Chapter Eleven: Romy
I lie awake, staring at my ceiling. In all my life, I’ve never done anything so crazy and wild. I’ve never turned my brain off and focused so entirely on physical pleasure. But now I can’t turn my brain off. Caleb … Caleb. He seemed to know exactly what to do and how to move. He made me feel safe, didn’t have to force a thing. Not like Alex, who was always in control, who always took what he wanted and apologized afterward if I didn’t like it. Caleb did the opposite. Everything he did told me he hadn’t forgotten I was there, that whether I wanted him or not actually mattered to him. And that’s why I was able to let go and lose myself in the pleasure of it, because it was what I wanted, not something he was taking from me.
I have to wonder, though, if I took something from him.
The more I sit with it, the more I realize that I twisted things around. It became about me, when he was the one drowning. As soon as he had me on that table, I stopped thinking about what was going on for him. My only thoughts were about his body, how much I wanted him, how amazing it felt. I’d been chasing one thing, and he gave it to me like he knew I needed it. I cringe with my own selfishness. He’s a guy, I tell myself. Physical stuff doesn’t mean as much to them, right? And it seemed like he’d enjoyed himself, if I read that final shudder and moan correctly. Right before he collapsed onto me, his whole body had gone tight. If orgasms are the unit of measurement here, I think he got as much out of it as I did.
Then I walked away. He looked like he wanted to say something, but I didn’t want to hear it. I needed to get out of there and pull my thoughts together, put my armor back on. He’d shattered everything with his stroking fingers, with the hard, perfect lines of his body, with the sweet, insistent taste of his mouth.
Now I have to figure out what to do next. Are we good, or are there pieces I have to pick up? Markus knew exactly what had happened, I’m sure. He gave me a once-over that said I can picture it all. I’m sure it’s not the only time, though. Caleb isn’t the first one to let loose in his studio. When I was in college, the artists’ studios were prime make out spots. I’m sure it’s no different in the co-op. And we’re not in college anymore. We’re adults. We can do what we want, and we don’t have to explain it. I don’t care what Markus or anyone else thinks of me.
Except Caleb. As much as I try to tell myself differently, I think I care what he thinks. I care how he is. I need to find out. He said he was fine, but I’m not sure I should take that at face value. What made him destroy his paintings? Who hurt him this badly?
How will he look at me the next time he sees me? Will he avoid me? Smirk? Brag to Markus about feeling me up?
Is there any chance he’d want to do it again?
When my alarm goes off, I get up and go for a quick run, then shower, still mulling things over. But as I set out for Sojourner House, I put it from my mind. I have to focus if I want to help Laura decide what she wants to do. As I drive to the safe-house, I review what Dr. Greer told me to do. Pros and cons. No judgment.
We meet in the tiny sunroom, the only place in the house that offers some privacy. Laura has tan, freckled arms and an apple-shaped body. She doesn’t look fragile or broken. But as I tell her what I’d like to talk about today, she draws a shuddering breath. “I’m not sure I want to analyze it like that,” she says quietly. “It makes it too hard, if I think about it too much.”
“Aren’t you here to think about it?” I ask. “This is a safe place to do it.”
Her blue eyes search mine. “But if I do that now, it might hurt more, when I’m back there.”
“Laura,” I say, my voice catching. I’m getting the sense her decision is made, and it terrifies me. “That’s not the only choice you have.”
She nods, examining her hands as they twist together in her lap. “Romy, I really appreciate what you’re trying to do, but Michael needs me at home.” She chuckles. “He’s probably been eating boxed mac’n’cheese for the past week.”
I stare at her. I don’t care if he’s been eating shit from a can. It’s all I can do not to shout at her. He rapes you. He hurts you. “I get that you still care about him, but—”
“I have a garden,” she says to me. “In a few weeks, I have to plant the bulbs for next spring.”
I blink, watching the twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Isn’t winter coming?”
The twitch smoothes over, replaced by the crease of a smile. “You have to plant bulbs in the fall. Daffodils, tulips, crocuses. When the snow melts and everything thaws, they sprout the most beautiful flowers. It’s my favorite thing, seeing those green shoots poke their little heads out of the ground.”
“It sounds hopeful,” I say, my voice strained. Don’t go, Laura. It’s just a garden. Your life is more important.
“It is hope.” She brushes her dishwater blond hair away from her face. “But only if I plant the bulbs in the fall,” she adds firmly.
She’s going to go back to him. Michael is going to get his chew toy back. “Is it really worth it?” I blurt. “He won’t stop, Laura. It might be better for a while, but he won’t stop.”
She lifts her chin and looks toward the window, through a crack in the curtains. It’s a sunny day, likely one of the last of our warm days before the long winter. “I have to go back for now,” she says quietly. “Winter is so miserable.”
And knowing those bulbs will come up when the sun shines again is what’s keeping her going. “You have choices,” I say. “We could talk about this.”
She turns her face away. “Is this our only chance?”
“No, of course not.” I lean forward and touch her hand. “No matter when you want to talk, we’ll be here. No matter what you decide, this is a safe place that doesn’t go away. It’s a place where you have choices.” I get it. If I were to tell her she has to choose—go back or stay here—I’d be doing the same thing Michael’s doing. I’d be forcing her into something. “This moves at your speed. As long as you understand that you’re important, that people here care about you, okay?”
She chuckles and nods. “Okay. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me.” I’m sorry, I think.
Though all of me wants to grab her and lock her in a closet, I don’t. I let Laura get up, and I watch her go upstairs to pack her things. Justine comes out of the front office as I stand at the base of the stairs.
“She told me she was going back,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say hoarsely. “She has bulbs to plant.”
She nudges me with her shoulder. “And maybe you did some of that already. I know it’s hard, but you have to tell yourself that. She gets to decide what she’s going to do, but what you say matters. She’ll take it with her.”
I smile and nod, but all I can think about is what she’s going back to, how she can possibly endure it. “Then I hope it takes root.”
I grab my bag and head back to campus, but as I park, I get a text from Jude. Have time to talk?
I text him back and we agree to meet for coffee before our afternoon class. I’m sitting down with an iced coffee when he staggers in, looking overwhelmed. He orders himself a double shot of espresso and carries it over to our little café table with shaking hands. “What the hell happened to you?” I ask.
“You remember my client, Catherine?”
I nod and watch him lift the mug to his lips. His black hair is windblown and he hasn’t even bothered to remove his shoulder bag. “The one you couldn’t figure out. The one with the abusive older brother.”
“I never said he was abusive.”
I shrug. “I got a feeling. I have experience with these things.”
He gives me a pained look and sets his mug on the table. “You might be right, actually. She was a mess this morning. Said yesterday was hell. She said she wanted to hurt herself, Romy. It scared me to death.”
I take his hand. “Did you assess for suicidality?”
He nods. “She doesn’t drive, thank God. She said he won’t let her. And she said she doesn’t have access to any firearms or anything. But she said she’d thought about hanging herself.”
I curse under my breath. “Was she actually planning to do it?”
“She denied an immediate plan. Just said she’d considered it.” He runs his fingers through his hair and takes another sip of espresso. “But she still won’t give me consent to talk to her psychiatrist or any of her family members … I don’t know what to do. Does that mean I’m the one who’s responsible if she does something to hurt herself?”
Jeez. I don’t know. “Have you called Dr. Greer?”
Jude nods. “And I left messages with the psychiatrist who runs the community clinic. Fuck, Romy, I had no idea it would be this intense.”
I squeeze my best friend’s hand. I can tell how scared he is. “Where is she now?”
“She said she was going back to work! I’m tempted to walk over there and make sure she’s actually there.”
“Where does she work again?”
“Library. But if I walk in, she’ll see me. It might upset her. I don’t want to weird her out.”
I sit back. The library’s nearby, only about five blocks away. “What if I did it? Would that make you feel better?”
He gives me a pleading look. “Would you? I feel like such a stalker. But until I hear from Dr. Greer, I’m going to be freaking out. I want to know she’s okay.”
“Let’s go.” I take a huge gulp of my iced coffee and stand up. “No time like the present.”
He downs his espresso. “You’re the awesomest.”
I take his arm and we head out. The sun warms my face as we stride down the sidewalk, a few blocks south of downtown. The co-op building looms in the distance, and I find myself wondering if Caleb’s there before I push thoughts of him away. As soon as I succeed, Jude says, “So. I told Eric he was an asshole.”
“What?”
“What he said to you on Saturday night, I mean. About using Caleb as a sex toy.”
The laugh bursts from my mouth, loud and crazy. Jude knows me so well that his eyes go wide. “Now you have to explain that, honey,” he says to me. “Did I hit a nerve?”
I shake my head. Then I nod my head. “Okay. Don’t tell Eric, please?”
“He’s my soulmate, Romy. I tell him everything.”
I give Jude a look, drawing my fingers across my lips and twisting them, then throwing away an invisible key. He gives me an exasperated look. “Fine! I won’t tell him. What happened?” He narrows his eyes, scrutinizing my face. “Wait. Was Eric right?”
I draw in a breath. “I may have taken his advice.”
Jude’s mouth drops open. “You didn’t jump into bed with our painting teacher, did you? Romy …”
“No! Nothing like that.” I pause, considering. “Okay. Maybe something like that. But not quite that drastic.”
Jude looks like his head is going to explode with stress, curiosity, awe, frustration, too many things to name.
“I kissed him last night. It was intense.”
We pass by a men’s clothing store, and it is a testament to Jude’s focus that he doesn’t even get distracted by the new winter garb in the window. “Did you … talk to him first?” he asks.
“There was a little talking. But not much. It happened pretty fast.”
He pulls up short and grasps my shoulders. “Romy, I know what Eric said, about reclaiming your power and all that, but there’s no such thing as no-strings-attached physical involvement. Not for you. Not after what you’ve been through.”
I pull away from him. “I’m not broken.”
“Of course you’re not! You’re just …”
“I’m not fragile, either,” I growl.
“I know!” He throws up his hands. “Look, I obviously don’t know what the fuck I’m doing anyway, so don’t mind me.”
I grab his hand. “Thank you.”
He relaxes and pulls me close. “I’m not sure what for, but you’re welcome.”
“I’ll be careful,” I promise him.
“You’d better. I’d hate to have to scare him like I did with Alex.” He makes a gruff, manly sort of noise in his chest.
“I think you did a damn good job with Alex.” But even saying that makes me feel hollow, because I didn’t do a good job. I let Jude stick up for me, let him speak for me, let him think for me. But that is not Jude’s problem, and he’s having a bad enough day as it is. We’re getting close to the library. This is my chance to pay him back. “What does Catherine look like?”
Jude looks at the entrance to the town library. “She’s got dark brown hair. Kind of wavy, shoulder length. Round face. She’s a little taller than you. Maybe a bit on the heavy side. A size fourteen, I think?”
I shake my head. Only Jude would know his clients’ clothing size. “What’s she wearing today?”
“Purple shirt, kind of a dark fuchsia? Long-sleeved. And jeans.”
I nod, secure my bag on my shoulder, and tell him to wait for me. Then I march toward the library. When I enter, the silence wraps around me, along with the scent of books, ink and paper. I squint, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light, and follow signs to the central desk, glancing around for any sign of a girl wearing a fuchsia shirt.
I spend a few moments talking to the lady at the central desk and applying for a library card. Then I head over to the romance novel section, pretending to peruse the titles while I keep looking for the mysterious Catherine. The squeak of a cart draws my attention, and I glance toward the noise. A young woman wearing a dark pinkish shirt pushes a cart piled high with books along the aisle. Her head is down, bowed over the books as she pulls to a stop. I slowly walk along the row, past pictures of busty half-naked women plastered against the brawny chests of Highlanders, tattooed sex gods, a few dudes in business suits … I pause at the end of the row and pick up the first book I see, pretending to read the back while I watch the girl.
She lifts her head and looks down a row, and I have to hold my breath. She has striking light gray eyes, and for a second they remind me of Caleb before I manage to shove him out of my thoughts again. Her gaze skims over me before she goes back to her task of reshelving. As she does, the sleeve of her shirt rides up a little, revealing thick scars along her wrists. Some are silver, some are purple. At some point in the not-so-distant past, this girl has cut herself. I’m sure she must be Catherine. “Hi,” I say to her.
Her eerie eyes meet mine. “Can I help you?” she asks.
“Any recommendations?”
She stares at me. “What do you like?”
“Something funny, maybe? I have enough angst in my life that I don’t want to read about it, too.”
She snorts. “Tell me about it.”
I smile at her. “You too, huh?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh yeah. Have you tried Cora Carmack? Her stuff is hilarious.” She digs in her pile and pulls up a book, then holds it out to me.
I accept the book and look down at the cover. Losing It, it’s called. Sounds appropriate. “Is this what you read when you’re stressed out?”
She smiles, and it makes her pretty. She looks much younger when she smiles. “Definitely. I’ll be reading one of her books tonight for sure. I could use the distraction.” She holds up another book by the same author. Faking It. Also appropriate.
“You’ll have to tell me if it’s good, then,” I say.
She grins. “I will.”
I thank her and head for the check out, then scoot out of the library, tucking the book into my bag. “Your girl’s okay,” I say to Jude when I reach him. “For now, at least. She said she was planning to read a book tonight. Even showed me which one. Planning for the future is good, right?”
Jude sags with relief. “Okay, so at least I have time to check in with Dr. Greer and find out what else to do.”
“Did you know she’s cut herself?”
He nods. “I noticed the scars, too. She said she hasn’t done it in a while. I think her teen years were pretty tough. She said she was taken from her family and put in foster care. I know she’s got a major trauma history, but she hasn’t really started to talk about it yet. We’re focusing on safety for the moment.” He puts his arm over my shoulders. “Thanks for helping me check on her, Romy.” He kisses my forehead, and I put my arm around his waist.
“No problem. You’ll be repaying the favor tomorrow night during painting class. I could use the moral support.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
I huddle at my easel in the back of the room and look at my phone. Eric’s text is still glowing on the screen. Jude cannot stop barfing. I told him he had to stay home.
Great. My lifeline has a stomach bug, which means I’m on my own. I scoot off the stool and scrounge through my toolbox, looking for nothing in particular. The students are filing in, the elderlies, judging by the faint smell of mothballs, and the wealthy wives, as evidenced by the haze of Chanel. Caleb is nowhere to be seen. Or smelled. I wonder if I’d pick up his scent, turpentine and soap, or if I’d feel him near.
I wonder how today has gone for him, and hope things have been going better than they were over the weekend. Maybe he’ll ask me for my number tonight, or maybe I should ask for his. If things aren’t irreparably weird between us, I think I want to. I’m unreasonably excited about seeing him again. It’s been building inside me all day, this fizzy kind of sensation, like soda feels on my tongue.
“—said his truck broke down on Sunday, so he couldn’t come over,” says one of the wives, the one who had been waiting for Caleb upstairs last week. Claudia, I think he called her. “Then Melvin came home from his trip yesterday, so we’ll have to wait until he leaves again.”
I peek up toward the front. Three women are sitting at the easels in front. Claudia, blond, with blood-red fingernails. A black haired woman with heavy eyeliner and a French manicure, and a brunette with serious curls and opalescent, pearly-pink nails. The latter two are gathered at Claudia’s easel and keep glancing toward the door. “How was it?” murmurs the brunette. “I haven’t heard anything about him. He’s a friend of Daniel’s, right?”
As if they’ve got a mind of their own, my legs push me up from the ground, and then I’m walking to the edge of the room, the side nearest the women, selecting a piece of practice paper for this evening’s class. I pretend to be looking out the window, which allows me to see Claudia’s lips curl in a satisfied way that makes my stomach turn. “He was gorgeous,” Claudia purrs. “Better with his clothes off.”
The black-haired woman rolls her eyes. “Did you spend the whole night looking at him?”
“You know me better than that.” Claudia grins and lowers her voice, but I have no trouble hearing her as she says, “He knows what he’s doing, so it was well worth the time. And he said he hasn’t sold any paintings yet, so he needs the money. Offer him a commission and his cock—” She mouths that last part. “—is yours.”
Please don’t be talking about Caleb. I don’t know why I think that. They could be talking about anyone. But there are so many pieces that fit, and it’s making me sick. I shouldn’t care, but I hate the things they’re saying. How they want to use him. They don’t care about his art. Or his feelings.
Neither did you, not really.
Guilt and shame cascade through my chest. My fingers clench and I crinkle the paper, making all three of the women look toward me like I’m some raccoon that wandered in to dig through the garbage. “I don’t like the texture,” I say to them. I put the crumpled paper down and grab another sheet.
Claudia gives me a raised-eyebrow look that tells me she thinks I’m unhinged. Whatever. I don’t know why I’m all up-in-arms about Caleb anyway. He looked like he was enjoying their attention after our last class. For all I know, he’s having the time of his life, and I’m just another one-off. Maybe he does that to every girl who visits him in his studio. My cheeks are burning with anger and confusion as I whirl around to head back to my easel.
Of course, that’s when Caleb strides in. His hair is pulled back and he’s wearing his usual t-shirt and jeans, both stained with paint. He has a tiny streak of phthalo blue on the ridge of his cheekbone, and it matches the spot in his eye, though I’m not close enough to see it. His gaze sweeps across the room and lands on my empty easel, and he blinks. Then he looks toward the front and sees the wealthy wives, who smile at him and greet him by name. Claudia cuts her gaze toward the brunette, and that’s when I know.
They were talking about him.
He’s sleeping with Claudia.
He was with her Saturday night after he left me at the theater, and he was supposed to be with her Sunday night, but his truck broke down. Maybe that’s why he was so upset. Because he couldn’t go see her, and now her husband’s back in town, so he’s lost his chance. I gave him the opportunity to burn off some steam, but now he can go back to screwing the wealthy women who come to class just to stare at him. It shouldn’t upset me. If what we had was no-strings-attached, it shouldn’t matter at all. But as I think about Caleb with Claudia, as I imagine him touching her the way he touched me … I suddenly feel like throwing something at him.
He’s opening his mouth to greet the class when he catches me standing in his periphery, and his attention snaps to me. “Hey,” he says.
I don’t even try to read his expression. “Hey,” I reply. Then I walk past him without looking at him again and sit down at my easel, even though I’m tempted to walk out the door and never come back.
I won’t let this stupid situation chase me away from painting. And it’s not only that Dr. Greer wanted me to stick to it. I’m not letting any man get between me and my easel again. Caleb can sleep with whomever he wants. I’m here to focus on myself.