Page 91 of Surviving the Merge
Damon needed to deal with his mother.
* * *
The next day,I caught Ash leaving the center as I pulled in. He volunteered a few days a week, supporting the nursing staff—when his schedule allowed. “Ash, I’m glad I ran into you.” I cut the car engine and got out. “How’s things been between you and Damon?” I asked. I wanted to know how Damon’s changes had manifested in his other relationships.I should probably pop up at his office well.
He leaned against his car, hitching an arm along the edge of the roof. “He told me the other day that Max might be good for me. How’s that for ‘changes?’”
“What?” My gym bag slipped from my shoulder to land on the ground.
“Yeah, I know. I checked him for a fever, and he smacked my hand away, telling me to go fuck myself. A nice little whiplash to end my night is what that was.”
His pager beeped. He checked it, muttering a curse. “I gotta go, babies to be delivered.”
* * *
Sam sentme a text stating the painting was complete. I had her come by with it right away, anxious to put my plan into place.
“It’s coming down hard out there. Put your wet stuff in the dryer. I’ll get you something to put on,” I said. It’d been a while since I’d asked Sam for the painting, but she’d been busy with her real-estate job in the city, her own art, and working with the kids at the center to get enough paintings done for the fundraiser.
“First take this.” She handed over the painting. “I wrapped it so it wouldn’t get wet.”
I rested the large canvas against the wall in the entryway, then scurried to fetch a shirt and sweats from the bedroom. “These will be a little big, but it’ll do.” I handed them over and left her to change in the bathroom.
I sat on the edge of the couch, uncovering the portrait. My fingers faltered halfway through when the top half was exposed. “Sam... this is amazing,” I said in awe.
She flopped down next to me, helping to tear off the rest of the brown papering. “It took me so long because I wanted it to be perfect.”
“I assumed you were busy,” I said, only half invested in what she was saying.
Sam snorted. “I’m never too busy for you, you idiot.”
She’d made an exact replica of the picture. Damon standing in Ash’s yard, one hand on his hip in a superhero pose, and Benji sitting in the palm of his other. Damon’s smile was proud and brilliant. Benji sat with his hands clasped together, his twig legs splayed, laughing with delight. His thick black curls almost covered his magnificent green eyes, and he clutched a brown stuffed bear in between his hands. The shot was taken a few weeks before he died.
“I took the liberty of making it a sunny day. I hope you’re okay with that.”
It was dreary and gray in the original. In Sam’s portrait, the environment around them reflected their happiness. The sky a tranquil blue, the grass a gemstone green. “I’m more than okay with it.” I reached out to touch Damon’s dark eyes but pulled my hand back. He looked at peace.
“Where are you going to put it?” Sam asked.
My eyes flitted to the wall above the fireplace, but his ashes already occupied the mantel. Placing the picture above it would make it feel like a shrine. Putting it in the bedroom would force him to have to see it, even when he didn’t want to.
I walked to the wall between the entryway and the living room. I replaced the abstract painting that hung there with Benji’s.
“I’m going to get my stuff out of the dryer and head over to Max’s. Do you mind if I keep this on, though? I’m going to get wet again walking there.”
“You’re leaving? Why? I haven’t seen you since—”
“Yesterday. You saw me yesterday and the day before that. And I spent the night, the night before that. And we talk on the phone—every day.” She patted my cheek. “You just don’t want to be alone when Damon shows up and sees this.” She nodded to the painting. “Unfortunately for you, one night of having to hear you being tortured to death by tongue and dick was enough for me.” She sauntered off to the laundry room, leaving me alone with my embarrassment. I’d forgotten she was asleep in the other room that night.
23
The setting of the sun blazed a brilliant orange across the darkening sky. I stood in between the open sliding doors, watching the rain pummel down. The trees swayed as if ducking for cover from the rage of the torrent. The rhythmic whooshing sound of their leaves brushing kept me calm. The smell of wet soil and heat stirred my blood, and the sudden clap of thunder served as a precursor for Damon’s arrival. I thought it absolutely fitting.
I had turned all the lights out in the house, possibly in an effort to delay him seeing what I’d done. Or maybe so I could observe, unnoticed, Sam and Max cooking in his kitchen. They chatted animatedly with an excited Pluto running about, while I waited in my prison of doubt—petrified.
The front door opened and closed, and with my back to him, I listened as he hung his jacket and slipped out of his wet shoes. I grew nauseous and gnawed at the corner of my bottom lip. His sharp intake of breath made my knees weak.
I waited, and waited, and waited some more. Both patient for his response and anxious to get it over with.
