Beautiful Confusion (New Adult Romance) Room 105

by Whitefeather, Sheri

  Clearing my mind, I walked onto the grounds of The Manor and headed toward the garden, where Abby would be waiting for me. The garden was available on visiting days, with wrought-iron benches beneath big shady trees. Of course there would be a staff member nearby. There was always someone within eye-range.

  The mission of The Manor was to help the residents grow and change, providing the tools they needed to return to society and live productive lives. The program included things like mood management, social skills, and cognitive behavior therapy, along with cooking classes and other group activities. Once the basics were tackled, job interests and education were explored. The average stay was six to eight months, but some people required longer care. It was impossible to know how long Abby would be here.

  I noticed her sitting off by herself. She preferred the company of her make-believe people to the other residents.

  “Hey, sis,” I said, and sat next to her. Abby appeared fresh and clean, her short blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ears. At least she’d gotten the concept of bathing regularly since she’d moved into The Manor. “You look nice.”

  “Thank you.”

  Before our conversation turned stagnant, I glanced at the flowers. African lilies decorated the walkways, and combinations of annuals and perennials, like lavender, poppies, and hibiscus, made a colorful presentation. “It’s always so pretty in the garden.”

  “I like it.”

  “It’s good that you’re living at The Manor for now.”

  “It’s okay. It’s better than Carol always peering at me from beneath her lashes. She can’t be trusted.”

  It was useless to argue with Abby’s paranoia, especially when Aunt Carol was the subject of it, but I couldn’t stand for Carol to seem like a villain. “She’s always taken good care of us. And she loves you, Abby.”

  “She still can’t be trusted.”

  I sighed. “I think she can.”

  “She doesn’t watch you the way she watches me.”

  “She’s protective of both of us.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  That was true. But I didn’t have Abby’s illness, thank heavens. At least now I knew that I was sane. Funny, how meeting someone who resembled the warrior had helped me tackle my fears.

  “Guess who’s here?” Abby said.

  Obviously it was one of her people: Bud, Face, Dingo, or Smiling Seven. “I can’t begin to guess.” Any of them could have showed up. “Why don’t you tell me who it is?”

  “It’s Seven. Do you want me to tell him hello from you?”

  “You can tell him whatever you want.” Smiling Seven was inspired by Nikki Sixx, the bass player for Mötley Crüe, and the very first character Abby had ever created. When she was little she used to sit on Mom’s lap and watch their videos. Then, a few years after our parents died, Smiling Seven began to appear.

  But he wasn’t an adult then. He was young, just a couple of years older than Abby was at the time. He loved rock and roll, and wanted to grow up to be a musician, so whenever he appeared, they would spend countless hours listening to music and dancing around her room.

  But there was more to him than met the eye. Right from the start, Abby claimed that he “knew” things that other people didn’t know. According to my sister, he had psychic abilities and had earned the name Smiling Seven because he had a secret smile that boosted his power.

  Nowadays, she described him as tall and lean and dangerously handsome, with messy brown hair and a boatload of tattoos. He’d become a musician, of course, and was working on his career.

  I often worried about his influence on her. I suspected that she’d always had a bit of a crush on him, and he was just too wild for a girl like Abby. I wished that she hadn’t created him, but I didn’t have any control over her delusions.

  She gestured to the empty space in front of her, where I assumed our visitor was standing, lording over the garden like the hot commodity he supposedly was. “Seven thinks that being at the loony bin is fun.”

  “You shouldn’t call this place that.”

  Abby waggled her fingers, waving at her hallucination. She and Seven were always waving at each other. “I didn’t call it that. He did.” She paused as if she were listening to him speak his clairvoyant rhetoric. “He’s trying to get a reading on you. He thinks something is up.”

  I squinted into the sun, where Seven was supposed to be. He was notorious for threatening to reveal what he knew, which never turned out to be anything. “There’s nothing to read.” Nothing except my meeting with Duncan, and I wasn’t going to let on about that.

  “I’ll bet there is.” Abby stared straight at me. “You seem different.”

  I was different. Better. Calmer. “Everything is fine.”

  “Seven doesn’t believe you.”

  “Seven isn’t real.”

  Abby got frustrated, as she often did, flailing her arms around, the tree above her looming like a woodsy ghost. “He’s as real as the warrior. Seven says so.”

  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. It almost seemed as if Seven had just gotten a reading on my experience with Duncan. But that was impossible. The rocker wasn’t standing off to the side, morphing into a genuine psychic.

  “What do you think his name is?” Abby asked.

  “What? Who?”

  “The warrior. He has to have another name when he’s here. People in this world have regular names.”

  “I have no idea what he’s called.” Nor did I want to continue this conversation. “Can we please talk about something else?”

  “You’re acting weird.”

  Look who was calling the kettle black. A schizoid who didn’t know reality from a hole in her head. “You’re always weird, so we’re even.”

  “When the warrior shows up, he’s going to prove that everything I said about Room 105 is true.”

  “He isn’t going to show up.” Duncan was already here, but he wasn’t the warrior.

  “Do you think that’s why he hasn’t appeared yet? Because we never gave him a regular name? Maybe that’s what he’s waiting for.”

  I didn’t reply, hoping that if she remained quiet, this discussion would go away.

  No such luck. Abby persisted. But she was always relentless in her pursuits. “Seven thinks we should do it now.”

  “I’m not helping you give him a name.”

  “Then I’ll do it myself. Let me have your phone so I can get on the Internet.”

  I shook my head. I didn’t want any part in this.

  “Give it to me or I’ll throw a fit and make everyone else stare at us. Then I’ll tell them how mean you are.”

  “Fine.” I removed my phone from my purse and handed it to her. I wasn’t in the mood for one of my sister’s tantrums. Besides, what difference would a fake name make?

  Abby got online and dallied around, taking her time, scrolling from site to site.

  I coaxed her to hurry things along. “Come on, sweetie. Just pick one and be done with it.”

  “Don’t try to butter me up.”

  “By calling you sweetie?” I often used endearments for her. I leaned sideways, gently bumping shoulders. I didn’t like it when we fought. “I said that because I love you.” I gave another little nudge. “Even if you’re a pain in the rear.”

  My sister laughed and the tension between us faded. We sat in companionable silence, with Abby making her slowpoke search.

  Then she said, “I’m trying to find a name that means warrior. How about Boris? No, that sounds too harsh. Oh, here’s another one. Evan. No, wait. That means young warrior, and our warrior isn’t a boy anymore. Oooh. This one is perfect. Duncan.”

  I flinched, my pulse jumping, my breath catching. How could Abby have stumbled upon that name? How was that possible?

  My sister smiled, as bright as the summer sun. “It means dark-skinned warrior. That’s part of why they call him the dark warrior in Room 105. That and his big black horse. Remember?”

  Yes, I
remembered. I’d created those details. As far as I knew, there wasn’t a horse to speak of, but there was definitely a dark-skinned man known as Duncan.

  Confused, I clutched the arm of the bench. I couldn’t handle any more coincidences. There were just too many of them.

  Making me feel as if I was going crazy again.

  ***

  On the day of Duncan’s art show, I was still reeling from the meaning behind his name and the manner in which Abby had chosen it. All I could think was that it was Smiling Seven’s fault and that he’d interfered somehow, even if I knew better.

  “Slow down or you’re going to cause an accident,” Carol said, grabbing my attention.

  I glanced over at my aunt who sat nervously beside me. Carol was always bug-eyed on road trips. Of course I was anxious, too. We were on the freeway, en route to the show.

  Easing up on the gas pedal, I said, “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be a lead foot.”

  “I just want us to be safe.”

  “I know.” Carol was our dad’s older sister, and she still had nightmares about how he’d lost control and flipped his car, sending it into an embankment. I tried not to dwell on the crash that took our parents’ lives, but Carol’s antsy behavior sometimes put it in the forefront. She was even more nervous behind the wheel than as a passenger. Since the accident, she’d stopped driving freeways.

  I was grateful that I didn’t share her panic. I had enough problems of my own.

  We rode quietly, then Carol said, “I meant to tell you how pretty you look tonight. You always take such special care with yourself. It makes me proud.”

  “Thank you. You look pretty, too.” She was wearing a tweed suit from the early House of Chanel, embellished with a strand of pearls. I had gone retro, as well, donning a brightly-colored 70s halter dress. Both of our outfits had come from the consignment store.

  Carol fussed with her hair. She’d styled it in a poufy bob, reminiscent of the old Jackie Kennedy ‘do. “I considered wearing a pillbox hat, but then I thought it might be too much.”

  “You’re perfect the way you are.”

  “I’m not the artsy sort.”

  “Yes, you are. Thrifting is all the rage, and you own the best vintage store in the state.” Not only did we carry sought-after clothes, we stocked tons of shabby chic furnishings.

  “Lucky for me, my parents were junk dealers. Of course it’s not considered junk anymore. Either way, I learned the ropes early.”

  I had never met my grandparents. They’d been gone before I was born. I’d seen pictures of them, though, and found their unconventional endeavors fascinating. “And now I’m learning it from you.”

  “The store will be yours someday.”

  “Let’s not talk about that.” I didn’t want to think about losing my aunt. I’d lost too much already.

  “Then let’s talk about your young man.”

  I gulped a quick blast of the air-conditioned air. “He isn’t my young man.”

  “I can tell by the way you talk about him that you like him. Plus, it’s nice that he understands the disease. What you told me about his relationship with Jack is touching. He’d be a good catch for you.”

  I thought so, too, except for my confusion over the warrior stuff. Either way, I’d spent nearly every waking moment bundled in the memory of him, wishing and hoping. “There was definitely some chemistry between us. But that doesn’t mean we’ll start dating.”

  “I’ll bet you will.” Carol folded her hands in front of her, obviously trying not to fidget. “How much longer before we get there?”

  “We only have twenty minutes to go.”

  We arrived in twenty-five. The gallery was located downtown in a renovated warehouse. I wondered if Duncan’s loft was nearby and what it was like. I wondered all sorts of things about him. Would he ever remember who he was? Had he ever been in a committed relationship? Would he take my virginity if I offered it to him?

  “Ready?” Carol asked.

  I snapped out of my dangerous musings. “Yes, of course.” I steadied my pulse, preparing to learn more about Duncan, to see his artwork, to try to understand who and what he was.

  We opened the door and crossed the threshold. The massive three-story gallery presented an eclectic décor: rough woods, chipped iron, and painted concrete, combined with classic elegance, like crystal chandeliers shimmering from museum-height ceilings. Narrow stairwells with twisted banisters led to the top floors. I noticed a gated elevator, too.

  But mostly what I saw were scores of urban-vogue people milling in and out of arched coves, corner nooks, and glass-paned rooms, where I assumed Duncan’s art was being displayed.

  “Look at this place,” Carol said. “And what a turnout.”

  I nodded. It was quite a show, offering a spectacular reception with a glamorous buffet and portable bar, where more guests gathered.

  “Where should we start?” Carol asked.

  “I don’t know.” I was just trying to take it in.

  My aunt gazed in the direction of the bar. “I think I’d like to get a soda. Do you want one?”

  “Sure.” I didn’t see Duncan, but he was obviously here somewhere, socializing and making connections. I gestured to a room off to my left. “I’ll just go in there and wait for you.” I didn’t want to stand out in the open. I was weird that way. I was weird in a lot of ways.

  Carol replied, “We can try the buffet later, after we see Duncan’s work and after you introduce me to him.”

  “I’ll have to find him first.”

  “He’ll probably find you.”

  “I hope so.” I watched her walk away. I was glad that we’d dressed appropriately for the occasion. Our vintage garb blended right in. In fact, a short-haired brunette in a rhinestone dress stopped Carol and motioned to her suit. Apparently the shimmery girl recognized early Chanel when she saw it. Soon a conversation between the two was underway, with Carol opening her tidy little handbag for a business card.

  I ducked into the room, letting my aunt bask in the glory. Our sodas were probably going to take a while.

  I glanced around the room and noticed the walls were blank, except for one, but I couldn’t tell what was being displayed because a small group of people blocked my view. I held back and waited. After they moved on, I stepped forward.

  Holy mother.

  It was the nude of Duncan. He stood in the middle of a dusty road, his arms stretched in a sacrificial pose, his leanly muscled body glimmering in the moonlight. The lower half of him was shadowed, the mystery of his nakedness even more compelling.

  He’d depicted himself in what appeared to be war paint, half of his face covered in red and the other half in white, with a black line down the center. His long, loose hair blew in the wind, and his head was slightly bowed, his eyes as fierce as the clouds brewing in the sky.

  His unknown identity was that of a warrior.

  I locked my knees to keep them from buckling. In the background was the misty image of a black stallion, fading into the night, big and powerful, much like the horse I’d created for him.

  Was Room 105 real? Did Abby and Jack know something that the rest of us—the supposedly sane ones—didn’t know?

  Was Duncan the man who was going to save Abby’s people? I couldn’t stop staring at his war-painted face, at his bared flesh, at his primal beauty.

  Footsteps sounded and I drew a sharp breath.

  The intruder entered the room and walked forward, then stood directly behind me.

  I sensed it was Duncan. I couldn’t explain why, just that I could feel his tall, dark presence.

  He’d found me, here, of all places, immersed in the warrior he’d painted. The intimacy between us was evident: his naked image, my unsteady heartbeat.

  Because I was too nervous to turn around, I stayed where I was, my gaze fixed on his portrait. His eyes, the ones in the artwork, were locked onto mine.

  “Vanessa.” His voice traveled along my neck and down my spine, my backles
s dress leaving me exposed.

  “Duncan,” I shakily replied, still staring at the warrior.

  He put his hands on my shoulders, touching me for the very first time. I nearly pitched forward, shockwaves dancing through my blood and streaming through my pores.

  “I included that picture for you,” he said. “I wanted you to see it.”

  “It’s beautiful.” So damned beautiful. “I could look at it forever.”

  He moved closer, brushing up against me. “There’s no such thing as forever. Someday all of us are going to be gone.”

  The shockwaves turned to a chill. If Room 105 was real, if he was the warrior I’d created, then he was going to die within sight of a year. I turned, finally summoning the strength to face him.

  He looked different from the portrait. His hair was smoothed into a ponytail and he was wearing jeans, a white shirt, and black jacket. But it was his expression that struck me the most. It was warm and ever so gentle.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

  “So am I.” Giving in to the temptation to touch him, I reached up to skim his jaw, praying that I could change what I’d done all those years ago.

  And keep him alive.

  Chapter Three

  With a sudden panic, I removed my hand from his face and curled my fingers into my palm, nearly digging my nails into my skin. I had no business believing that Room 105 was real or that I was capable of controlling Duncan’s destiny. To put myself in that position would make me crazy, and I was determined to stay logical and sane.

  “What’s wrong?” Duncan asked.

  “Nothing,” I lied, wishing I could go home and crawl under the covers. I wanted to hide from my mind, to shut it down, to tell it to stop playing games.

  He looked at me with the same gentle expression as before. He was so beautiful, so perfect, and I was a bewildered mess. Tears threatened to cloud my eyes, but I forced them back. Crying would make it a thousand times worse.

  He kept watching me, as if I were something fragile, like a butterfly that didn’t know where to land. There was actually a butterfly, known as the Painted Lady, with Vanessa as part of its scientific name. When I was younger, I read about them in a book Aunt Carol had given me. I still remembered random facts about them. Painted Ladies hatched, as caterpillars, from eggs as tiny as sugar crystals, and during their first day as butterflies their newly-formed wings were easily damaged if they became frightened.