I come up behind her as her fingertips touch the scratched plastic frame of the little picture on the side of the refrigerator.
“I remember this.” She rubs her finger over our faces: Am, me, and Lexie. We’re in swim suits, sitting on the pool’s side on the Fourth of July, eating slices of watermelon. The girls were ten, and I was thirteen. “We had just been fighting with those pool noodle things,” she says softly. “Lex made this little magnet in sixth grade art class, didn’t she?”
I nod.
“I remember I made a magnet for my dad.”
I look at little Lexie, little Am, and younger me, and feel a coil of misery wrap around my stomach. Amelia’s eyes over the watermelon rind are wide and knowing: like she sees me in this very moment, and she knows exactly what I’ll do to her, and she is saying I can’t believe it.
My hand rises, reaching for Amelia’s shoulder…but I don’t allow myself to touch her. I lower it and watch her from slightly behind as she notices another magnet. Fucking art projects.
This one depicts a painting that I did in college.
“I think I remember this.”
“You do.” My voice sounds gruff. The painting is a brilliant, pale gray dove, on black. The art is heavy: chunky oil paint, caked on—in part because I couldn’t just be done with the piece. I kept fucking with it.
“You sent that to me,” she says. “A picture of you with it through email your freshman year.”
“I did.”
“I liked it.”
Did she? “…I still have it.”
She turns to look at me. “It never sold? I thought almost all your pieces had sold, the ones you listed.” I know why she thinks that. Someone wrote an article about me last year, and the article made that claim. Which means Amelia was reading articles about me last year.
“That’s true—but it wasn’t listed.”
“Oh.” She sounds surprised.
“It was for you.”
Eighteen
Dash
“It was?” The clueless look on her face makes me feel ill.
“I painted it for you, during the first few weeks that I was gone.”
Her eyes widen slightly, as if to ask, Well? What happened? When I don’t answer, she says, “Why?” The word is sharp.
“I missed you.”
Her brows rise as her lips press into a thin line. Then she turns away and walks into the foyer.
“Where is that painting now?” she asks as she reaches the door. When her hand touches the handle, she turns around to face me.
“In Burbank.”
“Hanging?”
“No,” I say.
“Then where? Where is it in your house?”
I frown, puzzled. “It’s in my closet.”
“Where you keep your clothes?”
“Am I missing something here?”
“Your closet in your room?” she presses.
“Well…yeah.”
“Okay.” The word is curt. She brushes a strand of hair out of her face. “Well I want it. Next time you go back to Burbank.”
“Okay.” I nod slowly. I can do that.
“Good.” She reaches into her purse and pulls her phone out, peering at the screen. “It’s been an hour. Thanks for letting me come over.”
She leaves quickly. I don’t think she meets my eyes one single time.
Half an hour later, I’m stretched out on the couch, drinking a second glass of wine and staring at my TV, which is off.
The doorbell rings.
I know it’s her before I reach the door this time.
“I’m still locked out,” she says. “It’s going to be a few more hours.”
“Would you like to come in?”
“Well, yes. If that’s okay.”
“It’s definitely okay.” I beckon her in, noting her white cotton t-shirt.
Amelia
I don’t know I’m going to do it until I step into his foyer. Then the words just tumble out. “I want to know now. Why? Why didn’t you come back that day, Dash? Scared to face me once you sobered up? Buyers’ regret? Did you have to prove it to yourself that you weren’t really obligated to me after what we did? Or did you just not give a shit?”
My heart is pounding in my ears as Dash’s eyes widen. His tongue runs lightly over his lower lip. Then he presses them together.
“C’mon—tell me. I don’t want excuses this time.”
His shoulders are tense. I watch him push his hands into his pockets. He looks old—so much older, with his short beard and his glasses and his big, thick shoulders; he looks like a stranger.
“Are you just that shallow? Obligation-free sex is your jam but nothing else? That would be really disappointing. I always figured you for a whole lot more than that, but what the hell did I know?”
He steps toward me, one hand emerging from his pocket, reaching toward me, like he means to touch me.
“No.” My feet move me back toward the door. My hand goes up in warning.
“Am…”
“No, you can’t touch me. The second you do, my brain stops, it just stops working. I can’t have that. I can’t have this just keep being physical!”
My head buzzes so loud and hard, for a brief second, I wonder if I’m going to pass out. But then he nods, and I can see the understanding in his eyes.
“I know.” He moves toward me, then steps back, as if remembering I don’t want that. His hand extends toward me. “Come here, Ammy. Will you come sit on the couch?”
I shake my head.
“Okay.” His handsome face is a mask of consternation, flickering on odd half-seconds with regret. He inhales deeply—and I hold my breath.
“I was scared,” he says after a moment. “I felt…unworthy of you. I knew what I had done was wrong. I didn’t plan to stay around. I didn’t even want to come back home and visit—”
“Why?”
“Why…?”
“Why didn’t you want to? I thought you had a decent enough childhood. I know your parents suck, and they were never there, but Lexie and I were. You had a lot of friends.”
His mouth has gone so soft, I can see it shifting as I look at him. It’s the sort of thing that I associate with extreme emotion, making him look like he might cry, although of course, I know he isn’t going to.
“It wasn’t you,” he says softly. “You weren’t the problem, I was.”
“I’m fucking drunk and I’ve been missing you for months. All I could think about up there was you.”
“What does that mean?”
He shakes his head, his hands back in his pockets, his eyes on the floor.
Earlier tonight, I thought since he said my painting was in his closet—somewhere close, somewhere he goes, not in the attic, in his closet—I thought maybe that meant he still cared.
“Were you too good for Sandy Springs?”
“Of course not.” He looks up.
“Then what was it? What kept you away, Dash? You fucked me over, it took years to figure out why you’d do something like that. In case you can’t tell, I never did!”
“I know.” I watch him clench his jaw. He seems so stiff and tense: his big body almost coiled.
“So you still have nothing to say.”
“There’s something wrong with me.”
“That you don’t care?”
He shakes his head, but I’m watching his eyes: his anguished eyes.
“I’m not a normal person, Am.”
“What does that mean?”
He swallows, but he won’t reply.
“It wasn’t you,” he finally whispers. “Can you trust me? Please? You were everything to me.”
“I’ve gotta tell you, that rings pretty fucking hollow.”
“I know.” His voice has a slight edge.
“So, what should I think? What would you think?”
“Can you come here?”
I spread my arms. “I’m right in front of you.”
“Come closer.??
? His words are thick and rusty.
“Why?”
He shuts his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Dash. It’s not enough. I need some space. I can’t stay away from you, and I can’t feel okay about this either.”
I turn around and go before I change my mind.
The next day, I call in sick and pay $200 extra to fly to Southampton early.
Nineteen
Dash
I was right about the week.
Lexie calls me Wednesday, while I’m working on a canvas in the guest room that I converted to a studio. “How’s it going?”
“Fine.”
“Isn’t this your break week?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s not going well.”
“It’s fine,” I tell her.
“You are such a liar. I thought we were past lying.”
“We are,” I say.
“So what happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Did you tell her?”
“No.”
She sighs. “I understand. I’m sorry, Dash. You want me to hop on a plane? I could be there today. We could go dancing.”
“That sounds irresistible.”
“You jerk. It does. I’m great at dancing.”
“Didn’t say you weren’t.”
“You sound unhappy, D.”
“That’s life, though, isn’t it?”
“No. It’s not supposed to be unhappy,” she says.
“Hm.”
“I’m coming down. We can do Graceland. I’ll make those cinnamon rolls from scratch? The ones with the really whipped type icing?”
I sigh, rubbing my forehead, then realize I’ve stopped painting and start back as I talk. “I’m okay, Lex.”
“I love you. You know that, right? And you’re my favorite brother.”
That makes me snicker. “Thanks.”
“I know, right? I’m the nicest. Am I your favorite sister?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
“Good. I want to be your number one.” Her voice is teasing.
“It’s okay. I swear.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“She asked, though, didn’t she?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“I hear ya,” Lexie murmurs. “You’re okay, though. You’re my brother, and you’re good, okay? You’re good and kind and even if she doesn’t know that…it’s still true. It wasn’t your fault, all that shit. Tell yourself until you believe it.”
I swallow. “Thanks, Lex.” I pull my shit together, so she can get off the phone and quit worrying about me. “How are you?”
“I’m good. I’m pretty good. Just about to head to Iceland for that six-day shoot—the one for sweaters. That is, if you’re sure you don’t want me to visit.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You know I think—”
“I know,” I snap.
“I think she would—”
“I know, Lex. This isn’t news to me.”
“I know it’s not,” she whispers.
“Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”
“No. But it’s not yours either. Get out, all right? Do something fun. You promise?”
“Yeah,” I tell her.
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ve got a good idea. Go rollerblading.”
I chuckle at that.
“I’m serious. You know it would be fun, and you’d look trendy af.”
“Ha. I’ll think about it.”
“Really—do.”
“Call me later?”
“Yep. I’ll call you soon.”
I spend Thursday on the couch, thinking about what I’d tell Ammy if I could and playing out her reactions. I don’t resort to any of my older vices, so that’s something. Friday morning, I go out and buy some roller blades. I buy two pairs and tell myself that one pair is for Lexie. Not Amelia. Lex.
I skate around downtown and send my sister a picture with a phony smile.
I’m sure she can tell it’s phony, but she texts back a thumbs up anyway.
I brace myself for Monday. I can feel how things will go. And I can’t blame her. I tell myself when this is over—this summer—I’ll be okay. Once I don’t have to look at her anymore…or hear her voice. When there’s no chance I can touch her.
For lack of something better to do, I fly to Burbank Saturday and get the painting for her. It flies first class beside me, my arm around it as the plane begins to tilt for landing.
Amelia
More than a week after I left Dash’s apartment, feeling freaked out and upset, I stand at his door, tanned and wearing white shorts and a pale blue tank top, clutching a cardboard drink carrier stocked with six bottled drinks.
I lift my hand slowly and knock.
Dash answers a minute or so later, shirtless in gray sweatpants, with a notch of confusion in between his dark, thick brows.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey yourself.” His lips curve slightly in one corner—a reluctant, cautious smile. “You have a good trip?”
“I did.” I hold the drinks up. “Got you something.”
Dash takes the drinks, and I explain.
“There’s this burger place up there called Pollywog’s. They do burgers, but they’re also known for having a bunch of different carbonated drinks, in a bunch of different flavors. I know how you feel about flavored cola, so…”
He smiles: the lopsided one that’s really good and genuine, reminding me of the boy who used to bring my towel to the pool’s edge and hold it open for me when it was windy on a summer day.
“Thanks. This is great.”
“You’re welcome. So what about you? How was your week?”
“Not bad.” He looks me up and down. “You want to step inside? I got you something.”
“Sure.” I follow him inside and there in his living room, leaning against an arm of the couch, is the dove painting.
“Wow.” I can’t help gaping at it. “Dash, it’s gorgeous, even more stunning in person. Where’d it come from?”
“Burbank.”
“How did it get here?”
“I went and got it.”
“Seriously?”
He nods. “Would you like me to help you carry it up?”
“Yes. It looks heavy. Are you trying to get rid of me?”
I see surprise on his face. “No. You want to sit down? Sit down.” He waves his arm toward his couch. When I don’t move—because I’m still in awe of his painting—he grabs me by my legs and throws me over his shoulder.
He sits on the couch and lowers me so my head is in his lap. I hear him inhale as I try to situate myself.
“You smell good, Am. Same sunscreen after all this time? I mean—Amelia.”
“You can call me Am.” I look up at him. His handsome face is upside down from my angle. I notice that his beard seems shorter, almost more shadow, and reach up to cup his chin with my hand. “You shaved some.”
“Summer and all.”
“I like it. I liked it before, too, though.”
Dash runs his hand down my bare arm. “You look a little sunburned here.”
“My elbows,” I laugh. “I forgot to put sunscreen on them the first day.”
“That’s sad.”
“Red-headed and freckled.” I make a face.
“Beautiful.” Dash strokes my arms and sifts through my hair, and I shut my eyes and let him.
I had a week to think about this thing with him. The first two days, I really thought I’d break it off, but then I went to Pollywog’s… I thought about the way his eyes looked the day before I left, when he kept asking me to come closer. The pain in them. And I still don’t know why. I don’t get it, but…I’d like to. I don’t know how long I can do this, but I think today I can.
Pretty soon his hands are underneath my clothes. They’re deft and hungry, careful but focused. Pretty soon
he’s crouching over me with his mouth on my breast and his hand torturing my pussy. I’m raising my knee, trying to rub between his legs. Over the roar of traffic through the half-open balcony door, the only sounds are moans and gasps.
“Whose cunt is this?”
“Yours!” What he’s doing feels so good, I can barely track what else he says as he brings me to fever pitch, then carries me into his bedroom.
Dimly I’m aware of my clothes being peeled off, but what I’m really watching is Dash as he pulls his shirt over his head, exposing his beautiful chest and shoulders to me.
I groan as I stroke his six-pack. “Oh my God…”
Then he’s leaning over me, kissing my neck as I arch up against him. He’s still got his pants on, and I want them off. I want to touch him.
“Take your pants off.”
He gives me a wicked grin. “You do it.”
Dash without a stitch of clothing is a gorgeous sight. I’m stunned into silence: that the boy next door grew up so good.
“You could be a model…” I stroke his muscled thighs, straddling me.
He chuckles. “You would know.” His lips touch down on my neck. “Perfect.” The word is purred, and then he’s kissing me again, driving me crazy as he teases in between my legs. Until I’m begging.
“Please… I need you.”
“I’m right here.”
“I need…this.” My fingers brush his hip, reaching.
“What do you mean? Say it, Am.”
“I want you inside me,” I say in a sultry rush.
He takes himself in hand and rubs his head against me. I buck against him. “Ahhh!”
Dash teases me, pushing slightly in and pulling out… putting pressure at my entrance as I gasp and groan. I claw his arms and squeeze his biceps. “Please!”
And then he thrusts once, hard and fast, and I scream. I grasp for his ass as he pumps in and out, wanting to possess him as he’s possessing me—but I can’t get my hands to work. Can’t do anything but lie there, moaning and screaming, bucking my hips to take him deeper. Dash has got an arm around my shoulders, pulling me up toward him, like he’s hugging me as he fucks me so hard I think I’ll die of pleasure.