by A. J. Pine
“I’m Taylor,” she says, unfazed by my behavior. “I’ve never had an art class before, but my mom says I’m a natural. So, here I am.”
“How old are you, Taylor?”
A huge smile spreads across her face. “I just turned eight and a half this morning. Today is my half birthday.”
Her smile is contagious, and her pure glee at being able to announce her half birthday brings me back to when I was a kid, to when the most important aspects of life were birthdays and playing outside for as long as my parents would let me. And drawing. Just drawing without anything holding me back.
“Well, then,” I say. “Happy half birthday. Why don’t you show me what you got?”
I pick up her pencil and hand it to her, and she holds back a giggle.
“But the other kids aren’t here yet. My mom has to drop me off early so she can get to work. Bree’s like her BFF, so she’s cool with it.”
I shrug and turn to her easel. “Then I guess I’m cool with it too.”
I draw a simple heart, nothing major, then nod for Taylor to take a turn. She draws a heart as well.
“What do you know about shading?” I ask, and she skims her teeth across her bottom lip.
“I can do this.”
She works the pencil not inside the heart but outside, and in seconds she pulls her hand away to show me not a shaded heart but one with a shadow. Taylor beams.
“Never had a lesson, huh?” I ask, and nudge her shoulder with my own.
She shakes her head. “Do you know how to do shadows?” she asks.
“Not as good as you.”
She beams again at my white lie. Sure, I can draw a shadow. But in the past several weeks, there is one thing I forgot—how to enjoy my art.
More students start trickling in, so I stand in preparation to put my stool back in front of its easel.
“How about this?” I say. “I’ll teach you some new things, but you have to teach me some stuff too.”
Taylor’s cheeks turn a sweet shade of pink, and her grin grows even bigger.
“Okay,” she says with a small laugh.
Then I make my way to the door and greet my students one by one as they enter the room.
* * *
Patrick greets us after classes are over. “Your gentleman friend here tells me you’re a comic book fan.” He nods toward Spock, who is scribbling something down in his notebook. He looks up and grins, acknowledging the misinformation he gave.
“I’m not a fan,” I say, and something in my tone gets Spock’s full attention.
“Uh-oh, Strings,” Patrick says to him. “You’re in trouble.”
I shake my head. “No one’s in trouble. I’m just clarifying that my love for graphic novels and comics is more than a fandom. It’s a way of life. It’s what I’ll do with my life if I ever get my mojo back.”
Patrick runs a hand gingerly over his perfectly coiffed fauxhawk.
“Ten weeks till showcase, sweetheart. I think I know how to get that mojo working.”
Spock side eyes Patrick, who waves him off.
“Puh-lease, Strings. I’m talking about cosplay.” He turns to me. “You’re going to Comic Con in August, I take it?”
I nod, maybe with more enthusiasm than necessary.
“Yes. Of course,” I say.
“Then I get to steal you this Friday night. I’m taking you to a mini con.”
My brows crinkle. “A mini con?”
This time Patrick’s face lights up. “O-M-G . . . and I say those letters with irony but still . . . OMG yes! Although it’s not so much an actual con as it is a cosplay sort of flash mob. Basically, you get the location, the theme, and then you just show up . . . in full costume, of course. This weekend’s theme is superheroes, so you have to come.”
I think about this for maybe a second before I blurt out, “OMG yes!” Though mine comes out with zero irony. “Strings too, right?”
Spock rolls his eyes. “Did I miss a memo about no one in Chicago daring to speak my real name? I gotta say, I’m getting a bit of a Voldemort complex.”
Patrick’s satisfied grin is answer enough.
“After that?” Patrick asks. “Hell yeah, Strings too! Bring whoever you want as long as they’re in costume. Here.” He retrieves his phone from his pocket and hands it to me. “Give me your number, and I’ll text you Friday with the location.”
I do as he says.
Patrick nods approvingly when I hand the phone back to him. “See. I knew you liked my little name for you, Smurfette.”
I don’t, I think. But there’s a certain anonymity in a nickname, and the more I can be who others see on the outside, the more I can ignore what lies beneath. For Delores I’m Blue. For Patrick, I’ll be Smurfette. And even for Spock, I’ll be Supergirl. Because everyone loves the heroine who saves the day, not the girl who could be slowly unraveling inside.
“Friday,” I say, and give him an assured grin.
“Friday,” he echoes, and then Spock waves, slings his guitar over his shoulder, and pulls me out the door.
Chapter Sixteen
When I hear the key enter the door, I scramble from my room.
“Spock’s back!” I yell.
Not that Dee is rushing. She’s still in her room getting ready even though we’re running late. And though Spock is really the reason for said lateness, it doesn’t stop me from giving him a proper welcome.
Our lips meet and part open, as if we’d been apart for three days instead of three hours, and I don’t care if we’re late. Hell, we don’t even have to go if things keep moving in this direction.
“Ten more minutes!” Dee yells. “I swear I’ll be ready in ten minutes!”
This brings me back to my senses because hell yes I want to go.
I pull away and take him in, mild disappointment brewing as I realize he’s not in costume. Just a zipped-up hoodie over a black T-shirt and army green cargo pants that are tucked into combat boots.
“I know this is more my thing than yours, but I thought you were out looking for a costume.”
The skin above his nose wrinkles as he questions me with his brows.
“I was,” he says, grinning like someone just told a joke, and he’s the only one who gets it.
I cross my arms.
“But . . . you’re supposed to wear it. To the bar.” I run a hand from my neck to my thigh, in proper Vanna White fashion, indicating how one wears said costume.
Spock’s eyes widen with recognition, and then he starts to laugh. He unzips his hoodie. I gasp, throwing my hand over my mouth, because if I don’t cover it up, I’m going to scream that I love this guy, and I think one week is a little early in the relationship for that kind of a proclamation.
“Shit,” he says. “You hate it. I know it’s not a traditional superhero, but I thought it would work. You know I don’t do the cosplay thing, right? The Spock ears that day we met, that was just me and my buddies messing around. I like the cons and stuff, but I’m usually not one for costumes.”
I shake my head, then finally move my hand so he can see the ridiculous grin on my face.
“It’s perfect,” I say. “You’re perfect. Captain Hammer is fucking perfect.”
He beams as my eyes rake over his perfect re-creation of Nathan Fillion’s character from Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog.
He holds up his fists.
“These are not the hammer,” he says, somehow keeping a straight face as I convulse with laughter remembering Captain Hammer’s next line.
“May I enter the apartment?” he asks. “Or do I just have to stand out here like an asshole until we leave?”
“Oops,” I say.
I back away from the door so Spock can come in. He plops down on the couch, and I join him. I brush a dark lock out of his eyes, letting my fingertips trail across his hairline and down toward his jaw.
“Thank you,” I say, stretching my neck toward him to kiss his lips. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”
He kisses me back, sweet and gentle.
“Don’t do it again,” he teases, but there’s an earnestness in his blue eyes that makes me believe I’ll never have to doubt him.
“Yes, sir,” I say. And we stay like this until Dee finally emerges from her room.
Now I wish we had a few extra minutes. I guess he’ll get to bust out the hammer when we get home.
* * *
It’s not until we step out the door that I hear how loud Dee’s pleather is.
“You sound like someone’s thighs getting stuck to a hot leather car seat,” I tell her, and Spock quietly laughs.
“Hey!” she snaps. “You gave me four days’ notice about this gig, so I went with last year’s Halloween costume. Catwoman is hot, by the way.” She plucks the material away from the skin on her arm. “Shit. So am I.”
She laughs with us, so at least I know she can take as much shit as she dishes out. And she’s right. Catwoman is hot.
“Jess and Adam aren’t joining us?” she asks, and I shake my head.
“So not their scene,” I say. “Jess would go if I asked her, though.”
“Who are you?” Dee asks Spock, and we both stop in our tracks.
“What?” Dee stops too.
“Just tell me what your freaking costume is, Shaggy. Let me in on your little private joke.”
I sigh. “So you’ve really never seen Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog?”
She shakes her head.
“It’s forty-five minutes long. We’re watching it this weekend. Then you’ll understand who Captain Hammer is.”
She looks him up and down. “Captain. Hammer.” She crosses her arms, and they squeak against her chest. “Does he like to pound things?”
Spock looks at me and shrugs, so I decide to go with honesty.
“Yes. Yes he does, but only when he has more than ten minutes to get the job done.”
We start walking again.
“Okay,” Spock says. “Has Patrick texted you the final location yet?”
So far, he had only told me that the meet-up was in Lincoln Park, so we head toward the L. “No Patrick yet,” I tell Spock. Not like we can run late if we don’t actually know where we’re supposed to be going.
It’s not until we are off the train in Lincoln Park that the text finally comes.
“Katacomb,” I tell them. “We’re not far.”
Spock grabs my hand and squeezes.
“Are you sure you’re okay hanging in a bar?” he asks. He knows what this means for me, that I don’t normally choose to hang where the alcohol is.
There’s an urgency in his voice, and while I appreciate the concern, I don’t appreciate what it infers—that I’m not capable of self-control.
“I’m fine,” I say, my voice cool as my hand releases his, and I storm ahead of him a few steps.
“Oooh, lovers’ quarrel,” I hear Dee say behind me.
Tonight I really do get to be Supergirl, for just a few hours, and the one person who should know doesn’t have enough faith in me to do it without falling into habits I’ve avoided for four years.
“Zoe,” he says, coming up behind me. “Zoe, come on.”
He slips his hand back in mine, lacing our fingers, and I don’t pull away. Maybe I’m overanalyzing his question.
We keep walking, hand in hand, but my eyes remain trained on the path ahead.
“Zoe,” he says again. “You and me, we’re . . . something now. Aren’t we?”
I nod, still not used to what this means.
The weight on my chest lifts a little, and I don’t get defensive or interrupt. I just let him speak.
“And being something means I get the inalienable right to care about you.” He pulls me to a stop, and Dee walks a few paces ahead. She may give us a lot of shit, but when it’s in her power to be considerate, she is.
“Inalienable right?” I ask, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. Because when I finally look at him, see his eyes gleam with that earnest sincerity only he can pull off, I can’t help myself.
“Yep. That also means I get to worry about you too. Remember? I’m pretty sure we already established that as part of the deal.”
I nod because I do remember. It was only last weekend when I let my thoughts get the better of me, wondering if anything had happened to him when he left while Dee did my second tattoo.
“So stop pretending around me,” he says. “Don’t act like I don’t know what’s happened to you in the last month or that you never shared your mom’s battle with alcoholism with me. I’ve known it since we met, and I also know how seriously you take not drinking. I’m honored you let me share these parts of your life, that you let me see beyond the pretty packaging.” He smooths my hair behind my ear, and that earnestness in his eyes darkens to something else. “But you’re doing something, Zoe. You’re wrapping yourself back up after just starting to let me in. And if what we’re starting has any chance for staying power, you can’t shut down when I point out the obvious—a nondrinker who has a volatile relationship with alcohol takes risks by hanging in a bar.”
I flinch from his words, the clinical sound of them. “You sound like a twelve-step program,” I say. “Have you been researching ways to handle my . . .” I use air quotes now. “. . . my situation?”
He groans. “God, Zoe. Can’t I give a shit about you without being accused of handling you? I’m trying to figure out how this all works, being together and living together. It’s a lot all at once.”
“So that turns you into my therapist?” I ask, unable to hide the acid in my tone.
“It turns me into a guy who’s trying to reconcile the girl he met six months ago with the girl he’s falling for now. Zoe, you have addiction in your family. For your mom it was alcohol. What if for your brother it was adrenaline, and that’s why he . . .”
He cuts himself off before he says too much, but it’s too late. He’s said enough.
I stagger back at this almost remark, swallowing the bile rising in my throat.
“What did you just say?” I ask.
“Shit.” he hisses quietly, looking up into an overcast night sky, not a star to be seen. “Shit, Zoe. That came out wrong. I have no right talking about Wyatt when I didn’t know him. But I know something about addiction. I—”
Dee’s approach cuts him off, and she puts her arm around me, leading me away.
“We’re late,” is all she says, looking over her shoulder. I glance back once to see Spock running a hand through his dark hair. His eyes meet mine, dark and pleading, but I don’t say anything. Instead I turn around and let Dee lead me the rest of the way, the whole time turning his harsh words over in my head.
Yes, I have addiction in my family. My mom. Maybe my brother too. It’s not like I never thought about the possibility, that what Wyatt was doing was more than just living a little faster or freer than the rest of us. What would that mean, though, if Wyatt wasn’t just being Wyatt—but he had a problem he couldn’t conquer on his own? What would it say about me if I not only turned a blind eye to the event that killed him but also to a sort of disease that had a cure?
I was able to step in when Jess hit rock bottom with her depression, but would I have done it if Adam didn’t call me and tell me what happened? I wonder now if I would have seen enough on my own to step in, or if I would have assumed all was well because that was the game Jess played. Jess came out okay on the other end, and she’s still in therapy—still taking her medication, and I swear I had some part in helping her get there.
But even Spock can see that Wyatt needed help, and I never stepped in.
“This is why I don’t let people past the pretty packaging,” I mumble to myself, forgetting for a second I’m wrapped in Dee’s pleather arm.
“What’s that?” she asks, and I look up from the ground where I’ve been watching one high-top red Chuck step in front of the other.
“Nothing,” I tell her, then notice the sign in front of us. Katacomb. “We’re here.”
Chapter Seventeen
It’s not hard to find Patrick and the rest of the group in the dark, cavernous club—hence its name. The underground, basement-type lounge is packed with patrons, and a clump of costumed heroes mingle in the back where plush, velvet-looking booths line the wall. Perpendicular to the wall of booths is the bar, and to the right of that a small dance floor and stage.
Before we make it to the back, a fauxhawked, guylinered Peter Pan approaches us, and I smile despite the lingering sting of Spock’s words.
“There’s my Smurfette.”
I punch him in the shoulder.
“Okay, fine. No Smurfette tonight because you are smokin’ as Supergirl. Introduce me to Catwoman.” Patrick makes a purring noise directed at Dee.
My roommate, who somehow already has a shot of tequila in her hand, asks Patrick to grab the saltshaker from the high-top table behind him. And because Delores has that commanding presence tiny people like her do, he obeys. She grabs the saltshaker and then his hand, sprinkling the tiny crystals onto the back of it. Patrick watches with fascination as she licks the salt off of his hand, takes her shot, and sucks the lime that rested on the rim of the shot glass.
Then she purrs.
“I’m the sexy feline, Mr. Neverland. I’ll be the one doing the purring.”
Then she takes off into the crowd.
“Oooh,” Patrick says, watching her in all her pleather glory as she slinks past the Incredible Hulk and Iron Man. “I like her.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
Patrick’s eyes flick back to Spock, who doesn’t quite stand next to me but isn’t exactly standing behind me either.
“And you know . . .” I stumble on finding the right thing to say, because calling him Spock is special. It means something, and right now he and I are worlds apart, all because of a few well-intentioned yet hurtful words. “You remember Zach.”
I choke on the word, on the name that hasn’t belonged to him since the day we met. But my word is a weapon, and while I may not shoot to kill, the intent to injure is there.