by ANDREA SMITH
Neely,
I don’t know what to say—or should I say write! I don’t understand why you left. I found the letter you left me in my room, but it doesn’t explain anything to me! Laura said that you were fine when you left, so I can’t think it was anything she said or did to make you want to go back to TN. What is going on, Neely? Don’t I deserve more of an explanation or something? I tried to call you, but your grandfather said you weren’t there. He didn’t say anything more. Did I do something to piss you off? Please tell me! I went to your father’s house today because this is blowing my fucking mind. He acted like he’s all pissed off and didn’t tell me shit! This whole thing is so damn confusing. Please call me! We need to talk, Neely!
-Seth
I sucked in a hard breath. Oh my God, Seth had tried to contact me. All this time, I thought he hadn’t really given a shit, or that his pride ruled. I felt numb.
I pulled the paper out of the second envelope. The one that was postmarked August 15, 1994.
Neely,
It’s been weeks since you left. I’ve called your house, but your grandpa told me not to call anymore. What the hell did I do??? You haven’t called me or returned my letter, and the least you could do is tell me why! I’ve been racking my brain to figure this shit out. All I can think is maybe you felt I was pressuring you too much about what we talked about. I hope that you know that none of that matters. I’m sorry if I scared you off. I know I never said the words to you, Neely, but I’m saying them now.
I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU.
Please write me back. If I don’t get a letter from you telling me how you feel, one way or the other, in the next week, then I will do what I need to do to get to TN and find your ass and make you listen! And don’t think for one minute I can’t do it, because I know I can!
I LOVE YOU, NEELY EVANS!
- Seth
I was…well, words couldn’t describe what I was at the moment. Shocked? Confused? Angry?
I was all of those things and for different reasons.
My mother obviously had kept these letters from me for whatever reason. And I knew those reasons. She didn’t want anything coming between my relationship with her as a daughter, but not because of her relationship with me. No, it was for the purpose of punishing my father for what she deemed as his betrayal of her.
Yeah, maybe he did betray her—no, there was no maybe. It was a fact: my father had betrayed my mother with his infidelity. But why the fuck had she made me pay the price for her anger towards him?
And then there was the matter of Seth. Yeah, I was somewhat appeased by the knowledge that he had tried to contact me; that he was bothered by my quick exit, and somehow that had triggered him to tell me in his letter that he loved me. But he’d never admitted that before. Why had it taken me walking out of his life to suddenly prompt that declaration?
How did I really know it was even a sincere feeling or simply a blow to his ego that he wanted to rectify? Besides that, he never did show up in Tennessee to find me and talk like he’d threatened to do in the second letter now had he?
It was all water under the bridge now, wasn’t it? It was more than two years ago, but those years seemed like a lifetime when dealing with raw teenage emotions at such an impressionable age.
And given all of that, even if he assumed I’d read the letters and chosen to ignore them, it hadn’t justified the cruel and insensitive treatment he’d dished out to me last winter.
His behavior towards me had been nothing more than revenge for something he decided I’d done—or in this case, not done—which had wounded his teenage pride and ego. What he’d done was unforgiveable.
What Mama had done should be unforgiveable, but I at least understood why she’d done it; and her state of mind back then wasn’t what it should have been. Yeah, I could give Mama a free pass.
But not Seth.
Never Seth.
Chapter 12
June 3, 1997
Malibu High Graduation
Jazzy and I sat next to one another on the bleachers on the stage while the Dean of Students finished up his long, snoozer speech. I’d already had to jab Jazzy twice when she’d started to doze off.
“Thank God, he’s finally wrapping this up,” she whispered to me. “It’s party time. You still coming to my house, right?”
I nodded. “As long as you know who isn’t going to be there.”
She rolled her eyes. “I already warned Blake. No worries.”
“Shhh,” a student in the row ahead of us said, turning around to glare at us.
Jazzy and I both made faces at her and she quickly rotated her head back around. We tried to stifle our giggles, but when the applause sounded signaling our final release from the Baccalaureate service, we just didn’t give a damn about proper decorum.
We laughed like lunatics and quickly exited the bleachers and headed for the door.
“So, eight at my house?” Jazzy reminded me before she split to go over to where her family was waiting to take pictures.
“Yeah, I’ll be there, but I’m warning you, if Seth and his bitch show up, you’re never going to hear the end of it!”
She gave me a quick hug. “I told you, no worries!”
Dad and Tiffany walked up as Jazzy left, and my father was beaming with pride. “I’m so damn proud of you, Neely. But I can’t help feel a bit sad knowing my girl is almost grown up.”
“Almost?” I asked, quirking a brow. “Daddy, I’m there.”
“No, not yet,” Tiffany chimed in. “Not until you hit twenty-one officially.”
Whatever, Tiffany.
“Party plans?” Dad asked, as we walked to his car. “Tiffany and I wanted to take you out to dinner.”
“As long as we make it early. Have to be at Jazzy’s house around eight. I’m the spending the night there too, okay?”
“That’s fine. We’ll make it an early dinner celebration then.”
We were just finishing up what had turned out to be a fairly pleasant dinner, and awaiting dessert when Tiffany dropped the bomb.
“Did you hear the exciting news about Lotus Pointe?” she asked, a wide grin plastered on her overly made-up face.
“No, was it cancelled?” I asked, a faux concerned look on my face.
Her grin quickly faded. She knew I was being a bitch, but why should I care about her show? “No,” she replied shortly, “Seth Drake signed a year’s contract. He’s replacing Julian next season. We start filming in July. I thought you’d be thrilled to see how he’s launching his acting career in a prime time series.”
I just bet you did.
“How wonderful for Seth,” I said, the insincerity dripped from my words. “I suppose you have some credit coming for that move, right?”
Tiffany no doubt enjoyed playing the wicked stepmother role, and she did it so flawlessly.
“Well, I may have gotten him his foot in the door, but his audition spoke for itself. He’s quite brilliant, and let’s face it, those good looks of his didn’t hurt either.”
My father cleared his throat and quickly changed the subject to my upcoming move in the fall to Pasadena. He’d given me a nice check for graduation that would cover my portion of the rent for the upcoming school year, which for that, I was extremely grateful. Jazzy and I had found an apartment that would become available in August that we’d placed a security deposit on to hold it.
“So, are you going to work your part-time job over the summer?” Tiffany asked. “Seems like you might want to enjoy some time off before starting college.”
I was a server at Antonio’s Italian Cuisine off the Pacific Coast Highway, and, for whatever reason, the fact that I worked a job serving some of Tiffany’s nearest and dearest friends somehow irritated her. It was as if she was embarrassed that I was slinging hash to earn some cash. Such a fucking elitist.
“Yeah, I�
��m gonna work until we move to Pasadena. Spending money is nice to have, Tiffany.”
She rolled her eyes, and continued, “It’s not like your daddy and I won’t give you money, Neely. I mean really.”
“Oh let her be, Tiff,” Daddy warned. “It builds character. My first job in high school was washing dishes. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right Neely?”
“I guess,” I mumbled, bored with the whole conversation. “Listen, Daddy, I’m gonna have to skip out on dessert. It’s getting close to eight and I promised Jazzy I’d help her with the last minute stuff.”
“Oh, okay,” he replied, clearly disappointed. “Drive carefully. You aren’t going to be drinking are you?” he asked.
“No, Daddy,” I lied. “Her parents are going to be there to keep things PG-13, I promise.”
“Good girl,” he said with a smile and a wink. “Have a nice time.”
I said my goodbyes and left, feeling a bit guilty for lying to him. Well, her parents were going to be home, that part was true, but as long as the kids were staying over and they handed over their car keys, the beer and wine would be flowing.
It wasn’t as if I made a habit of drinking. In fact, I’d only done it maybe twice since I’d moved back last fall. I wasn’t about to walk that same dangerous path my mother had, especially when alcohol dependency ran in families.
I’d have a beer or two and just enjoy socializing with friends and classmates I might never see again. It was a time of celebration and I’d earned the right to have one night in honor of this auspicious occasion, right?
Wrong.
Four hours later, I was drunk as a skunk in Jazzy’s backyard. I’d staggered over into their humongous hedge maze on a dare that I could find my way into the center, where I had to grab a rosebud from the garden that was located there, and bring it back out to prove I’d succeeded.
Only by the time I made it to the center, all I wanted was to pass out on the soft grass to sleep it off. I wasn’t sure how long I was in there, but eventually, Blake sent someone in to rescue me.
I was fairly sure it had been Seth; and I was pretty sure I fucked him right there in that stupid hedge maze.
Epilogue
April 17, 1998
Brantley College of Art & Photography
Pasadena, California
“Neely,” Professor Andrews said, gazing at the collage I’d placed on the wooden easel for my presentation, “that’s a very interesting choice of media you’ve selected. Not to mention risky.”
“Risky?” I asked, quirking a brow in confusion. “How so?”
“Well, to start, you veered a bit from the assignment details which clearly articulated that everything was to be in black, white, or shades of grey. The lack of contrast was important. You’ve included some color in your abstracts.”
“Only the eyes, Professor,” I replied, standing back and admiring my work. “I couldn’t bear not to show the ice blue of the eyes. It doesn’t detract from the overall message though, does it?”
I watched as Professor Andrews cupped his chin, rubbing his fingers along the bristle of his neatly trimmed beard and considered my expressionist collage thoughtfully.
When he’d given this particular assignment, it had taken me all of a nanosecond to know which of my pieces I’d be using to compile the collage of emotional turmoil he’d outlined. And yes, I’d known that it was supposed to be void of color, but the eyes wouldn’t have shown the emotion had I not brushed a pale shade of blue over them.
“I’ll tell you what, Neely,” he said, “stay after class and let’s discuss this in a bit more depth, shall we?”
“Of course,” I replied, taking my seat so that the next presenter could uncover his or her submission for this assignment. This was the third class in my year at Brantley School of Art & Photography I’d taken with Eric Andrews as my professor.
I knew him well. He was a superb teacher in every way. And yes, he was a stickler for adherence to detail on the projects he outlined and assigned for his classes, but he was also a fair and flexible man. Let’s just say, we’d had issues like this before and always found common ground.
I’d stay after as requested. He’d pull a copy of the assignment details he’d provided to all of the students four weeks ago, and go over each one with me, point-by-point.
I’d sit at my table and remain silent as he ticked through each one, his deep, rich voice resonating the fact that he indeed had the upper hand in deciding whether or not my submission which had, technically, strayed from the parameters he’d set, would be accepted for credit.
In the end, he would allow me time to explain my reasoning for veering from the instructions, and defend my position as to why I felt it still complied with the overall spirit of the assignment, and therefore should be accepted for grading and credit.
He would ultimately concede, with a stern warning that I needed to focus more on adherence on future assignments. I would thank him for his consideration and flexibility, to which he would chuckle and tell me that it was now my turn to be flexible.
At that point, he would make sure the door to the art room was shut and locked. And then, he would pull me up from my seat against him. I would wrap my legs around his hips and allow him to carry me to a table or desktop, or maybe to a paint-splattered tarp that was heaped into a corner of the room. Whatever location he chose was where I would show him my flexibility.
Clothes would hurriedly be discarded in a frenzied fashion, and he would take me roughly, which I always demanded, and we’d fuck until we couldn’t fuck anymore.
I knew the script by heart. We’d played to it more than once. Probably more like a dozen times over the past year. It still wasn’t boring. Neither of us had grown tired of the foreplay we called Perspective Painting 201.
Everything unraveled just as usual. The classroom emptied, a couple of students lagged behind to suck up to him for projects presented this evening that were less than stellar. It was always pretty obvious. Eric did his best to assure them he would be fair and objective in his evaluation of their work.
Sure he would.
They were slackers.
They only took this class because they were required to as part of the curriculum for their Graphic Web Design certificate program. They had zero interest in art, expression, or theory.
At last.
We were alone.
Eric shut and locked the classroom door, and then quickly stalked over to where I was still sitting, gazing up at him. He was strikingly handsome with perfectly chiseled features and great body definition for a man whose career didn’t involve physical labor of any sort. Dark brown hair and eyes. Mid-thirties with a scholarly look that his dark-framed glasses perpetuated nicely.
“So, Professor,” I said in a throaty whisper, “shall we debate the particulars of my non-compliance to the assignment once again?”
He didn’t move any closer to me. In fact, he leaned back against the table in front of my desk, and stretched his legs out in front of him. His arms were crossed against his chest and he gazed at me for a moment, not saying a word.
This was different.
For a moment I worried if quite possibly he wasn’t open to our usual negotiations. He surely wouldn’t fail me on this assignment, would he?
“Why him?” he asked me, his eyes searching mine. “Why is it always him?”
“Wh-what?” I asked, my nose crinkled up in confusion. He was deviating from our normal script. What the hell was up with that? “I’m…I’m not following.”
“For Christ’s sake, Neely. No matter what the assignment, the required subject matter, the requested media, every goddamn one of your projects has some part of him included. Be it an eye, or lips, or a nose, or a full fucking face, it’s always him. Why?”
“Why does it matter?” I flung back. “Art is subjective, right? Maybe he’s my art. Maybe he’s the only subject matter I’ve ever done right.”
/> “So what? You simply keep drawing and painting him—or parts of him, over and over again in different themes, different styles, with different media rather than try something new? Something unique?”
I stood up quickly. “Every piece I’ve turned in to you has been freshly created! It’s all been unique! It’s not as if I keep turning the same pieces in over and over again, is it?” I was pissed now. What the hell was Eric trying to do? Why was he straying from the script?
“You might as well be turning the same piece in over and over again!” he shouted, startling me enough that I jumped. “I want you to turn something in, anything, that he’s not a goddamn part of!”
I was shocked by his words, stunned by his anger. I backed away from where he sat, one arm outstretched behind me to make sure I didn’t collide with a desk. “I don’t understand. Why are you so angry with me, Eric?” I whispered.
He ran a hand through his mass of thick hair as if frustrated beyond his limit. “I’m not angry, Neely, I’m confused. Who the hell is this guy to you?”
I felt my muscles tense. My stomach clenched. I didn’t have to share any of this with Eric Andrews. He had no right to even question me about it. It wasn’t any of his business. His job was to teach and offer guidance and support for his students. His job was most certainly not to try to get into my head or to figure out what makes me tick, or why I chose the subject matter I did for my projects.
That was my shrink’s job, right?
“Listen,” I said, my voice holding a nervous lilt, “are you going to accept my submission for this assignment or not? I need to know.”
He blinked a couple of times, still studying me as if his reading glasses had suddenly morphed into a powerful microscope that was unpeeling each and every layer of my psyche for his own personal examination.
“Yes,” he finally said, releasing a heavy sigh. “It’s accepted for grade.”
“Okay then,” I whispered, still watching him, a feeling of relief seeping over me. “So, are we going to fuck?”