alex last night, I am steady and sure. I rise onto my toes to ensure my mouth connects with Caleb’s again. His eyes fall shut. I run my hand along his waist, the lean, hard line of his torso. This is crazy, but right now, I can’t think of anything else I want more than this. His arm slides around my back, and our bodies press together, the rain soaking through from his clothes to mine.