Page 60 of Shattered
CHAPTER 16
Mel
“Did you do it, then?” Garrett asked, his words thin between us.
I focused on the painting behind him in the Terrarium. The moon shined over the deep water. Wasn’t it strange that such a dark, cold place gave us such beautiful light? As if it could reflect what we wanted it to be. Keeping its true self hidden.
“Do what?” I asked.
“Figure out what your lover wants. An action of devotion, instead of empty words.”
“You speak in riddles,” I said.
“You’re just making it complicated.”
I leaned back. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t figure out what Garrett wanted. It wasn’t about him taking the role of a relationship counselor. There was something else going on beneath that.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Come with me to the wedding,” he said. So that’s where this was going. At least it made some sense. “It’s on a private beach. A place where this would only be a dream.”
“It sounds like you want to disappear there, taking me with you,” I said, my voice dull.
“Perhaps.” He grinned, and that look unsettled me. What was going on behind his smile?
“How far away?” I asked.
“Far enough for a plane ride.”
An island on a far off tropical paradisedidsound like a dream. Where I wouldn’t be able to swim toward the nightmare even if I tried.
“There’s a livestream of the event,” he said. “Because the rich want the world to see how marvelous they are.”
I wrinkled my brow. “Like you’re any different.”
“See, that’s the response I was looking for.” His smile spread wide, and it confused me. How was that what he wanted? “I don’t flaunt, Mel. I don’t need to show off in front of these people. I know what I want and I take it. And I want you to come with me.”
“But why?” I asked. “I don’t understand. You didn’t even know me, but you sought me out.”
“I knew enough.”
We must have met somewhere else. Had he visited the art school before I dropped out? Was he a benefactor to the college? Had we met in Sage City, maybe when I asked for donations for my art outside of downtown? When I was attempting the starving artist lifestyle, before I found the Dahlia District.
“I want to give you an escape from this existence,” he said. “A plane ride and miles of ocean between you and this life should do the trick. After the ceremony and an hour of the reception, you’re free to go and paint. I’ve reserved a beachfront studio for you.”
I pictured the sunrise coming in through large windows covering the walls, sand dusting the hard floors. A sketch pad on the ground, an easel with a blank canvas. Bird songs mixed with the crashing waves. The swish of wind through the fingered leaves of a coconut tree. A tropical-themed drink, tacky yet delicious, dripping into a puddle of condensation nearby on the counter. A well-worn book left by the previous renters. I could leave behind something too. A painting, maybe. One of the attempts at the tree.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii,” I said.
“And we can go this weekend if you want.” He slid closer to me, taking my hand in his. “Don’t make this more complicated than it is.”
There was that phrase again. But he didn’t understand. He wasn’t risking his job, being threatened with more years of servitude. He didn’t have someone he was leaving behind.
“I can’t,” I said finally, ending the debate. “My showing is coming up. I’ve got to finish up with the exhibit before I can do anything fun.”
It was a lie. A damn lie.
Garrett stayed cool, his eyes reflecting my glare. “You’re staying for him,” he said calmly.
