Page 35

Nineteen
Cari
My room looks wrong.
Empty, without paintings stacked in the corner. My easel set up in front of the window. My clothes strewn all over the floor. Dishes and coffee cups loaded on top of the table Patrick bought me to hold my paints.
Everything I own is stacked in a neat pile near the door, ready to go.
I haven’t even told my parents I’m coming home. I figured I’d call them from the road, that way I can minimize questions. When I talk to them, I’ll focus on the positive. I’ll tell them that I’m moving home so I can focus on my painting. That a gallery wants to show my work. It’s not forever. It’s for right now. Once my career takes off, I can move anywhere I want.
New York. Chicago. California.
Anywhere I want.
The thought tightens my chest. Floods my eyes with tears.
I hear the front door open, and I run my fingertips under my eyes, brushing away tears. Looking out the window, I see late afternoon sunlight glimmering on the bay.
Patrick’s home.
I stand in front of my closed door for a few moments. Wiping my sweaty palms on the legs of my jeans, I take a few deep breaths. It’s Patrick. Just Patrick. We’ll order pizza and watch TV. Talk. Laugh. Hang out the way we used to. Bring things full circle. Make things right between us again.
I plaster a smile on my face and open my door. “Hey,” I call as I walk down the hall. “I thought we could order from Gino’s—”
Stepping into the living room, it takes a second to process what I’m seeing.
Who I’m seeing.
It’s not Patrick.
It’s James.
He’s standing in the middle of the room, staring at me, the welts I clawed into his face are still there, deep and ugly. Marking him for the monster he is. I hope they never go away.
My gaze darts into the kitchen, landing on the counter where I always toss my keys. They aren’t there. “What are you doing here?” Somehow, my voice is calm. Steady.
He doesn’t answer me.
My phone is in my room, dead as usual. Behind him, the front door is closed. Even from here I can see that he’s locked it. Slipped the security chain in place. Behind the door, I can hear bar noises. Loud music and glasses clinking together. People shouting. Laughing. It’s Friday night. Happy hour. I can scream all I want. No one will hear me.
“You need to leave,” I say, taking a tiny half-step toward the kitchen. There’s a knife block on the counter. “Patrick is on his way home.”
“Patrick.” James says his name like it’s poisonous. Like he can’t feel the venom coursing through his own veins. “Your lovesick little puppy dog. Following you around, licking your fucking shoes... he got me fired. Howard will see to it that I’m disbarred by Monday.”
“You did that.” I take another half-step, inching my feet across the floor so slowly it almost hurts. “I didn’t ask for this. You were the one who couldn’t let things go. Sent Trevor to me.” The thought of it makes me sick. “To do what? Spy on me? Sleep with me?”
“He wasn’t the only one,” James says, a sickening smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “There were more before him... he’s just the one who stuck.” He moves now, strolling slowly, skirting the perimeter of the room, hands clasped behind his back. “I’ve been meaning to ask you—what was it about Trev that you found appealing enough to keep him around?”
I don’t know the answer, so I don’t say anything. I just wait for him to look away so I can take another step.
“I mean, they were all pretty much the same—rich guys who took you to expensive places. Drove you around in their expensive cars. Let you hang all over their expensive suits.” He stops in front of the painting of me, dress hiked over my ass, staring at my reflection in the mirror. “Made you feel like maybe you were worth something.”
Heat flares through my chest, burning me from the inside out, because it’s true. All of it.
“Maybe that was true before,” I tell him. “But that’s not who I am. Not anymore.”
“How sweet...” James bats his eyes at me. “Did getting fucked by the boy scout make everything better?” He turns away from me completely to leer at the image on the wall. “Did it make you a better person?”