Page 103 of Alone With You in the Ether

Then he nodded, tucked his hands in his pockets, and headed for the door.

For a long time afterwardRegan would think about what had gone wrong, turning it over and over in her mind. She couldn’t escape the feeling that she had misjudged something in the framework, somewhere in the landscape of The Fight, and that perhaps it had been something not of her making, but of theirs. She had thought, since their love had been red—had been fiery and passionate and untamed, magnetic and disruptive—The Fight was meant to be red as well, but the more she thought about it, the more it became clear that they—neither of them—truly knew what it was to fight like that for anything. They could have only fought in blue, in melancholy tones of it, because relationships, for them, were blue. Life was, for Regan, a cycle of arriving and leaving, passing through a revolving door. When she left, which she always did, she left quietly; not even a gust of wind but a little breeze, hardly a disturbance at all. Aldo had told her himself that he was a master of outlasting his friendships, enduring until there was nothing, and then he simply faded away. Should she have screamed, should she have made demands? Yes, probably, but she was out of practice, untrained. Too many people had refused when she had wished that they would beg her to stay, and now, because of them, she had let him go so easily, unclenching all her fingers at once.

This is what happened to regan.

“So,” the doctor had said the week prior, “how are things?”

“They’re actually really good,” Regan said.

“Classes at the Institute still going well?”

“Yes, very. They picked my work for the student showcase, did I tell you that?”

“You didn’t! But I’m not surprised, you’re very talented.”

Regan scoffed. “You’ve only seen one painting.”

“Take the compliment,” suggested the doctor. “It’s better for both of us if you do.”

“Is that doctor’s orders?”

“Call it a professional assessment,” the doctor said, though she moved on quickly. “How are your moods?”

“Fine, mostly. I’ve been working a lot, trying to finish up my piece for the showcase.”

“So, your sleep patterns…?”

“Not much sleep. But by choice,” Regan said quickly. “Only until the piece is finished. Which it is, nearly.”

“Ah, I see. And how about this birthday party for your father? Any concerns about that?”

“Nothing new,” Regan said, shuddering. “I’m really trying to be positive about it, just to keep Aldo calm. Besides,” she added, deciding to shrug on a casual optimism, like a coat that matched her blouse, “I think you’re right. Having him there will be helpful.”

“And why do you think that is?”

Regan had spent months adjusting to those questions, finding them less obtrusive now.

“Well, when he’s there, I feel more… like me, I guess. Like I finally have something to be proud of. I’m in love with someone I think highly of, and I have my work in an actual art show. A real one, not one my daddy bought me.” She exhaled swiftly, “It just feels new, I guess. In a good way.”

The doctor half-smiled. “Do you like new things?”

“Yes, almost always, but not like this. This feels like a new-old thing.”

“Oh? Explain that.”

“Well, it’s not new in ashockingway. Does that make sense? I think I used to crave newness—No, wait,” she corrected herself, shaking her head, “No, not crave it. Aldo says there’s a difference between cravings and compulsions, and I think he’s right. I used to have this compulsion for newness,” she explained, and the doctor nodded, “but this particular newness is slower, steadier. I actually worked on my technique, you know?” A shrug. “I created something I’m proud of. I’m with someone who makes me feel, I don’t know. Good.”

“Makes sense,” the doctor said. “When is the party?”

“Next week.”

“Oh, soon. And the art show is…?”

“The Monday after, actually.”

“And have you told Aldo yet?”

“No, not yet, I want to surprise him.” Regan paused for a moment, half-smiling, and said, “You know, this is the first time in my life that I actually feel like an artist.”

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