Only Between Us

by Mila Ferrera

  As my eyes scan the paintings and sculptures, a few people move aside, and my breath catches as I see the large canvas, prominently displayed. It’s a painting, done with palette knife and oils, a style I recognize as easily as if it were my own. Black squares, threaded with yellow and red, layer upon layer of darkness. But in the center, where there used to be a red, raw gash, an open wound, now there is light. Brilliant white, yellow, pearlescent pink, bubbling up from the darkness, bold and strong. The light squares knit together the darkness, and the very center is still tender, more pink than white, like scar tissue. The edges of the painting are smaller squares of light, like it’s gradually chipping away at the deep darkness. A work in progress. I blink away tears. “It’s your painting,” I say, unable to conceal the rasp of emotion in my voice. Caleb’s arms wind around me, and he speaks in my ear. “It’s what you’ve done to me.”

  My throat is so tight I can barely speak, so I simply squeeze his hands, pressing them hard against my ribs. I can’t handle this. It’s so much that I’m going to start sobbing if I don’t get away. Mascara’s going to run down my cheeks. It won’t be pretty. “I need to go to the ladies’ room. I’ll be back.”

  He lets me go as soon as he feels me trying to get loose. I lower my head and clumsily brush my lips over his wrist, the only way I can communicate that it’s okay, that it’s not him.

  It is, though. It’s him, only him.

  If I stay here another moment, I’m going to tell him that I’ve fallen in love with him, and that’s crazy. Wobbling on my high heels, I move toward the side exit, which I’m hoping leads to a bathroom. I weave my way through the crowd and suck in a shuddering breath as I reach the corridor outside.

  There’s more art here, gorgeous paintings in all sorts of styles. I wander down the hall, searching for the bathroom but getting distracted by the framed pieces. Three of them are bold, in primary colors, and the plates next to them say Daniel Van Vliet. I find myself smiling as I admire them, letting their brazen cheerfulness siphon some of my overwhelm away. Daniel paints like he is, big and unapologetic, and I see why Caleb thinks so much of him as both an artist and a friend. I still owe him a thank you for that night he waited in the rain to tell me I needed to give Caleb a chance.

  “You look beautiful,” says a low voice right behind me.

  Fear streaks up my spine, and I whirl around, nearly wrenching my ankle. He’s right there, too close. Tuxedo, slick blond hair, square jaw, cold blue eyes.

  “Alex,” I choke out, stepping backward as he advances on me. I should have thought of this. Why didn’t I think of this? His family is local. They’re probably friends with the Dexters.

  “You haven’t returned any of my calls, Romy,” he says in a deceptively gentle voice. “Imagine how I feel, seeing you here with another guy?”

  I hold my hands up, needing him to stay back. My fingers twitch in front of me. My eyes scan the hall. It’s so long, and though I can see people coming in and out of the gallery room, I know they won’t hear me unless I scream. “I’m going to go back to the auction,” I say, fighting to keep my voice level as I inch away from him.

  “It won’t start for a few minutes. You can stay here and talk to me.” He takes a step closer, and my shoulder blades hit the wall. I’ve backtracked all the way to the end of the hall, rooms on either side of me. My terror nearly chokes me as his fingers close around my upper arm and he pushes me into a sparsely furnished room with a grand piano occupying most of one corner. “Tell me why you didn’t call me back.”

  He’s between me and the doorway.

  “Alex, I’ve been really busy lately,” I say, needing him to let me get back into the hallway, needing other people around.

  “Busy fucking another guy?” he asks, deadly soft. “I haven’t been able to get you off my mind, and you’re screwing someone else? Do you know what that does to me?”

  I have a sick sense of what it does to him, judging by the eager, cruel glint in his eyes. “Alex, please get out of my way. I’m going back to the auction,” I say in a loud voice.

  “Not until you explain a few things to me.”

  “If you don’t get out of my way, I’m going to scream,” I snap, grimly triumphant as I finally speak up for myself. “I’m going to scream my head off. And you could maybe hurt me before people make it down here, but you’ll still be in a lot of trouble.”

  His jaw clenches, and his eyes flick over to the throw pillows on the couch. Just like that, I can see the plan forming in his mind, and the terror is back. “Romy,” he says, his cool confidence chilling me to the bone, “if I don’t want you to scream, you won’t scream.”

  Chapter Twenty-two: Caleb

  I walk down the hallway, which is longer than any normal hallway should be. It’s lined with paintings, some of which are by people I know. I’d stop to look, but I need to find Romy. She freaked out when she saw my painting, and it wasn’t exactly the reaction I was hoping for.

  I don’t know what I was hoping for, really. Maybe that she would throw her arms around my neck and kiss me. Maybe that she would tilt her head up and whisper that I’ve done the same thing for her. Every time I’ve worked on that piece, I’ve thought of her, how she came to me that night when everything went to hell, how she walked right into my apartment when she could have walked away, how she held me tight when I was disintegrating. How she’s strong, so fucking strong, and it’s deceptive because it’s delicate and subtle, but it’s unbreakable all the same.

  I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with her.

  It’s written all over that painting, and I figured she would see it. Maybe she did, and that’s what made her run away. My chest starts to ache as I stride past Daniel’s paintings. She said she needed a bathroom, and there’s one off to the right, but it’s empty …

  A muffled sob comes from the room at the end of the hall, off to the left. No. She’s crying? Fuck. I hit the doorway, planning to say or do whatever it takes to make it better.

  I pull up short at the scene in front of me.

  Romy’s cowering on the couch, her hands over her mouth, her eyes glittering with tears. There’s a blond guy standing over her, his back to me. He’s got a throw pillow clenched in one hand.

  My fingers grip the doorframe. “The auction’s starting,” I say loudly.

  The guy spins around, dropping the pillow. He’s not that tall, but he’s built, broad and thick-necked, like he works out. “You’re the fag she came here with,” he sneers. “We’re talking. Leave us alone.”

  I step into the room. “You’re Alex, aren’t you?” I ask quietly, raw hatred running toxic in my veins. “You’re Alex.” It has to be. My hands ball into fists.

  Romy moves unsteadily off the couch. “Caleb,” she rasps, and I hold my hand out to her.

  Alex steps between us. “We. Were. Talking.”

  “She doesn’t look like she wants to talk to you.” I’m fighting to control my voice. Every muscle in my body is burning with the desire to lash out.

  Behind him, Romy’s fingers close around a small metal sculpture sitting on an end table. Her green eyes are wide, and her expression is determined.

  “I don’t care what she wants,” Alex snarls. “She—”

  “You don’t care what she wants?” I shout. “I’d say that’s the fucking problem right there in a nutshell.”

  That’s all it takes for him to crack. He lowers his head and lunges, and I’m not quick enough to sidestep him before he barrels into me. My shoulders and head hit the wall, but I raise my elbow drive it down into his back. He lets out a strangled roar and punches me in the stomach, doubling me over. I wrap my arms around his waist and throw all my weight on top of him, thinking only of stopping him from hurting Romy. He crashes to the floor with me on his back, his arms swinging and his legs kicking. I slam my fist into his side and he nearly smashes his heel into my face.

  Which is when Romy marches over to Alex’s head and straight-up kicks him in the face.
r />   He yowls and I get to my feet quickly, ready to put him down if he grabs for her. She’s staring at Alex, her fingers still wrapped around that metal sculpture, which probably cost more than a few month’s rent. I swear, it looks like she’s considering caving in his head with it. And I wouldn’t blame her, but I think she’d regret it tomorrow. I touch her shoulder, and she looks over at me, her expression fierce. She looks back down at him and kicks him in the ribs. He grunts.

  “Listen to me, Alex,” she says with a shaking voice. “When I leave here tonight, I’m going to file a personal protection order. Nothing you do now can stop me. I’ve got a shark of a lawyer who’s going to make it stick. I’ve saved all your messages, so I have plenty of evidence. If you come near me again, you’re going to be arrested, and I will press charges. You can kiss your career goodbye. Trust me, I’m not worth that.”

  “Bitch,” he mutters.

  Her grip on the sculpture tightens, and I put my hand over hers, gently restraining her. Her whole body is trembling, but she stands there, her eyes blazing as he leans on the wall and clumsily gets to his feet, clutching his side.

  “We’re going down to the auction,” she says to him. “If you don’t leave right now, I’m going to call the police and tell them you’ve assaulted me and Caleb. We can do this quiet or we can do it loud. I’m fine with either, so it’s up to you.”

  Romy is a badass. She’s a fucking badass. It’s all I can do not to cheer for her as she stares into his eyes, daring him to try something. And he might be a loser, he might be a pathetic, abusive son of a bitch … but he’s not insane.

  “I’m leaving,” he growls. “Don’t bother with the restraining order.”

  “Too late. Now your choice is that or assault charges. Choose. Wisely,” she hisses.

  He yanks his tux straight and touches his temple, which is swollen and purple. He looks us over, his jaw working, and my heart jolts. I want to tuck her against my side and hide her from his sight—but Romy needs this. She needs to stand on her own and speak for herself. I’m glad she’s getting a restraining order, though. I take the sculpture from her hand and set it on a side table, then lace my fingers with hers. We slowly follow him up the hall, giving him a generous head start. Instead of going into the gallery space, he walks straight through the entryway and out the front.

  Romy pulls up abruptly, gasping. I draw her against my chest as the terror of the last few minutes takes her over. I pull her into a different room, a library by the look of it. Her slender fingers curl into my shirt, and her breaths are sharp and short. I stroke her hair. “You’re all right,” I whisper. “You were so incredibly fucking brave.”

  “If you hadn’t showed up, I don’t know what would have happened,” she says, her voice high-pitched, like she’s on the verge of screaming.

  I don’t know what would have happened either, and it scares me to death. “I did show up, though, and you’re okay, and now you’re going to take the right steps to protect yourself. If he’s got any brains, he’ll leave you alone.” I bow my head over hers, kissing her forehead. “Do you want to get out of here? We can go wherever you want to go.” But I’m not leaving your side, I silently add. There’s no way she’s getting rid of me tonight. I don’t care if I have to sleep outside her door.

  She coils her arms around my waist, her breaths coming a little slower. “No, we’re staying.” She looks up at me with those big green eyes, and I almost tell her exactly how I feel about her. That’s how powerful her gaze on me is. “I want to see the auction, Caleb.”

  “You do?”

  She swallows hard. “Do I look okay?”

  “Are you serious? You look amazing.” I brush a tear off her cheek. It takes serious effort not to crush my lips to hers.

  “My mascara isn’t smudged?”

  I shake my head. “But I know where the bathroom is, if you need a moment.”

  I take her hand and lead her there, then wait outside until she comes out. “It was a little smudged,” she says, giving me an accusatory stare ruined by the mischievous smile on her face.

  “I didn’t notice,” I tell her. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Hell, I’m not sure I want to do this.

  She smoothes her hand over her hair. “Last semester, I let Alex drive me underground for months,” she says. “I let him scare me. I let him make me think I was weak. There is absolutely no way I’m letting him do that again. I want to see your painting sell at auction, and I’m going to sit next to you as it happens.”

  As we walk into the gallery room, my heart is about to crack a few of my ribs. She probably has no idea how terrifying this is for me. What if nobody bids? What will it be like to sit here, suffocating in the silent rejection of something I poured my soul into?

  The auction is already in progress, and we watch a few smaller pieces sell. Romy grabs me a glass of champagne and wraps my fingers around the stem. “Helps with nerves,” she whispers in my ear, her lips tickling my earlobe. That helps with the nerves, too.

  I down that champagne like it’s tap water and she snags me another. I’m pretty loose and mellow by the time my painting is carried to the front, but as soon as it is, that feeling evaporates like dew in the desert.

  “Now we have an original painting, oil on canvas, The Healing by local artist Caleb McCallum,” the auctioneer says, his breath huffing loudly into the microphone as he speaks. “We’re going to start the bidding at four hundred.”

  My stomach clenches. They asked me what my minimum was when I set up the donation, and Daniel told me that was as low as anyone should ever go. He actually told me to make it six hundred because the painting is so large, but I made it four to lessen the chance that it wouldn’t get a single bid.

  Although that’s exactly what seems to be happening now.

  The seconds tick by, and my dread grows.

  “Four hundred in the back,” says the auctioneer, a smile brightening his creased face.

  I sag in my seat, and Romy twines her arm with mine. The sense of relief is overwhelmingly sweet. Someone wants it. Someone wants my painting, enough to spend—

  “Six in the front—eight—” The auctioneer gestures at each bidder. “one thousand—one two—”

  I gape as paddles bob up and down amongst the crowd, people holding up their fingers to indicate how much, more signals than I can translate.

  “Two thousand—two two—two four—”

  Romy is clutching my hand so hard that I think my fingers might break, but I don’t care. She’s the only thing that’s holding me upright.

  “Three six—three eight—”

  Romy kisses my cheek and presses her forehead against my face.

  “Five two—five four—”

  “Oh my God,” I breathe. I squeeze my eyes shut. My head is spinning.

  “Seven thousand—seven two—seven four—my, this one is in demand. Do I have—yes, seven six here—seven eight—”

  I bend forward suddenly and set my elbows on my knees, letting my head hang. My hair falls over my face. Romy lays her free palm on my back. She hasn’t let go of my hand.

  “Eight four—eight six—ah, yes, nine thousand. Anyone, yes, we have ten thousand, ladies and gentlemen—”

  I think I’m having an honest-to-God heart attack. My ears are ringing. “Romy,” I whisper. Get me out of here.

  “Ten—ten five, we have ten thousand five hundred here—eleven—eleven five—twelve to the bidder in the front.”

  Romy makes this little squeaking noise as murmurs begin all around us. I feel her weight at my back, her arm over my shoulders. My fingers are crushing hers.

  “I have twelve thousand—any other bids—we have twelve thousand for this oil on canvas, one of the highest bids we’ve seen for a local artist—at twelve thousand—well done, The Healing by Caleb McCallum, sold at twelve thousand dollars.”

  He bangs his gavel on the podium, and the room erupts into applause.

  The rest of the evening passes in a haze. Lo
ts of people want to meet me. I shake countless hands and smile until my face aches. The house manager who works with Romy is the funniest—she’s obviously tipsy from the champagne and giddy about all the money my painting raised, and I’m pretty damn giddy myself, so we make quite a pair. As she babbles about all the ways the money could be used, I try to listen, but it mostly goes in one ear and out the other. She gives me a huge hug at the end while Romy stands next to me, giggling.

  A few people approach me about commissions, asking for my business card. Of course, I don’t have any, so Romy collects their business cards for me and tells them I’ll be in touch with my contact information. The bidder who bought the painting introduces herself to me—she’s this older lady from Grand Rapids, some wealthy widow who collects art. She tells me she has a daughter who has cancer, and my painting reminds her that miracles can happen. Inspiring, is how she describes it. A lot of people say that to me.

  They can project whatever they want onto the painting. It’s really about one moment in time between me and the woman at my side, private, intimate, only between us. For them, though, it could be a million other things, because Romy was right. Once it came out of me, it belonged to the world, in a way, and people can think what they like.

  What I think: we cannot get out of here soon enough. I have to be alone with Romy. I have some things to say to her.

  Finally, we make our excuses and say our goodbyes. The lights all have golden coronas and everything sparkles as Romy leads me to the door. I’ve had waaaay too much champagne, so it’s a good thing she’s driving. She tucks me into her car and drives away as I slump into the seat.

  “You are amazing, Caleb,” she says, her hand sneaking onto my thigh. “I am so happy for you.”

  I close my eyes and ride the sensation. She squeezes my leg, and my cock starts to swell, all my blood rushing south. “It’s all because of you,” I mumble. I love you I love you I love you—