by Kitsy Clare
She gives me a playful elbow jab. Then she hops in her BMW and burns rubber down Sixth Street.
Inside my place, I sit in my soft easy chair at the window and gaze wistfully at the trees in the city garden. It’s time. I reach for my cell and click it open. Take a slow breath to calm my jittery nerves.
I study Caz’s beautiful message and even more beautiful photo of his newest work and tears start to roll again down my dry, sore cheeks.
It’s a delicate spun-sugar flower with leaves that reach out like questions. Under it he’s written, Sugar for my sweetheart.
15 CHAPTER FIFTEEN
For the next couple of weeks, I keep busy sending out résumés. Hopefully, I’ll land a new paid internship. I badly need the money, and my internship with Caz is over. My retouching gig at Chanel is freelance, and in a recent company-wide belt-tightening, they’ve cut my hours to two afternoons a week. At this rate, I’ll have to move out of my East Village walkup and out to the sketchy fringes of Bedford-Stuyvesant.
When I click into the internship site, today, I see opportunities with a well-known woman painter and a tech designer who makes steampunk-ish attachments for people’s laptops, with decorative gears, tiny clocks, and other whirligig features, but in some revolutionary superlight material. The third paid internship is with a writer named Talia Johnnie. I jump at all of them.
I’m swearing off internships with men—too much temptation and trauma. Maybe it wasn’t so out of the norm that my mom suffered through three divorces. Maybe most men are simply impossible. I’m feeling that way at the moment, but deep down I’d hate for that to be my new philosophy. I’d like to think that going forward I’ll be able to negotiate my relationships better than my semi-functional mom. I’d like to think there are still some honest, open men who can love women. The verdict is still out.
Despite my fortitude, I have to drag my mind away from Caz fantasies, and it’s very hard to do. My days are overflowing with unbidden flashes of his soulful eyes, of our delectable kisses and heady conversations about art. Oh, and his tasty recipes linger on my tongue. Trick or treat—I took treats with his chocolate-currant pudding and poppy-seed cake.
My nights smolder with dreams of making love with Caz in every position imaginable. Me spread-eagled on a bed of sugar packets with him straddling me, him entering me from behind over his desk that he’s spread his downy quilt over, us slathering each other with chocolate-currant pudding, licking it off and then plunging into a bubble bath while we gaze out at the infamous sugar sign. How does my dreaming mind come up with this randy stuff? Even when I wake up there’s no respite. He’s jammed up my text inbox with his irresistible messages.
Yet I must resist. It feels wrong to contact him. We need space.
He sends me another photo of a spun-sugar flower—a lily with gently arching petals. It’s so realistic I can almost smell its delicate floral scent. The caption: A sugar lily almost as pretty as my Sienna.
A few days later, he sends an image of a whole bouquet of his sugar-spun flowers. Can’t stop thinking about you, Sienna. Every flower is a kiss for you.
This line is so sweet and lyrical, it drives me to madness. It does. I’m so completely tempted to take the subway out to the sugar castle and jump into Caz’s strong arms that I physically hurt. My arms ache for him; my stomach and my chest burn for his touch.
But I need something more from him than tender poetry and art.
And it is. Tender.
But is it just an easy way to win me back?
On one level, I’m flattered and charmed, but I need to know that he’s truly changing his life to a more honest one. I have no right to push him. It has to come from him—maybe in his art, for sure in his willingness to be open and honest. And I need answers about the liquor bottles, the ripped girl’s dress. But at this point in time it’s all too loaded. That’s why I can’t make contact. I’m too hurt, too confused, and I’ve injured him, too. I know that. I remember what I told Erik not too long ago. If it’s real, we’ll find each other again. Easy to say, but very hard to live by.
So I continue to send out applications and work on my art. I line up ten of my newest digital pieces in my makeshift apartment studio and apply oil paint to them. The process triggers all of my obsessive neatnik tendencies, but I push past that every time. I keep on painting, even though my palette’s getting smeary and the spattered paper towels I toss are smudging paint along the inside of my trashcan like drooled slug trails.
I’m even beginning to enjoy the mess! The faded yellow cords and shirt I wore to Caz’s are accumulating intriguing brushstrokes, and I really don’t give a shit about keeping them neat anymore. They’re looking like a cool extension of the canvas.
After all, it’s part of creating work that’s more emotionally evocative. On my painting, I see mysterious gnome forests and clouds and underwater-ish caverns with drifting seaweed shapes, where before it was all about perfectly symmetrical sharp-edged diamonds.
I see musical invitations, intonations, and pure mystery.
I keep wondering what Caz would say about it. He’d probably be proud and surprised. And then I remind myself I’m not supposed to daydream about him. So I keep on painting to a playlist with jazzed electronica and then an alternative rock mix. I’m getting into as much of an art trance as I ever have. And it feels so damn exhilarating! The zone. I’m in the zone! I’m dancing around with my paintbrush in hand, smiling a goofy grin—I saw myself in the studio mirror and it made me laugh even harder.
In the middle of my dance, my cell pings. It’s across the room, on my desk. A startled glance at my wall clock says it’s 7:00 p.m., and my freaking hands are speckled with burnt umber. I start to reach for the paper towel roll on my painting table when the cell pings again and my mind says, Screw it! Pick up the cell. What’s the harm of a few oak-colored smudges on it?
I click it open and gasp.
It’s a photo of Caz’s latest sugar sculpture. A spindly sugar heart, split in half over what looks like spilled blood.
My heart’s broken, sweet Sienna. Need to talk. Have something to confess & something to show. Can I come over?
Holy mother of God, what should I do? I could call Harper. But, no, I can’t keep whining to her. I have to figure this out on my own. I can’t bring myself to text him back, though. A confession sounds like he’s finally ready to open up. Get honest. I wonder if it’s about the accident? This must’ve been hard for him to write. But if he’s not ready to be real, or if we have another blowout screaming match, it would destroy me. I pocket my cell.
I brusquely wipe off my hands and dive into my easy chair. My greedy belly’s rumbling again, but I can’t imagine trying to cook a normal dinner. Not even a crummy frozen pot pie or can of baked beans.
Instead, I cover myself with my fleece throw because I’m suddenly shivering and my hands are shaking, and it’s not from the cold. The sight of his spun-sugar broken heart has my own melting and pining and throbbing in pain all at once.
I need to take some action, but what? In a rush, it comes to me. I pick up my phone and send a short text.
I’ll think about it. I promise.
That gives me enough momentary resolve to let it rest. Snuggling way down in the chair, with my feet dangling over one armrest, I pull my fleece up to my chin, close my eyes, and drift.
16 CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I must be dreaming because the scenario I’m in makes no sense. I’m hunched over myself in a red room where the walls are dripping blood. Caz is in there, too, crouched on the other side of the room. I’m trying to reach him, but I can’t move. Stretching out my arms as far as I can, I reach even farther for him. It doesn’t help. I still can’t touch him, and worse than that, he appears to be looking right through me. “Caz?” I call out. “Caz! Can’t you see me?”
All I hear in response is some kind of ungodly scratching, like monstrous wolf claws on the rough bark of a tree. The commotion scares the crap out of me and I wish I could w
ake up.
Then, at another loud scraping sound, my eyes blink open. I jolt upright and swing my legs around to the floor. Ouch. My back is killing me, and my knees are numb from crashing out in this saggy old chair. According to my clock, it’s eleven at night so I’ve been out for four hours!
There’s the scraping again, louder, like a door being ripped off the hinges. Good God, it’s coming from my bedroom. Is someone breaking in? I knew I should’ve put metal guards on that creaky window. My pulse speeds up to a bazillion beats a minute. Dashing into the kitchen, I grab my sharpest meat knife. I inch around the bedroom door and peer in without actually setting foot in there. If someone really is breaking in, I’ll need to run out of this apartment fast.
Holy freaking moly, the window’s open and someone is sticking his leg over the sill! In another second or two, his hands could be around my neck, strangling the life out of me. Instinct takes over. Without thinking of the consequences, I dash over and jab clumsily at the intruder. He jerks his leg back outside and howls. Oh lord, the voice is a low, familiar bass. And that boot, up close, has telltale swirls of dried sugar on it.
“Oh hell no! Fucking, Caz?” I yank the window open to gusts of bitter night air. He’s slumped over on the fire escape, groaning and pressing down on the part of his thigh I just slit wide open.
“Murderess,” he mutters. Lifting a hand off his ripped jeans, he glances at the wound. Both his palm and the flesh under the jeans are drenched with blood. Putting pressure on his slashed pants, he groans again.
I drop the knife on the floor and peer outside. “Shit, Caz! Are you okay? I’m so sorry I cut you, but you should’ve used the front door. Plus, I told you in my text I’d think about you coming over.”
He nods and grimaces. “Hindsight is golden. Should I climb back down the fire escape?”
“No, get in here.” I sigh, partly from irritable concern and partly from a strange relief that he’s finally here. Especially after my upsetting dream where we couldn’t touch, couldn’t move, couldn’t even hear each other. Where I was desperate for his touch. “Let me clean you up.” I support his arm as he gingerly manipulates his injured limb then the rest of him through the cramped opening. No easy task because the sill is splintered and the old wooden frame is crooked and warped. It won’t go up all the way.
Once in, Caz quickly shuts it to lock out the fall chill. I steer him over to my chair in the kitchen and inch down his jeans, trying my best not to look up at his crotch.
I’ve really done a number on him. He has a jagged open slice on his outer thigh. And it’s still bleeding. I run a wad of paper towels under the cold water, squeeze them out and press them hard against the wound. “We’ll need to hold it there for a bit. Do you want stitches?”
“Are you volunteering to repair me with your sewing kit? Do you have flesh-colored thread?” Incredible. He’s gutted like a roasting pig, yet he’s still trying to crack a joke! Shall I file that under the old con Caz or a Caz who’s simply trying to stay positive under duress? Who knows?
The napkins under my hands are already soaked red so I hurry to get a clean batch. “I mean it, Caz. We should grab a cab to the NYU emergency ward.”
He cringes. “No cabs. I’ll take my chances here.”
His car phobia—it hits me—and I’m awash in gentle compassion for him. “No cabs, no rides in cars. It’s trauma from that horrible crash, isn’t it?”
Caz looks down to where I’m kneeling by his injured thigh. His eyes are bloodshot and his brow is creased. No more jokes, no more cons. “That’s it, Sienna. Cars fucking terrify me. They throw me headfirst into full-blown panic mode.”
“You’ve never ridden in a car since? How’s that even possible, Caz?”
“A few times, when I needed to deliver artwork and couldn’t get out of it.” He shakes his head at the disturbing memory. “They had to strap me in, booze me up to stop my shaking. One time, I hurled all over my shoes.”
I think about my own obsessions and my former panic at messes, dirty laundry piles, sinks full of dishes. Even now, if I don’t talk myself out of it. “I understand.”
“Do you?” He doesn’t know about my obsessive nature. He hasn’t seen it. I haven’t let him.
“I’ve hidden things from you, too,” I say. “My OCD, my anxieties. I freaked out at the pumpkin pulp mess. Couldn’t have it anywhere near me. And my compulsion to neatness is why I didn’t paint for so many years.” Lifting the makeshift bandage for a moment, I’m relieved to see his bleeding has slowed. I press it back down.
“Good to know I’m not the only one who’s screwed up.” After a pause, he goes on. “I need to tell you about what happened back in Amarillo. It’s time.” With that, he reaches out and strokes my hair, so tenderly that tears prick my eyes. I blink them back. No way I can break down. He needs me to be strong. I let him touch my hair, but I won’t give myself to him. Not yet. Maybe never.
He has some serious explaining to do, first.
“Don’t you want to wait to get into this until your leg is better, Caz?” We’re in an inconvenient position for an intense talk—me kneeling on the floor, him hunched over in pain on my chair.
“No. I need to tell you tonight. And it’s Charles,” he murmurs. “I’m Charles.”
“Charles,” I whisper back. Charles is a softer, more classic name than Caz. Not a jokey comic-book ghost like Casper either. Charles.
We’re silent for a minute or two, watching the sky outside the window shift to richer shades of blackberry. I change his paper towel tourniquet two more times before it finally stays white with just the faintest splotch of pink. After which I collect the widest Band-Aids I can find and stretch a few tightly across the wound like butterfly bandages.
“C’mon.” I take his hand, guide him to my bed. “Just for lying down and resting,” I clarify. “You need to get off that leg.”
He nods obediently. “My own pretty Florence Nightingale.” He stretches his hunky body across my yellow quilt. “Mm, smells like you.” He rustles his coppery head of hair around on it.
It’s all I can do not to slide along next to him and kiss him all over, starting with a circle of healing kisses all around his wound. He’s in his boxers and a tight jersey shirt that shows off his handsomely cut chest. Even injured, his body calls to me. Instead, I haul my desk chair over to the bedside, prop his head up on my pillow, and stick my feet up on the covers by his side. “I’m all ears.”
Caz looks over at me with a wistful expression. “I really have to, don’t I?”
“No, but I think you left that key out for a reason.”
He smiles darkly. “You might have a point there.” Sighing, he starts. “I was down in Amarillo, which is where I’m from and—”
“So, not from the Carolinas?”
“I’m afraid that was another tall story. I’m a Texan. I was nineteen, just starting to figure out what I wanted to do in life, and I was apprenticed to a guy who made those fun-house signs at carnivals. You know, monster heads and red-nosed shiny clowns out of plastic resin to advertise the rides? I fell in love with the craft. Oversize sculpture, big showy stuff—fake cotton candy whirls and heaped up ice-cream cones, dinosaurs and fifteen-foot tall space monsters. The local kids loved it, and that made me happy.” He laughs nostalgically.
“Did you drink then?” I have to ask.
“Not at all.” He clears his throat. “Never had a drop until after the...accident.”
My heart flips over in my chest. “Do you mean you weren’t drunk when you—?”
“No. So that’s what you thought.” He nods sadly. “Ah.”
What an enormous relief he wasn’t drunk at the wheel. Still, it’s a horrible tragedy. “Then why do you keep all of those bottles, Caz?” I remember too late that he wants me to call him Charles, but he doesn’t correct me.
He shakes his head, glances down at his big hands gripping each other. “They’re a memento of my time down in Texas. I didn’t deserve to totally fo
rget—only temporarily. The accident tortured me. I couldn’t stop thinking of that poor little girl, her body flying up, the stricken look on her mother’s face.” He stifles a noise in his throat that’s a cross between a gasp and a sob. “I couldn’t handle being in the world any more. I needed a way out. I couldn’t kill myself, though. Bad off as I ever was, I couldn’t do that.” He frowns. “What good would it do to lose yet another human, even a lousy one?”
“You weren’t a bad person. You didn’t do it on purpose,” I say under my breath, and take his hand. He flinches and pulls it back. Is he shocked I would want to touch him after he spoke his difficult truth? I take it again, and this time he lets me. “The articles said the girl just ran out—” I can’t even say the words. They’re too dreadful. I remember what Harper said, that what happened to Charles Mitton would have driven her crazy.
“I hit her with the car.” He fills in the words I can’t say. “I heard her mother scream, and I saw the little girl, but she was way too close, moving way too fast.” His breath hitches in another dry sob, but he continues. “I slammed on my brakes when I saw her face turn toward me. Her eyes were so full of fear. She knew what was going to happen, but it was too late. Oh Sienna, she knew,” he wails. “The blind trust changing into terror on her face haunts me to this day. And the flat thud of her body hitting my hood.” At this, Caz stops talking and starts to sob for real. His hands clutch his face, and his powerful body shudders with desperate spasms.
I get up and sit by him on the bed. He sits up, too, and when he does, I fold an arm around his shaking shoulders. Let him know I’m still here with open ears and a willing heart.
He calms down enough to speak, in halting fits and starts. “There was so much blood. Her mouth and teeth were covered with it. I screamed and bent over her little body, and I fucking lost it. After they took me in for questioning, they had to drag me away and put me in a state facility, some kind of nuthouse, for about two weeks. I was out of it, stumbling around in a gown half-open, drugged up, not even feeling human. I wanted to die. Officials came there and told me what the eyewitnesses had said.”