by Virna DePaul
“You okay?” His voice is close, but I don’t want to turn my head and risk more pain.
“Davis?” I whisper.
“I’m right here.”
He moves into my sight line. His face is all concern and tenderness. I swallow. Even that hurts. I’m frightened. I know I need to go see a doctor. Ask about the medications, if there’s something we can do to mitigate the side effects. Or . . . find out if it’s not just side effects. If it’s something worse.
For the rest of the day, Davis takes care of me. He’s always there with a cool drink or some food. I don’t feel hungry, but he’s doing the cooking himself, so I eat some to be polite. He stocks the nightstand with books and word puzzles and even a couple of art magazines, which I read cover to cover.
I drift in and out of a haze. Have some terrifying nightmares about dying. About the cancer eating my body from the inside. In the evening, when Davis comes in to offer me soup, I obligingly eat a few spoonfuls before sinking back against the pillows.
“I’m sorry but tonight I’m out of commission.”
He laughs, the sound one of disbelief. “Out of commission? Bella, you’re not a machine.” He strokes my hair lightly. “I just want you to get better. That’s all.”
I’m never going to get better. It’s what I want to tell him or should tell him. But the words stick in my throat.
An hour later, I’m cold. No matter how tight I pull the covers around me, I’m still cold, so finally I ask, my stomach fluttering slightly, “Davis?”
He’s sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room, working quietly on his laptop. Earlier, I told him he doesn’t have to stay here and watch me sleep, but he insisted.
He looks up. “Do you need something?”
“Um, I’m . . . cold.”
My throat tightens. I’m not sure what I expect his response to be. I know what I hope it is, though.
“Would you like another blanket?”
I shake my head. And then I take a big risk. I look at him imploringly and let him see in my eyes what want from him.
And to my surprise, he seems to understand. He rises, setting his laptop aside. He crosses the room and removes his shirt and pants. He stands there for a moment in his boxers, then slowly pulls back the covers.
Gently, he climbs into bed beside me.
I hold my breath as he settles down next to me, his body warm. His scent is familiar, comforting. Like it or not, my body has learned to trust his. I’m not sure what to do. I’d love to turn and bury myself in his arms. But I’m concerned about propriety. Still concerned about getting too close.
Luckily, he makes the decision for me. He rolls onto his side and pulls me so close to him that my body can’t possibly be cold anymore. I take a deep breath, and then let it all out, shaking slightly.
Fuck, I’m scared. What does it mean, these headaches and dizzy spells? Is it really side effects? Is it stress? Or am I near the end?
He holds me tightly. “Whatever you’re worried about, Bella, let it go. I’m here. I’ll keep you safe. Ssshhh,” he says, as I shake harder. I’m not about to cry. I’m not. “Just sleep now.”
I’m so fucking exhausted that I obey.
Chapter Twelve
Davis
We wake up entangled. I pull her closer to me. She shifts sleepily and sighs, nestling closer. Whatever this episode is, it seems to have passed, for the most part. But I’m still a bit shaken. What caused her to collapse like that?
We doze a little while longer, and finally her eyes flutter open and she blinks at me.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
She nods silently.
I stroke the sweaty hair back from her eyes. “Want me to bring you something to eat?”
She shakes her head. “Just . . . stay a few minutes. Please?”
My heart warms, and I feel like I could fucking sing. She’s trusting me. Slowly, she’s trusting me to take care of her.
“Of course. I’ll stay all night. It is my bed, you know.” I risk the gentle tease.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
She sounds small and scared. I want nothing more in this moment than to protect her, to help her feel safe.
“Guess all that sex broke me,” she jokes weakly.
I laugh. “We’ll take it easy for the next few days.”
She smiles, closing her eyes again.
“What happened?” I ask. “Do you . . . do you have fainting spells often?”
“Fainting spells?” Her eyes open. “This isn’t the 1800s, Davis. It was a bad headache is all. A migraine.”
Something doesn’t feel right to me. “Do you get a lot of migraines?”
“Some.”
“Do you have medication on hand for them?”
“No. I don’t.”
Robot voice again. I shift, not wanting to keep pressing her, but wanting to make sure she’s taking care of herself.
“Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“I’ve already seen a doctor.”
She says it with finality. She’s shutting down the conversation. But the whole thing still isn’t sitting right with me. I make a mental note to bring it up again later.
“So,” she says, voice slightly rough with sleep. She strokes my bare chest with her fingers. “What have you been hacking lately?”
I laugh, then softly trace the outline of her high cheekbone with one finger. “I do more than hack, you know. Actually, I’ve been working on legitimate projects the past few days.”
“Your false database?”
“And a coding project for a freelance client. Nothing exciting.”
Her forehead furrows slightly. “Then why do you do it? It’s not like you need the money.”
“To keep busy. And so, I don’t lose touch with the world.”
“With the commoners?”
I laugh again, but the truth is, the words sting a little. There is something isolating about being wealthy. Boo hoo, I know. Poor wealthy asshole. But, I didn’t grow up this way. I don’t want to forget where I came from.
“I don’t want to be removed,” I confess. “I don’t want to start thinking I’m better than people. That I don’t have to work. I try to keep in mind that I once had nothing. Not even a family.”
Her expression is inscrutable. She moves her fingers up to stroke my jaw. Her skin feels cool.
“What did you want to be when you grew up?”
“A computer programmer.”
She takes her hand away and tucks her arms closer to her, nestling deeper into the covers. “Even as a little kid?”
“Yes.”
She smiles a little. “I always wondered about you. What your life was like. What you dreamed about. You were so mysterious.”
I snort. “Mysterious? Hardly.” Nerdy, more like it. I pause. “What did you want to be?”
“A painter.”
“So, we both did all right for ourselves.”
She giggles, a lovely charming sound. “I guess so.”
“I always wondered about you, too. And even thinking what I thought Bella, I hoped you were happy. I still want that for you.”
Her smile fades completely, and we gaze at each other across the pillow. Then she leans in and kisses me. It’s a kiss like none other we’ve shared. Passionate, but deeper, somehow. The ice around her melts, and I hold in my arms a woman who’s more than a memory. She is who she’s always been. Kind-hearted, warm. My Bella. We kiss for several long moments, and then slowly stop. I can still feel her lips on mine. She seems tired again, like she’s fading toward sleep.
“I hope you know I meant it,” I say. “About wanting you to be happy.”
“I believe you, Davis,” she whispers. “And I’m fine.” Her eyes fall shut. “With you, here and now, I’m as happy as I can be.”
Chapter Thirteen
Bella
Davis’s living room is large and sparsely furnished, and as I take it in, I’m imagining it transformed on canvas. I’d r
emove everything but the old-fashioned leather armchair and the Persian carpet. I’d put the chair in the corner so it didn’t obstruct the splashes of red and dull gold and black in the rug pattern. It would be more colorful than what I normally paint, thanks to the rug, but I’d be okay with that.
People have always said my works are about emptiness. And they’re not wrong. I do paint empty rooms. Only I never thought of that emptiness as an absence or a loss. I always saw it as more of a held breath. The moment where we wait to welcome something or someone in. It’s about anticipation, about hope.
But no one ever asked me.
When I hear movement behind me, my lips curve up in a small smile.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Davis’s deep, rich voice washes over me.
I smile absently, shaking my head. “Nothing very interesting.”
“Try me.”
I turn. His gaze is steady and even, full of gentleness. For once, I’m not looking at him and thinking about our nights together. Not thinking of being bent over the counter in the bathroom of some fancy restaurant. I’m thinking about how he was with me when I was sick. About him placing the cool cloth over my forehead. The way he’d seemed to understand that even such a light touch was unbearable to me. He’d never grown impatient with me, not for a second. He’d taken care of me. Slept next to me without trying to take anything for himself. Told me he’s always wanted me to be happy.
And because of that, I do something that doesn’t come naturally to me. I tell him what I was really thinking.
“I’m thinking about painting.”
“Do you miss it?” he asks softly.
For a second I can’t even answer, because I do. I miss it so much. Painting isn’t nearly as confusing, as destabilizing as these feelings I have for Davis. Painting keeps me grounded.
“Yes,” I say, the word barely audible.
“Then why don’t you set up your painting things in the apartment? Maybe the lounge? You’d have a perfect view of the city. There’s that massive window.”
My heart starts to pound a little faster. My mouth crooks up slightly. “In love with that skyline, aren’t you?”
He doesn’t smile. His gaze seems to penetrate deep into my soul. It’s all gentleness, no force, but I know suddenly that there’s nowhere I can go to escape him. Not now and not when this month is all over. Those eyes will always be with me.
He nods almost imperceptibly. “I am.”
“Well it is beautiful. But seriously,” I tell him, “I can’t paint in this place.”
“Why not?”
I gesture around. “All your stuff. This expensive stuff. I’ll get paint on it.”
He shrugs. “It’s just stuff.”
I tilt my head. “Are you serious? You’d let me paint in your apartment?”
“Of course, Bella. Why is it so hard for you to believe I want you to be happy? Now, tell me what you need.”
Hours later, after spending the day lazing around, cooking, and watching movies, the painting supplies he ordered have arrived, and I’m at my easel in front of the gigantic window in the lounge. The sun is slowly sinking behind that magical skyline Davis loves so much. I’m wearing one of his old shirts and nothing else. Not even underwear. The shirt is big, hanging down to my thighs. Warm and comforting, it smells like him. My palette is balanced on one forearm, and I’m deep in concentration.
I blink and look at my canvas, surprised by what I see. I’ve been in a trance for so long I barely realized what I was doing. What’s sitting on my easel.
It’s a painting of the city skyline.
Not an empty room.
I’m painting what Davis sees. I’m painting the world that enchanted Davis. The city that seemed out of reach and off limits to an orphan like him.
There’s a lump in my throat. I’m not sure I want to show him. By the time he comes back into the room an hour later, I’ve hidden the canvas away in the closet of my room. Instead, I’m working on something more innocuous. It’s a room that shares traits with this one, but to which I’ve added my own little twists.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, coming to stand beside me. “I love your work, Bella.”
He leans down and kisses my neck, whispering, “And I love you in this shirt.”
I laugh, tilting my head to the side as he kisses me again. I have to struggle to hold the brush steady as he works his way just below the shirt collar, pressing his tongue to my pulse. I’m working with acrylic, not oil, but still. I don’t want to get paint all over everything. I glance again at my canvas.
“I paint empty rooms, and everyone thinks they’re about loss,” I tell him, not sure he’ll understand. “But they’re not. They’re about waiting for something new to come.”
He looks at the canvas with me. “I guess I made the same mistake as everyone else. But now that you say it, I do see it.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For saying that, and for letting me paint here.”
“Of course. Use this space as much as you want.” He lifts one of my soft, camel hair brushes from the tray on my easel, and admires it. Then he looks at me. “You seem to be feeling better.”
“I feel great. Thank you for being so patient with me. A lazy day in was exactly what I needed.”
“I enjoyed it as well.” He studies me for several seconds, then lifts the paintbrush and brushes it against his other hand. “This is beautiful. And stunningly soft.”
At the way he’s looking at me, my breath hitches. I lick my lips, then sigh when he runs the brush down the skin on the underside of my wrist.
The sensation is delicious. The bristles are so soft, and a thousand little thrills travel through me at the sensation. I close my eyes. He slides it back up my arm, then leans toward me and gently kisses my neck again. I roll my head, sighing. He reaches around and starts unbuttoning the shirt I’m wearing.
Right there in front of that huge open window overlooking the city, he exposes me. Slips the shirt from my shoulders, and I stand there naked in front of the whole city.
He unbuttons his shirt. I’m eager for this, sated by my creative time in front of my easel, and overwhelmed with feelings of affection and gratitude for the way Davis has taken care of me. He strips me, and then I remove his clothes. We kiss for a few wonderful moments, and then he starts again with the clean brush, painting his way up my outer thigh with invisible pigment. I shiver, silently willing him to move it inward, to press those bristles against the sensitive flesh of my inner thighs.
But he’s taking his time, sweeping up over my belly, making me gasp as he finds my ticklish spots. He moves the brush up between my breasts, and I tip my head back. God, yes. He circles my left nipple. It draws into a tight peak, and my pussy contracts. When I recover, I reach out with my own brush, still coated in green paint, and give him a swipe of green across his broad chest.
He counters by finally dragging the brush to my inner thighs, making me tremble as he gets closer and closer to my pussy. I cry out as the satin-soft bristles stroke my clit. I swipe my brush, with its thicker, coarser bristles, down toward his erect cock.
He paints me with emptiness, and I cover him in color. And then we’re back in each other’s arms, kissing again, the color rubbing off him and onto me.
But something strange happens. Even though I can tell we’re both turned on as hell, this doesn’t lead to sex. Instead he pulls me to him, my back to his front. He twines his arms around me, and together we stare out the window at the city. Both of us naked, in more ways than one.
I can feel his heart beating against my back, and it’s almost as if I can feel his years of loneliness. That special kind of hollow that money and success have left in him. Because they’re so false, so rich on the surface and so empty at the core.
Sometimes I wish I could talk to my mother. Ask her if it was ever as frightening to her. The possibility of letting others in. Because what if they see my ugliness and shame? What if they betray me?
Whatever’
s happening now is not something I’ve prepared for. It’s a need far beyond sex. It’s a desire to let him in, let him see all of me. It’s that moment of anticipation I’ve tried to capture in painting after painting. The moment before something—or someone—fills an empty room. Warms it. Brightens its colors.
He softly kisses the crook of my neck. “Bella,” he whispers.
“I . . . have to tell you something.”
The words sound small and far away, even to my own ears. Suddenly, I feel a sense of danger all around me. The inevitability of my death, and the knowledge that I will hurt him. That if he thinks I’m the answer to his loneliness, it’s only because he doesn’t have the whole picture.
“What is it?” His voice is so quiet.
“I . . .”
I teeter there in that moment. Do I tell him? It’s not his problem. He’s not a part of my life, not really.
Except he is. He’s always been a part of my life.
He’s become a part of me.
But I’m sick. I’m dying.
And I don’t want that for Davis.
Not Davis. Not the one beautiful thing in my life right now.
When he taught me about code, there was something surprising, even infuriating, about the way one tiny mistype could fuck up an entire command. There was just no room for mistakes or subjectivity. Painting is precise in its way, but it’s organic and fluid. Code is rigid and unyielding. But as I grew up, I learned to mirror the precision and practicality coding demanded in my own personality. Learned I was safer that way.
I want Davis to have a good life. If that means I have to search out my weakness in life and eliminate it just as I’d find a typo in code and wipe it out, I’ll do it.
Because doing it means keeping Davis’s life—the kind of life he deserves—on track.
“Nothing,” I finally whisper.
He continues to hold me, and together, we watch the lights of the city wink on, filling the dusk. But something’s changed between us. I know it, and I sense he knows it too.