by Sara Cate
Later that night I drew a naked sketch of him with a tiny penis and gave it to Cadence. When I told her what he did, she was livid and posted it on Instagram and Snapchat—she even tagged him.
Then, she came into my room, laid with me on the bed, and told me to wait as long as I could before having sex. She said she lost her virginity too young and regrets not taking the time to find the right person, finding what felt good instead of letting desperate horny teens paw all over her for as long as she did. She made me promise I would wait.
And I did.
I was fifteen at the time.
A shriek comes from the front of the house, jolting us both from our laughter. Cadence tenses next to me.
“Caaaaaadence,” our mother howls.
“I better go see what she wants.”
“Tell her we’re out of tequila,” I mumble without looking as my sister climbs off the bed. “Get her high instead. It chills her out.”
When I turn and look, my mother is standing at the door. Thankfully, she’s too far gone for any of my words to register. Her eyeliner is running down her face, and she looks sad. For a moment, I feel bad for her. I almost miss the woman beneath the shell, but then she looks at me, and I know there isn’t a filter in place to stop her from what she’s about to say to me.
“You were so rude to Mr. Caldwell today,” she slurs. “Couldn’t even get up and talk to him. I raised you to have manners.”
“He was talking to Cadence. I didn’t want to steal the attention from her.” I think it’s what she wants me to say. To acknowledge that my sister is a piece of meat we’re trying to sell to the market for the highest price.
My mother lets out a loud cackle. Cadence tries to lead her out of the room because she knows this interaction can only go downhill. My presence alone triggers her.
“You were being an ungrateful little bitch, Sunny. And you know as well as I do that you weren’t stealing any attention from your sister.”
When I glance up, I see her eyes pointed at me as she sways in her spot. She looks at me like she hates me.
Cadence has noticed it too. She says it’s because Mom’s beauty is plain, mass-produced, sugared, and canned, like peaches. Whereas mine is unique. Like an exotic fruit right off the tree. Not perfect, but authentic.
But I think it’s because I’m not like her. I don’t feel the need to smile all the time, just because a man shows me attention. I’m not hung up on things and money like her. I’d rather be single forever than stuck in a loveless marriage like she was for twenty years.
If I say nothing, I’m being rude. If I say what’s on my mind, things get physical. We do this dance every night, where she stands there with her hatred and I stare back, silent and fighting tears.
But I do not cry. Ever.
“Come on, Mama. Sunny’s sorry. She’ll be nicer next time. Let’s go get a drink.” Cadence pulls her out of the room, glancing back at me as I shake my head at her.
My sister is the bubble wrap of this family, keeping everyone at a safe distance and avoiding the shattered mess that would inevitably result if she was not there.
I know the day will come when Cadence will leave, and I certainly won’t be around to see what happens when she does.
Alexander
“Have the movers delivered everything?”
“Yeah,” I answer, staring at the unopened boxes in my living room—full of junk I couldn’t even remember at the moment and don’t give a shit about. My sister’s voice carries through the house from the smart speaker set up in the kitchen.
“I’ll drive out next weekend and help you unpack,” she says, sounding a little too eager.
“Don’t bother. I can do this on my own.”
“I know you can. I just don’t think you will.”
I don’t answer her, and the room grows quiet except for the hum coming from her side of the call. She must be in the car. She always calls me on her long commutes.
“This is a good move, Alexander. Put down some roots. Try to just be alone for a while. Maybe think about getting back into business.”
I’m listening to her, but my mind tends to wander when my sister starts lecturing. That margarita wore off too fast, and my buzz is fading. One of these boxes has the booze, but I’m not about to start rifling through them. I need to go into town and stock up.
Still, I don’t answer her. This is the part where she says all the things she thinks she needs to say, like I don’t already know. Like I care. Like it’ll make any fucking difference at all.
“Fine, don’t answer me, but I know you hear me. No more parties, Alex. No more trouble.”
I’m a fucking adult, and excuse me if I don’t want to listen to my big sister threaten me if I want to party my ass off until I’m dead. Who cares if I’m throwing my money and career away? What fucking business is it of hers? None.
She doesn’t know everything about what went down with my business partner—why he kicked me out, his marriage ended, and we don’t talk anymore. But I’m pretty sure she figured it out. I think everyone did.
“Yes, Mom,” I groan, my forehead resting against the quartz countertop.
“Don’t be a dick.” Her voice is clipped, and I expect her to hang up. That’s usually what she does when I call her mom. It’s cruel because our mother was a fucking saint, and she’s also dead. Comparing Charlotte to her only reminds my sister how different the two of them were, how her choice to skip the marriage and kids gig broke our mother’s heart before she passed.
“Sorry,” I chuckle, though I’m really not.
“Meet any neighbors yet?”
“Yeah, there’s a nice family behind me. Had me over for drinks today.”
“That’s nice. I can just see you out there around the grill with other guys in cargo shorts and crocs.” Her husky laugh fills the phone line for a moment while I let a smile creep onto my face.
“No guys at this house,” I add.
“Oh great. Well, stay away from that house then.”
What my sister is implying is that I have a problem with women. I’m impulsive, indulgent, reckless. Of course, it’s all fucking true, but I won’t satisfy her with that admission.
Just then, I peer out the glass patio door toward the yard. The trees just barely hide the view of the deck where I recently shared a margarita with a middle-aged woman hornier than a cat in heat.
It’s dusk out now, and the air is getting cooler, but there’s still someone out in the pool. At first, I figure it’s the one I met. The busty brunette.
Then, I catch a glimpse of her long, slender legs as she dives in, disappearing into the water until she pops up on the other side, ducks back under and glides across again.
Her head breaches the water, and this time, I can make out the softer features of her face. It’s not the girl I met. It’s the younger one. The one in the chair with the eyes that stopped me in my tracks.
She had a cold, harsh, no-fucks-given stare. Not about me or about her mother and sister. The look in her eyes was like a line from a Dylan Thomas poem: dark, mysterious...sexy.
Granted, it was probably just a moody teenage sulking expression, and I was looking too much into it, but still—she haunted me.
She steps out of the water and stops. Without a towel, she’s standing on the deck, shivering in nothing more than a thin bathing suit. What is she doing? Then, her head turns and her eyes trail up to my house where I’m sure she can see me watching her from my brightly lit window.
She doesn’t wave. And neither do I.
We just...acknowledge each other.
Shaking without the sun to dry her, she finally turns away from me and rushes toward the house, hidden by the leaves of the tree.
“Are you still there?” Charlotte calls for the second time before I shake my head and answer her.
“Yeah, I am. Sorry, just tired.”
“Get some rest. Call me tomorrow.” We say our goodbyes, and she hangs up.
The house is quie
t and dark. And too goddamn big. There are four rooms in this house, three of which I guarantee I won’t even touch, but this is what I wanted—a home.
Something quiet, calm, and a good place to focus.
This is what I wanted, and if I keep reminding myself, I might actually start to believe it.
Sunny
Voices carry from downstairs. It’s mostly laughter, high-pitched and obnoxious. They spill into my house, just like they do every Saturday night. Mom got the friends in the divorce apparently, because they never stopped invading my life, even after Dad left.
“Come have a swim with us,” Cadence calls from the doorway.
“No, thanks.”
She should know by now; these are my painting nights. If I go downstairs, everyone will want to tell me how much I’ve grown. The men will talk to me like I’m a child while simultaneously trying to get me to kiss them or sit on their lap, and it’s just not worth the hassle. So, when I was about fifteen, I decided my parents’ party nights were my painting nights.
Putting the paint on the canvas is a lot of work. It involves mixing the colors, getting the supplies out, making a mess, and cleaning it up. Plus, I hate stopping once I start, and since their parties go all night, it’s the perfect amount of time. I keep my music loud and pull an all-nighter.
“Shut the door, please,” I say over my shoulder with a smile while my sister stands in the doorway with a spiked seltzer in her hands. Her hair is down, curled and hanging over her shoulders. With her tanned skin, that white bikini looks stunning on her, and it makes me so jealous I want to hate her.
But I don’t.
Liam appears behind her, wrapping a hand around her waist and pulling her away from my doorway.
“Shut the door,” I yell as their laughter fades away.
My sister broke my noise-cancelling headphones when she fell into the pool with them on, so I'm stuck blaring my music to try and drown out the sounds coming from downstairs. It works out fine, except for the few times Mom will inevitably complain.
A couple hours go by when I finally sit back to see the progress I've made. Billie Eilish croons from my Bluetooth speaker on the dresser, and I'm actually pretty pleased with how my portrait is turning out. I decided to paint a sketch I've had in my journal for months. It was a woman I saw on a sunglasses ad once. It popped up on my insta feed, and something in her eyes spoke to me, so I screenshot it. Then I added a few things, having a little fun with her expression. I changed the slope of her nose so that the bridge started up a little higher than the real model's. Her mouth is wider; her lips thinner. There are freckles scattered around her face, dark ones too, not the light spatter most people are used to seeing.
Cadence called it exotic beauty. Undefinable. Unattainable.
The sketch on the canvas is done with the beginnings of some color, but I'll be up until at least three if I want to get the shading in tonight, which I do. If I leave it, I'll never come back to it.
I need to clean my palette and mix some new colors. When I climb off the floor, I sense someone standing in the doorway. I almost scream when my eyes meet his.
"Sorry to scare you," he says without smiling.
Goosebumps erupt along my arms and neck. Alexander is standing in my room, closer than ever. He steps forward, and I struggle to breathe.
Being this close, I notice things I couldn’t see from across the yard. Things that don’t translate in his online photos and cell phone videos. His brown eyes are so dark they almost match the black irises in the middle. His nose is long, and like mine, the bridge rises up to his eyebrows. On him, it makes him look like a bronze statue, a face they might have etched into stone. The sharp lines of his lips steal my attention.
I’ve never been so affected by a man in person before. So, attracted.
He steps in again. Still, I don't move. At this point, I realize I'm in a pair of lounge silk pants that are too long and gather at the bottom. They're covered in paint. My shirt is a light cotton tank with two peaks where my braless breasts hold it up.
I suddenly feel so exposed. Why is he here? In my house. In my room.
"I was looking for the bathroom, and I heard your music." He steps in again. He's walking right into my room like he owns the place, and I should tell him to leave, but I don't want him to.
"What are you working on?"
His eyes travel across the room to the easel on the floor. Oh God. Please don't laugh at it, this supermodel portrait that is basically the artistic rendering of a Snapchat filter that looks like me if I was far prettier and sexier than I am in real life.
"Did you do that?" He walks toward the painting, looking closer, then comparing her to the sketch on the floor. "I like the painting better."
My heart is hammering so loud, it pulses in my ears.
He stands up and looks at me, locking eyes for a long moment. "Say something."
"What do you want me to say?" I mumble, my voice coming out with a shake.
"I don't know," he laughs. "Are you always this quiet?"
"Maybe," I answer.
He smiles. Then he lands on my bed, kicking his feet out and crossing them at the ankles. "Why aren’t you downstairs? Your sister got all the social genes, huh?"
I can't help the smile that cracks on my lips. "That's an understatement." Before I drop the heavy trays on the floor, I take them to the attached bathroom and put them in the sink. With my back to him, I quickly rinse the trays before they stain my sink and my mother loses her mind.
"You're good," he says, and I peer over my shoulder to see him taking a sip of whatever is in the glass he's holding.
"Well, I had an expensive education."
He lets out a clipped laugh behind me, and I peer up into the mirror to see him in the reflection. Alexander Caldwell is sitting on my bed like it's not the craziest thing that's ever happened to me.
He catches me watching him.
"You don't mind me hanging out in here, do you?"
I shake my head. "Nope."
"Thanks. Sometimes I just need a break. Can I admit something to you?"
After I dry off the trays, I turn back to him, giving him a quick nod.
"I snoop at every party I go to."
"Everyone does that," I answer with a laugh.
"Yeah, but I like to go find quiet rooms and just hang out in them like they're my own."
As I step closer to him, I can make out the weathered skin around his eyes, where the tiniest crows feet have started to form. Other than that, he barely shows his age. His shirt fits him snug around the arms, strands of muscles peeking out of the light fabric.
He glances up at me, and I nearly lose my breath again. How can someone else's face make it so hard to breathe? I want to sketch him, the darkness of his eyes. The slope of his nose.
Instead, I turn away and kneel down next to the easel again.
Zayn starts playing, and I feel Alexander's silent presence behind me while I work. He just watches me while I mix the paint and stretch my arms before I get back to it.
Is he just going to sit there and watch me the whole time? It should make me uncomfortable...but it doesn't. I normally hate when people watch me paint.
The ice in his glass clinks when the song changes, and I focus on the lines around the portrait’s eyes.
"Did they teach you to do that?" he asks. His voice has a little slur to it.
"Do what?"
"To paint that look in her eye."
I smile back at him. "What look?"
His eyes level with mine. "The look that says she wants you."
It gets quiet while he glances between me and the painting. I swallow.
"I don't know," I mumble, looking back at the canvas.
He should be out there with my sister. He’s forty. I’m nineteen. He should be mingling with my mom's friends and not hanging out with me, but for once, I actually like one of the weekend partiers.
"How old are you, Sunny?" His voice is husky, and his words dance thr
ough the space between us the same way ink swirls through water, slowly changing the color of everything. A moment ago, it felt like he could be my friend. But now…
I'm nothing more than a blip on his radar. An itch to scratch. A notch on his bedpost. A weekend indulgence.
"Nineteen," I mutter, leaning over to finish the charcoal around her left eye.
I'm waiting for him to invite me over to sit next to him. Maybe he'll be one of those guys who asks me to sit on his lap. Have a drink with him. Give him a little kiss on the cheek.
The goosebumps on my skin turn cold.
I hear him stand up from my bed, and my breath gets caught in my chest.
"Stay in your room, Sunny. When your mom has these parties...you just stay up here, okay?"
My head snaps toward where he's standing in my doorway, his gaze down on me, kneeling on the floor.
"Okay?" he presses, sounding impatient and assertive.
I nod.
"Bring me that painting when it's done," he orders, jerking his head toward the canvas.
Looking back toward the girl, I let my brows furrow in confusion. "You want it?"
"Yeah, I'll buy it. Can you finish it by next weekend?"
I nod again.
"Good. Bring it on Saturday."
Then, he just turns and leaves me speechless on the floor of my room.
I finish the girl on Thursday, but I barely sleep that night, overthinking and worrying about the curve of her lips. Is it too much like a smile or not enough? Should I redo it?
I've never sold a piece before. Not really. So, this has me on edge. Is the color right? Does she still have the look Alexander wanted?
The interaction in my room kept replaying in my head the entire time I painted it. I can’t read him. At first, I figured he just wanted to hang out, be a friend, as I was the safe option. The person he didn’t have to try so hard around. With my sister, he had to put in effort. But with me, I thought we could just relax...but there was something more. When he asked my age, it changed. Like he was checking to see how illegal it would be to touch me. Then he told me to stay in my room like he was my dad.