Page 10 of Possession

“Mustaches?” I unconsciously lifted my fingers to my upper lip.

Her serious face broke into a smile that stretched almost past her ears. “You’d look good with a mustache.” She bit her lip suppressing a laugh and knocked her shoulder with mine. It was playful, flirty, and I suddenly had the urge to brush my knuckles across her bottom lip, her cheek, her stomach...

She pities you.

“What’s your favorite thing to draw?” she asked, giving me full eye contact.

You.

“It depends. I love graphic novels. My brothers’ and I, we’ve always been into comics. My older brother works at a tattoo shop. He’s better than me… at drawing.” And most things.

“I doubt that.” She crossed her feet and stretched her legs out into the hallway. “I wish I had half your talent.”

“You should show me something of yours sometime.” It was risky, but the way her arm still rested against mine, how her smile was shy, and her cheeks were heated with blush, I figured I’d throw myself on the grenade. “I could teach you some stuff, if you want?”

Her blue eyes deepened and filled with hope, anticipation, and something I’d later learn was longing… lust.

“Really?” She shoved my shoulder again with hers. It was light, cute, and I wanted her to say yes more than I wanted anything, more than I wanted the voices to stop.

I nodded.

“Okay.” Her lashes fanned down and dusted along the rising, rose color of her cheeks. “I’d really like that.”

The quiet was comfortable between us as we sat arm to arm, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder in the hallway. Not a whisper in my head, or an inkling of self-doubt. Just me and her and the most tempting thing of all… possibility.

Alarm clocks, overly excited chatter, car horns, sidewalk patrons shouting, cash registers dinging, door chimes, customers complaining, these had become the sounds of my life. The sounds of my future. But, in the dark, in the night—silence. Silence so still it suffocated me. It drowned me. Clark used to talk in his sleep. He’d moan, or make some illogical statements. Our backyard sprinklers would spray the windows in timed perfection. Here, in Lana’s house this morning, as I got ready for work, all I could hear were my own thoughts, and my worries ate me alive from the inside out. Where did I go from here?

It had been exactly one month since I’d left Clark. My parents were refusing to accept it. I hadn’t braved a visit to them yet, and they weren’t too pleased that I was staying with Lana. My new address, though, magically never came up in conversation, leading me to believe they probably didn’t really care how I was, that I wasn’t with Clark was more of their pressing concern. My mom tried to coddle me, told me to “take my time.” My father had said, “He’ll take you back, let him give you another chance.” That phone call, as productive as it was, had been the last time I’d chosen to call my parents. I’d visit them when I was ready, once my divorce was final. Clark had acquired an attorney, and he called me yesterday to inform me that the paperwork would take a little longer than expected. Lana was not impressed and gave me the number to one of her friends from school with a wife who was a divorce attorney. Apparently, this friend was the only professor she hadn’t slept with.

The weight of the attorney’s business card was heavy in my hand as I sat on my bed. I stared at the artful lettering, the sleek black design, and my stomach knotted. I already owed Lana so much. She’d gone and gathered my clothes from Clark and gave me a place to sleep each night. She hadn’t wanted to charge me rent but I’d insisted, even if I couldn’t really afford it. I had acquired a job at a small art store downtown and it paid very little, but I had to start somewhere. I had a high school diploma and a love for Surrealism. In the real world, that equated to starving artist, at best. There was no way I would be able to afford an attorney. I exhaled a long breath, stood, and placed the card on my night stand. My room was small, the bed, hardly full sized, and the large, dark black dresser took up most of the free space. The mirror above it ridiculed me. My eyes were so tired, the blue color of my irises barely visible anymore. My heart ached. Declan had always told me that my eyes would come alive when I looked at him.

My dead eyes closed as I remembered the first day I’d seen him, shutting out my now haggard appearance in the mirror, focusing on a better time. It was my first year in high school, and I remembered how he’d sat across the courtyard from where I’d been sitting with Lana and a few friends for lunch. I’d thought he’d looked too masculine to be in ninth grade. He’d seemed quiet, beautiful with lean muscles, and a jawline too strong for a teenage boy. I’d watched him for weeks before I’d finally gotten the courage to speak to him. It’d been just like every other day with our stolen glances, but his light eyes stayed on mine longer than they ever had before.

The vivid memory caused my eyes to open, and I watched my reflection in the glass. My cheeks turned pink, and the heat in my chest burned through the skin as I recalled that day. The day I took unsteady steps toward where he’d sat. The day his deep voice filled my head with cotton. The day I saw my eyes in the drawing on his lap.

I brought my hand to my heart and rubbed my palm along my sternum until it hurt. The pain had never faded, but thinking about him, about us, made it almost impossible to breathe. The stark white walls of my room and bedding felt too cold. It felt as if I was in some type of sterile purgatory, and even if I was grateful for the roof over my head, the soft pillows to have nightmares on, I wanted to make it my own. And as I watched the color, the memory, drain from my cheeks, I decided I’d stop letting men control my life. But my soul, it no longer belonged to me. I’d given it to the Devil the day I’d killed my baby, our child—Declan’s heart.

“So what are you saying?” Chandler watched me with a smirk, and I narrowed my eyes.

“I’m saying I’m married,” I spoke softly, my eyes cast down. Chandler’s eyes scanned my body, as if there was something to like, to desire. I was a waste of what I’d once been, and I certainly didn’t deserve the looks he’d been giving me since I started at The Gallery.

“But you’re separated? Available?” His husky voice held humor, and I raised my gaze to his.

I shook my head with a small smile. “You’re determined, I’ll give you that much.” I leaned down and grabbed a box of supplies from where I stood behind the counter and placed it onto the work surface. “Hand me that box cutter, please?” I asked as I pointed to his pile of boxes in the aisle.

He grabbed the red knife from the top box and brought it over to the register. “That’s not a no.” He was hopeful.

“Chandler, I’m flattered, but I’m barely remembering what it feels like to be human. I’m not ready to date. Not to mention the fact that it would still be considered infidelity.” I took the box cutter from his hand and opened the blade. It cut through the packing tape like butter, and when the box opened, I couldn’t help my grin. Paints. Every possible color in oil and acrylic.

“That’s the first big smile I’ve seen on you.” His grin mirrored mine and, as much as it felt good to let a little joy shine, I let my smile fall.

“Well, it’s been known to happen from time to time.” I gave him a stern look. “I’m serious. I’m not ready.”

He exhaled. “Okay.”

My eyebrows raised. That was too easy. He’d been hitting on me for two weeks, since my first day. “Okay?”

He nodded and turned back to his pile of boxes. “I’ve gotta haul these back to the studio, just leave those paints for tomorrow. Can you help me carry some of these?”

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