If (23 page)

It was a Thursday night when I came home to find my front door wide open with no sign of him. Papers were strewn about the floor, all sketches I had never seen before.

“Ash?” I called.

But he wasn’t there. I got a feeling in my gut that something was wrong. I always had a feeling there was something Asher hadn’t told me, something more to his story. Our relationship had evolved so naturally, and we shared about ourselves without ever pushing the other. So I didn’t push. And I had my stuff going on and he promised he was fine and that was all the assurance I needed.

I ran upstairs to the roof and pushed the door open.

Ash was pacing in his underwear, covered in paint. I stood in silence, trying to process the scene in front of me. He didn’t even notice I was there.

There was paint everywhere. Not in a messy, accidental way. He was in the process of painting the roof. I reached for the flashlight that rested on the ground and shined the light along the work.

It was a spectacular rendition of the skyline, but through Ash’s eyes. Fuchsia, turquoise, orchid, teal, navy, silver and countless other colors swirled in his rendition of the sky. Like a frieze, there was a story embedded in the work: A man seated on the ground, a girl with hair like fire who carries him to the sky. Then they are in the stars, their bodies intertwined.

It was the story of us, but only the magic of it, stripped away from the realities of the confines of the physical body.

The painting was seamless, crafted all along the floor and up the along the vertical surfaces that surrounded it.

“Ash?”

He turned sharply.

“Oh thank god, thank god, thank god,” he said frantically, charging over to me. “I ran out of paper. And I had so much I needed to get out. It’s all coming so fast and I’m thinking we could just say fuck galleries or shows and just get everyone up here. Because paper is just this construct. Who needs paper when I have brick and tar and my body? Who says paper or canvas needs to be the platform? Who needs a studio? That’s just capitalist bullshit.”

“Ash?”

“But fuck. I need to get paint. I’m out. Paint is not a construct. Paint, I need.” He ran his paint-covered hand through his hair and it left a huge orange streak.

“Ash.” This time I spoke firmer, but it was like my words flew right by him.

“I’m going to grab some paint. And then I’m going to call the mayor because he’s gonna want to see this.”

I felt myself go numb, but at the same time, I was shaking. I didn’t know what to do, it was like Ash was on another planet unable to read my signal.

“Ash, it’s late. The art store is closed. And you can’t paint the roof. We don’t own this building.”

“No. But we will. We will. And I am going to get the paint because I am going to turn this whole city into an installation. And the best part is that eventually you’ll be able to see my entire show from the sky.”

He started for the door to the building.

“Ash!” I screamed. He stopped and whipped around. “You aren’t wearing any clothes!” I yelled.

“Oh yeah. Of course.” He slid on his jeans and tennis shoes and went to the door again.

“Your shirt.” I was trying to stall and find a way to get through to him. I felt so alone on that roof. Our little secret spot became a secret I didn’t want to keep any longer.

“Ash, please don’t go. You’re not acting right. Something is wrong.”

He walked over to me and scooped me in his arms. “Bird, everything is right. You wanted this. You make this happen. You are my muse. You set me on fire. If I could paint on the air and sky and clouds and show you what I see, I would. But this is the best I can do. I am doing this for you. This is my love for you and I am going to show my love for you to the world.”

“Ash, I just want you to be okay.”

He kissed me hard, sinking his fingers into my hair. I tried to push away, but his grip was solid. “You are so beautiful. You’re covered in light and shapes and tastes and sounds. And I am going to paint you a thousand times.” His eyes lacked focus, and it was like before I could respond, he was on the next thought.

“God you make me horny,” he said. I felt him go hard against me.

“Not now, Ash,” I said, firmly. He kissed my neck, gripping me harder, almost painfully. “Stop.” For the first time I was genuinely freaked out.

“You taste so good,” he groaned into my neck.

“Stop!” I yelled, pushing his face off of me. I was shaking and my voice quivered. “Ash, tell me what’s happening. I just need to know what is happening to you. You’re scaring me.”

He paused, looking at me like I had deeply insulted him. “I’m scaring you? You are my world, Bird. You think I would hurt you? I would jump off this fucking roof for you!” He stormed over to the ledge. Images of that night when he climbed it flashed in my thoughts. This time I thought if I didn’t stop him, he could jump. It was like he thought he was invincible.

I shook my head, now sobbing.

“Can we just go back home? Then we can talk.”

I needed to get him off the roof and I needed to be around other people who were sane. Ash was making me think that I was beginning to lose my mind.

His foot tapped erratically against the ground. “I gotta go.”

“Ash, wait. Please don’t go,” I pleaded, my voice quivering from desperation.

“I’ll be back. I just gotta get some paint and I’ll be back.”

He kissed me on my wet cheek and bounded through the doorway.

I tried to chase after him but my legs were shaky from the anxiety, and he was fast. I couldn’t think clearly. I didn’t know how I could stop him. I wasn’t family. I didn’t know the laws about what to do with someone who had lost their mind.

He was gone so quickly.

BIRD

I knew Jordan wouldn’t be home, but like a drone I pounded on his door, hoping he would magically appear. Of course, no one answered.

Ash ran out into the street with no shirt, no phone, and no wallet. I feared for his safety. He wasn’t in his right mind. He had snapped.

I grabbed my phone to call the police when I finally had a moment of clarity. I dropped to my knees in front of Ash’s bag and pulled out his cell phone.

My hands shook uncontrollably as I flipped it open and went through the small contacts list.

MILL.

I had never spoken to Miller. I didn’t even know if he knew I existed. Last I heard, Ash wanted to give him space. But if Miller was to Ash anything like Jessa was to me, he’d help.

I hit “call.” The sound of my nervous breathing and the phone ringing competed for my attention.

“Ash?” a guy’s voice answered. He had been sleeping. I had forgotten it was almost midnight.

“Hi . . . I . . .” my voice was stuffy and shaky. “Hi Miller, my name is Bir—Annalise. I know your brother.”

His voice cleared. “Is everything okay? Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know. I’m his girlfriend and, um, he just freaked out. He ran out with no shirt and he doesn’t have a wallet. I don’t know what’s happening to him.”

“What’s your name again?”

“Annalise.”

“Okay, it’s okay. Did you call the cops?”

“Not yet.”

“When did he leave?”

“Just a few minutes ago.”

“Has he been acting strange before this? Hyper?”

“I guess.”

“Has he been sleeping?”

“Maybe not as much. He’s been working a lot. I’ve been working a lot so I wasn’t around as much. I mean yes, I guess he has been really excited but I’ve been gone the past few days almost all day . . . sometimes I’d be asleep before he got off from his shift at the restaurant. I don’t know what to do.”

“Is it okay if I come over to your place? In case he returns?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I will be there in thirty minutes. If he returns, try not let him leave. Okay?”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m on my way. Text me your address.”

ASH—2 YEARS EARLIER

I swear I saw Sarah. I was in the studio, finally painting again. After she died, I got sick. I couldn’t get out of bed, food was unpalatable, my body ached. The pressure of going back to school in a couple of weeks and the show I also had coming up only made me sink deeper into my bed.

Eventually, my mother, who wasn’t in very good shape herself, had a doctor come to our house. He gave the family Xanax like he was handing out Halloween candy. In a couple of weeks, just in time to get back to school, I started to feel like moving again. By week three, when I was back in New York, I didn’t just feel good again, I felt fan-fucking-tastic. I felt like I could paint for days, and I had so many ideas. This usually happened. I would go for a few days or weeks, in my “crazy painting Ash phase,” my family would call it. Then I would get kind of uninspired and bummed and take some time off. But this Crazy Painting Ash was the best yet.

It was like a billion tiny fires raged in my cells. The pressure of Sarah’s death and everything coming up had put a stop to my creative thoughts, but now it was like someone unplugged that little cork that was holding the dam from bursting and now I was flush with ideas. I was a raging white river bursting with color and shapes and movement that had to be translated into the physical form.

I didn’t have time to sleep, or eat, or go to class. Two weeks, two whole weeks of a non-stop flood of ideas. This show was going to put me on the map. I wouldn’t just be a boy prodigy, I was going to be the fucking man.

Someone poked their head into the studio I was using. I pitched an unopened jar of red paint at the door and it exploded. I wouldn’t tolerate someone disrupting my flow. But then I stopped. The face at the door. The features were familiar. I had seen them for fifteen of my nineteen years.
Oh my god, Sarah is alive!

I flung open the door, my hands now covered in red paint, and looked down the hallway. “Sarah! Sarah!”

There was no response. I had scared her away. All this time she was alive and just scared to come home because of the drama she had caused, the guilt she had caused me. Sarah had taken it too far just to show up again.

It was snowing, but I didn’t have time to grab a jacket. She already had a head start. I busted into the stairwell, jumping five to six steps at a time to catch her.

I emerged onto the streets of lower Manhattan. “Sarah!” I screamed. I started running. I had to find her. I had to bring her home. Then everything could be back to the way it was.

I ran past the subway and heard a train coming. If she was running, that’s where she would go. I ran down the stairs, jumped the turnstile and slid right into the train as the doors closed. A black woman with a geometric hairstyle and tons of shopping bags between her legs looked up at me.

“Miss . . . Miss. Did you see a girl? About sixteen. She has, um, brown hair. About here,” I motioned to my shoulder. “Green eyes. She’s about five-six.”

My eyes darted to the pole I was grasping, which was now smudged with red paint.

“I’m sorry. No.”

I spun around several times trying to see where she went. Then in the next cart, I saw her. The back of her head covered in straight brown hair gliding from one end of the cart to the next. I ran to the end of my cart and flung open the door, the loud churning of the train beat at my ears. Hunter green spots pulsated before me in sync with the violent sounds.

By the time I got to the next cart, she was gone again. I looked up and through the small windows and saw she was in the following cart. I followed her all the way to the end but when I reached the last cart, she wasn’t there. She had to have just gotten off. I exited onto the platform. I was so hot, so fucking hot. I ripped off my shirt, tucked it into my back pocket and resumed my search.

People swarmed Grand Central Station like worker ants, going to their posts. She could have gone anywhere from here. But I had to find her. If I didn’t find her this time, we would never see her again.

The station was humming with sounds and smells and my vision was flooded with circles and squares and squiggles of blue, red, and green.

I walked by a piece of metal paneling, and in the reflection, I saw myself: shirtless, covered in paint, my hair limp with sweat.

I tasted licorice. I always tasted it when I was anxious or upset. Tiny needles were poking me. Not painful, just distracting.