Sweet Nothing

by Henry, Mia

  In the kitchen, Waverly and Gwen are sitting at the table nursing steaming mugs and bowls of cereal.

  “Well, it’s about time, girl,” Waverly says. She’s dressed already, in turquoise jeans and a cream tank top.

  “I know. I slept late,” I yawn, shuffling toward the coffee maker.

  “You’ve had a long week. I’m sure your body needed it.” Gwen smiles over the top of her mug.

  Waverly’s features contort in disgust as I pour my coffee and take a seat between them. “I could care less what your body needs. How’d it go with the kid?”

  “She was a really sweet little girl, actually.” I pour my coffee and take a cautious sip. “You know what was really weird, though?”

  “I knew it.” Waverly smacks the table with an open palm. “What’d she do?”

  “Nothing. What was really weird was that it wasn’t weird at all.” I trace the rim of my mug with my index finger. “It just felt natural. There was nothing forced or fake about the whole thing.”

  “That’s so fucking cool.” Gwen beams at me. “So you felt like you could be yourself? You weren’t nervous?”

  “I was when I first got there. But then I met her, and we just sort of fell into this…” I pause, searching for the words to explain. But the searching is like sifting through handfuls of sand to find the perfect grain. The words slip through my fingers too fast. “…routine. We ate dinner and made cookies, and it felt like we’d been doing those things together for a long time. It felt… normal.” Heat rises to my cheeks.

  Gwen doesn’t answer right away. Instead she seems to study me, her chocolate eyes traveling my face; her lips pursed slightly.

  “What?” I study my mug. “I know. It sounds stupid.”

  “It doesn’t.” Her voice is strong. “It sounds really nice, El. I’m glad…” Her voice trails off, and she squeezes my arm. “I’m glad. Luke’s a good dude.”

  My cell buzzes on the table, and I glance at it before returning to my coffee.

  “Oh, please.” Waverly twists her blonde ends into a messy bun, then releases it. She lowers her voice to a sexy rasp. “You know you want to get it.”

  “Go on, El. We don’t care,” Gwen assures me.

  “Sorry, guys.” I grab the phone and head into the hall as I answer. “Hey, you.”

  “Hey, yourself. How’d you sleep last night?”

  My body relaxes instantly at the sound of Luke’s voice. “Great, actually. Would have been better if you were there.” I pump the handle on the patio door and step outside, into a veil of muggy late September heat. The pavement sears my bare feet. “How’s Lilah?”

  “A handful. Hyped up on sugar. Awesome.”

  “You’ve got a great kid, Luke.”

  “I know it. You know what else I have? About three dozen leftover sugar cookies. I was hoping you’d have dinner with me tonight, after I drop Lilah off at Ashley’s. We could polish them off for dessert.”

  I laugh. “In one sitting?”

  “It’s the only way to do it. You know what they say: Go hard or go home. How’s seven?”

  “I’ll be there. Don’t start without me.”

  The door is unlocked when I arrive, and I let myself in. Luke is standing next to the sink, prying burned cookies from a baking sheet with a metal spatula. Acoustic guitar music seems to float down from the ceiling. I recognize the tune immediately. Ray LaMontagne.

  “Where’s the apron?” I tease, joining him in the kitchen. I stand behind him and loop my arms around his waist, feeling my body respond instantly to the contact. I’m not sure we’ll make it all the way to dessert.

  “Hey. Be nice. Real men wear aprons, right?” He turns around and pulls me in for a kiss. His lips are warm and salty, and I’m suddenly overcome with intense wanting. I have to have him. I want his hands all over me, his mouth on every inch of me.

  “Real men definitely wear aprons,” I nod, resting my chin on his chest. “And real men take care of their daughters and bake too many sugar cookies and go snorkeling and make amazing surprise collages for no reason at all.”

  He smiles, but his eyes are serious. “Oh, I had my reason.”

  “What’s that?” I trace the imperfections in his gray t-shirt. It’s wrinkled and warm and smells like the beach.

  “You. You were my reason. I was… am… falling for you. In love with you. And so I gave you these little pieces of me. That’s all those things are, you know?”

  The lump in my throat rises fast. I should tell him. I should tell him everything, because he’s given enough of himself and he deserves the same from me. I close my eyes and the words wash over me. I am his reason. I am enough. If I tell him, he might understand. He could love me anyway. “I… I love you too, Luke.” It’s easier than I ever thought it could be. It’s my truth.

  He bends down to kiss me, weakening every fiber of my being. If I reveal who I am, I could lose this. I could lose him. Us. Not having Luke by my side could break me.

  “You’re so damn beautiful, Elle,” he tells me. I let him. “And I know you don’t always believe that. But I can show you. Let me show you how beautiful you are.”

  Suddenly, I can’t breathe. My chest is tight; my body closing in on itself. “Just… give me a second, okay?”

  I give him a parting squeeze and duck into the bathroom. Turn on the faucet and cup my hands beneath the cold stream. The water is like ice on my face, my neck. Slipping past my collarbone. My heart is racing, pounding, chanting the truth. I love him. I love him. I love him. And I have to tell him the truth. I know that. I just don’t know how.

  chapter twenty-six

  Elle,

  I have to get out of here. Being in this house with her is killing me. So I’m leaving. I’m spending the next couple nights at Kylie’s place. Her parents are in Bali or Bora Bora or some shit, so she’s having a few of us over. You know the one: the penthouse on 5th? With the movie theater and bowling alley?

  When her parents get back, maybe I’ll catch a flight to Miami. And don’t say no. You’re my only option, Elle. My only sister. Please don’t say no.

  Love you for infinity,

  A

  “Aria. I know things have gotten bad with Mom, and believe me—I know how miserable you are. But running away—to Kylie’s or to Miami—it just isn’t… it’s a short-term solution, A. It won’t work. I really want you to call me, okay? We’ll talk it out. Just… just call me.”

  I end the call but don’t stop pacing, from the white board to the back of my empty classroom and back again. I’m such a hypocrite, telling Aria not to run away from her problems. I should go back to New York. Check on my baby sister myself. Or maybe I’m overreacting. She is a teenager, and when I was her age I spent more than a few nights at friends’ houses for the sole purpose of escaping my mother. She can’t truly be planning to fly to Miami with no warning. Our mother would kill her.

  I want to talk to Luke about this. Hiding so much of myself from him weighs on me more than I ever thought it would. But I’m terrified of what he will do, how he’ll react, if I tell him the truth. No. When I tell him the truth. Just thinking about it makes me feel sick; lightheaded.

  I have to see him. I need to rest in his eyes, in the way he looks at me like I’m good and whole and worthy of being loved the way he loves me. I check the clock. There are just a few minutes left in the last period of the day. I reach for my purse and keys.

  When I get to the studio, I press my ear against the door. Silence. I can’t remember if Luke has last period free or not, but I don’t hear the usual music, chatter, and laughter that swell in his studio during class. Carefully, I twist the handle and open the door just a crack. The room is dark, and it takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust.

  “And I wasn’t really sure what it was when I was first starting out, but I just sort of ended up with this circle with all these colors and symbols in it. I don’t know what it is yet.” Priya stands at the front of the studio. Projected on the wall next to h
er is a large, glowing image of a circle, filled with colorful swirls and shapes. When she sees me, she lifts her hand in a small wave. The rest of the class turns.

  “Ms. Sloane!” Luke is leaning against the wall opposite the door. In the low gray light, I see a smile play over his lips. “Come on in.”

  “Oh—I—I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I stammer. What was I thinking? If the students weren’t talking about Luke and me before, they will be now. I’m reckless when it comes to Luke. I don’t think about the consequences. “I can come back.”

  “No. Stay.” Luke waves me inside. “We’re just doing critiques. The students are presenting their work, and I’m sure they’d love another informed perspective.”

  “Okay. I guess. Thanks.” I nod and slip through the door, pressing my back against the wall. My face is hot, but at least it’s dark.

  “So Priya, what you have here looks to me like a mandala.” Luke crosses his arms over his chest, studying the image. “Does anyone know what that is? Have you heard that term before?”

  The room is quiet. Luke glances at me, and I shrug.

  “The term mandala is a Sanskrit term that means circle, loosely translated. As a symbol, the circle represents wholeness. Think about it: a circle has no beginning, and no end. It goes on forever.” Luke is studying me, taking me in as he speaks. As if we are the only two people in the room. “Think about how we use the circle as a symbol in everyday life. When we fall in love and decide to commit our life to another person, what do we give them to symbolize it?”

  “A diamond?” Vi calls out.

  Luke seems to cringe. “More specifically, a ring. A circle. A symbol of love that is without end.”

  “With a diamond.”

  Luke smiles wryly. “Moving on. Mandalas are a common technique in art therapy. They allow the artist to explore the whole self through the art that he or she creates within the circle.”

  I raise my hand, which makes some of the kids laugh. “Like how? What do you mean?”

  “Well, the idea is that if we take a circle and start to fill it in without censoring ourselves, the final product will be a reflection of the self. So if I fill my circle with sweeping lines of different shades of blue, what does that mean?”

  “You’re… sad?” Vi tries.

  Luke shrugs. “It means whatever it means to the artist. The artist is the only person who can interpret his or her work. So if it were your mandala, Vi, the blue might represent sadness. For me, it might represent water. And being near water is calming for me. So maybe my blue represents feeling at peace.” The blue in Luke’s eyes glows bright on the other side of the room. “It’s all about interpretation.”

  “Can I sit down now?” Priya asks timidly.

  “Not just yet,” Luke smiles. “My point in telling you all of this is to say that there are only so many symbols out there, only so many combinations of lines and colors that we can use as artists. It’s the way we interpret the symbols, the way we express the colors, that makes the work unique. So Priya, if you can run the program quickly from my computer, we can do a search of the web for images similar to yours. Let’s see what else is out there.”

  “Okay.” Priya bends over the computer at the front of the room and jiggles the mouse. A few quick clicks and the projection on the walls morphs into a split-screen, with Priya’s image on the left, and a slideshow of Internet images on the right. I remember the software program from the open house at Luke’s several weeks ago. Vi had used it to brag that her work was worth more than it was.

  “Stop. So here on the right, we have the Taima Mandala. It’s a Japanese mandala that dates back to around 763. And you can see some similarities between Priya’s work and the colors used in this ancient piece of art.”

  “So, does that mean, I like, copied it? Accidentally?” Priya’s voice is small.

  “Not at all. That’s not what I’m suggesting. What I’m saying is that even thousands of years ago, in a culture totally different from yours, we see some of the same symbols that might carry through in your work today. Those symbols are universal. Your work is connected to so many other artists’ work in that way. But at the same time, your work is unique to you—because you’re you. You bring with you a history and a way of looking at the world that no one else has. How cool is that?”

  “Pretty cool,” Priya smiles.

  I could stand here and watch Luke teach for hours. He teaches with a kind of ease and confidence that I would kill to have in my classroom.

  “Okay, who’s next?” Luke asks the class. “Who’s willing to run their work through the program?”

  “What about you?” One of the boys in the back calls out. “Let’s see one of your pieces!”

  The class erupts in cheers and whistles, and Luke’s chin drops to his chest. “You guys are ruthless,” he laughs over the noise. “Okay, okay. Quiet down. I’ll run one of my paintings through the thing. But be nice,” he insists. “Priya, if you click on the first folder on my desktop, there’s a painting there called after. Go ahead and bring it up.”

  She does, and soon we’re looking at a slide of an enormous abstract painting rich with reds and blacks and blues. The room goes silent. Looking at it draws the breath from my lungs. It’s sad and angry and desperate and beautiful. Or at least that’s what I see. I fix my gaze on Luke. I want to be next to him. I want to hold him.

  “So this is something I painted after I lost two family members who were very close to me,” Luke says softly. “I was really pissed off, because losing them wasn’t fair. This painting was the thing that got me through that difficult time.” His voices goes husky, and my eyes start to sting.

  On the right side of the split-screen, a painting emerges with a large red circle at the center.

  “And this is a painting by an artist named Miró. You can see some similarities—there’s a bold use of color in both. And although I would never compare myself to such an artistic giant, it’s cool to see that we can both use the same shapes or colors and have them mean two entirely different things.”

  “Do another one!” Josh Marville calls out. Priya leans over the computer and clicks. And instantly, I’m staring at a larger-than-life image of myself.

  A tiny gasp escapes my throat before it closes. It’s the black and white picture Luke took with his pinhole camera. My heart stops in my chest. Oh, my God. The kids can’t see this. They can’t know about us. Dr. Goodwin will kill me.

  “Okay, guys. Let’s take it down.” Luke is already weaving through the maze of work tables, trying to get to the front of the room. Giggles and whispers leak into the space, and my whole body goes hot, then cold, then hot again. I can’t believe this is happening.

  And then, suddenly, the room goes eerily silent.

  My gaze snaps to the front, where even Luke has stopped in his tracks. And he’s staring at a split-screen on the wall: the me he knows on the left. Lounging on his couch, smiling at the camera. And on the right, the old me, the shameful me, the unspeakable me. An image of me with long blonde hair, shielding my face from the paparazzi. Below my image, a headline.

  PONZI PRINCESS ELLIOT HALLORAN DESTROYS DADDY

  JURY: ELI HALLORAN GUILTY ON ALL COUNTS

  Oh, fuck. Oh, no. Please. Not now. Not like this. It feels as if my body is crumpling into itself. As if my outer shell is cracking to reveal emptiness beneath it. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I don’t want to believe that this is real, but I can’t ignore it. It’s there, in harsh, glaring light on the wall: the sins of my father, once called the most hated man in America. My true identity. Splashed on the wall for everyone in my new life to see.

  I want Luke to turn around, and I’m scared to see his face. I want to scream You don’t understand! That girl is not the real me! But I know better. Because she is me, and I am her. There is no escaping myself. I should have known.

  When Luke finally turns, his face is twisted in anger and pain. The students don’t move. Or speak. Or look at me.

&nbs
p; “I—I’m sorry,” I whisper. I have to get as far away from this place as possible. I reach for the door handle, my skin tingling with panic and adrenaline and fear. Twist it and trip outside, where a light rain has started to fall. I’m going to be sick. I stumble around the side of the studio, bending over to try to catch my breath.

  He knows. He knows who I am, and he knows that I lied. And now we’re over. My new life is over. My future is over. Gasping for breath, I straighten up and tilt my face toward the sky, letting the rainwater rinse my tears. I have to leave. I can’t bear to face Luke ever again. I kick off my heels, scoop them up, and start to run.

  chapter twenty-seven

  On the drive back to the cottage, the outside world flies by in fragments, like raindrops spilling down glass. I’m speeding past cars, their horns blaring. I grip the steering wheel so tight I think I might crush it. Scream fuck you at my father for the very first time, and mean it.

  Fuck him for destroying my family, for destroying the lives of so many families for the sake of power and greed and wealth that wasn’t even ours. Fuck him for the suicides of the people who lost everything—the deaths we know about and the deaths we don’t. Fuck him for destroying my chance at real love and a future, even from his jail cell. I hope he feels as alone right now as I do. The kind of alone that hollows you and out and leaves you to wither.

  When I get to the Cottage, Gwen’s car is already in the driveway. I push the front door open and sag against the wall in the entrance hall, my body shaking. I take off my glasses and squeeze them in my sweaty palm until they crack. My sobs are silent; consuming. I slide down the wall and rest next to the door, bringing my knees to my chest. For the first time in my life, I know what it’s like to be consumed by hate. What I don’t know is whether my hate is for my father. Or whether it’s for me.

  “Elle? Oh, my God.” The entrance hall light is sudden and accusing. Gwen’s blurred outline coalesces in front of me. She’s wearing her school clothes but her feet are bare, except for a silver toe ring. She bends down and brushes wet strands of hair from my cheek. “What’s going on? Are you sick?”