Only Between Us (3 page)

It’s from my mom. I hold my breath and open it.

Phil got furloughed from his job and money’s tight. Sorry I can’t help right now. Give Katie my love.

That’s all it says. But it’s more than enough. I read every word a few times and then read what she’s not saying.
I blame you
, she tells me.
Katie’s your responsibility now. Deal with it.

“I am dealing with it,” I mutter. I’m just doing a shitty job. I push the heels of my palms into my eyes, watching the colors swirl. It’s better than punching my fist through the screen. Mom isn’t going to send a check this month, which means that I’m on my own. And I could do that … if I only had to worry about myself. I’m twenty-four, for fuck’s sake. I can stand on my own two feet.

But Katie can’t. She might be twenty-two, but she needs someone to take care of her. And that
someone
is me now. But Mom promised to help.

So much for that.

I pull out my phone and click to Claudia’s text.
Can we meet tomorrow night to discuss your work?

I text back.
Meet you at the studio at 9?

My thumb hovers over the SEND button. Do I want to do this? No. But teaching classes at the co-op isn’t enough, especially not if I’m doing this alone. I send the text, my stomach roiling. And then I toss the phone onto a pile of dirty clothes and collapse onto my bed, emptied out. I punch the pillow and then pull it over my head, praying for simple, black sleep to drown me, bury me deep. “You’ll figure it out,” I tell myself. “You’ll make it right.”

Whether it’s true or not, I have to keep trying.

Chapter Three: Romy

I dream about Caleb’s painting and wake up thinking about it. The luster and the depth sucked me right in, and I slid down walls of black and into the soft crimson pain of it. And it felt okay, because it wasn’t my own hurt. It wasn’t the explosion of red that comes with the memory of Alex’s fist colliding with my face.

No, it was Caleb’s pain, and part of me wants to know what that’s all about.

I sit up in my bed, in my new apartment furnished with the nearly pristine furniture my mom was going to throw out when she redecorated the guest wing. I need to shove Caleb and his artwork out of my mind. He’s not my therapy client. He’s my cocky art teacher for a class I might never return to. I have a lot to do this semester anyway. I might not have time for anything extra. In a year, I’ll have my degree, and I’ll be on my way to having a career. It’ll be a good life, helping people. That’s what I’ve always wanted to do. And now I know how easy it is to stumble into that place where you
need
help. You don’t have to be a reject or a loser. You don’t even have to be mentally ill. All it takes is bad luck and a moment of wishing or wanting or closing your eyes to what’s really going on in front of you. And just like that, you could be one of the damaged ones.

Like me.

I look down at my forearm, at the small tattoo I got over the summer, part of my determination to reclaim myself after losing my way so completely.

Out of difficulties grow miracles,
it says. I believe that. I have to.

This afternoon, I start my internship. All the second year counseling students have their placements, twenty hours per week of practical experience, on top of our coursework. Jude is at the community clinic near campus, and I’m at the domestic violence shelter on the south side. We’ll all meet once a week on Thursdays for group supervision, and I’m dreading it because I know that Jude will be watching, seeing how I’m handling things. He was upset when I told him I wanted the internship at Sojourner House.
Too close to what you went through,
he said.
You don’t need that. Go work at the kids’ psychiatric center or something.

I told him to fuck off (in a friendly way) and signed up. I know about helplessness and worthlessness, and I know those women are neither, and maybe I can be a part of helping them find themselves again.

I shower and get dressed and head to campus for my first class, Principles of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. Jude waves and holds out a coffee as I fall into the chair next to his. “Eric says hey,” he tells me. “And wants to know if you want to go to the film festival this weekend.”

“Maybe. I’m still getting settled.” I was a third wheel for the entire second semester last year, and it’s time I found my own way.

He gives me a cautious look. “Okay. Let me know.” His expression brightens a bit. “Are you going back for the open painting time at the house of gorgeousness tonight?”

I laugh. “Probably not. I’ll see how much homework I have.”

Then our professor walks in and starts class. Dr. Greer is a nice guy. He’s my advisor, and when I missed two weeks of class at the end of January, he actually tracked me down at Jude’s to make sure I was okay. Realizing I was in danger of failing all my classes, I told him everything, and he was amazing. He made arrangements for me to do make up work, referred me to a really good therapist colleague of his, even offered to help me get a restraining order.

I did everything but that last part. I haven’t spoken to Alex, or even seen him, since the night he hit me. He’s in the law school, which is all the way across campus. Our paths haven’t crossed, thank God. Part of that is probably because I rarely left Jude and Eric’s couch last semester except to go to class. But this semester will be different.  I’m going to live my life without all that fear. I’m not going to let Alex keep me from the things I want to do and the places I want to go. Not anymore.

Dr. Greer smiles at me as he greets the class. He reminds the second years of our group supervision on Thursday and then launches into his lecture. I try to listen, but my mind keeps drifting back to last night, how it felt to have a paintbrush in my hand again, how it felt to stare at Caleb’s canvas. If I could express myself like that, I don’t think I’d need therapy. Maybe I will go to that open painting session tonight at the co-op …

After class, I drive over to Sojourner House. Its location is confidential, meant to protect the women and children there from their abusers. Everyone there has to agree not to disclose the address, and the police do extra patrols in the neighborhood just in case. There’s a tall wooden fence around the property, hiding the actual house from sight. I park on the street and press a button at the gate, and they let me in. I hear the giggles and squeals of children as I climb the porch steps and knock at the front door. A woman with blondish-gray hair and a ruddy complexion opens up and greets me cheerfully, introducing herself as Justine, the house manager. As she walks me around the house, showing me where I’ll meet with my clients, I wonder what Justine’s story is. She seems strong … but that doesn’t mean she didn’t get caught in the wrong kind of relationship.

After all, for the first two months or so, I thought Alex was the man of my dreams.

Once I’ve gotten the tour, Justine shows me the roster—there are six women and eight children living in the shelter right now. Most of what they need is crisis intervention and case management, help pulling themselves together and making good choices after all they’ve been through. As I listen to her tell me their stories, of Kelly, whose boyfriend raped her and threatened to kill her, of Lily, whose husband has been beating on her for years—and who she may go back to—my heart pounds and my palms start to sweat.

Maybe Jude was right. Maybe this is too much.

“Are you okay, Romy? You’re looking pale,” Justine says, her brow creasing with concern.

“I’m fine, thanks. I’m hoping I can be helpful.”

She smiles and pats my shoulder. “What they need is someone to listen without judging them. It’s harder than it looks to walk away and start over, and they need to talk to someone who understands. Can you do that?”

I nod, determined. “Yeah. I can do that.”

I glare at the blank page, this huge piece of creamy paper taped to my easel. It looks innocent enough, but it’s been persecuting me for the few hours. My palette is all set up, a few basic oil colors, cadmium yellow, phthalo blue, naphthol red, titanium white. My brush is in my hand. The bristles are clean.

My mind is blank. I’m clenching my teeth so tightly that my head is starting to ache. This was supposed to be a release, my chance to express myself, and I’ve been sitting here at this easel in the back row all evening, staring. There are several would-be artists around me, some teenage girls, all sitting near the front, working feverishly. They remind me of me a few years ago, discovering the joy of putting brush to canvas or paper. There are a few gray-haired elderlies, one man and a few women, mostly painting fruit or landscapes. A few women from the Tuesday class are here, too, and their papers are dominated by images of the lake, a favorite inspiration for a lot of local painters. But I don’t miss how some of them keep glancing toward the stairs that lead to the studios, probably wondering where Caleb is.

I hate to admit it, but I’ve been wondering that myself. A few of the artists from upstairs have been hanging out—a pretty woman named Daisy with waist-length, wheat-colored hair, and a guy named Markus with black, grimy fingernails and full sleeve tattoos on both his arms. Both of them came back here to check on me, but I smiled and brushed them off, telling them I’m still settling in.

And now people are packing up. Daisy announces that folks can stay until ten if they want, and then she and Markus head up the stairs, chatting about an upcoming gallery show in one of the places on Main Street. The girls head out to wait for their parents to pick them up, and the elderly people go out to their cars. One of the tailored middle-aged women from my class goes up the stairs, and the rest of them leave. All the while, I sit here, wondering why I ever thought this was a good idea.

The front door slams and I flinch, cold prickles running through me. The lights in the room switch off, and I gasp.

“Oh, sorry,” Caleb says. “I didn’t know someone was still in here.” The lights come back on. “Romy?” He steps into the room, looking windblown, smelling faintly of smoke, his gaze riveted to my face as his eyes fill with concern. “Are you okay?”

I blink. “What? Yeah. I was about to pack up.”

He edges along a row of easels, glancing around the empty room. “What are you working on?” He frowns as he reaches me and sees that my paper is blank. He looks down at my untouched palette, my clean brush. “Did you just get here?”

I swallow. “I’ve been here for a while, actually. I’m kind of …”

“Blocked?”

I shrug. There’s a dark smudge of something on his temple, and I want to wipe it away. It makes him look vulnerable.

“It happens to everyone sometimes,” he says.

I never thought gray was a warm color, but as I look into his eyes, I start to reconsider. “It’s never happened to me before, but it’s been a while since I painted.”

He nods at my palette. “You’re into oils? Why are you taking my acrylics for beginners class?”

“It was the only one I could fit into my course schedule.”

“What’s your major?”

“I’m a graduate student in counseling. I’m in my second year.”

His smile turns mischievous. “So you’re gonna be a shrink? Is that why you were analyzing my painting?”

I roll my eyes. “Why, are you afraid I’ll discover your dark secrets?”

He lets out a huff of silent laughter. “Maybe.” He gestures at my paper. “Are you afraid to reveal yours to the world?”

I bow my head. “Maybe.” It comes out raw, more vulnerable than I want it to, so I lighten my tone. “Or maybe I should paint landscapes.”

“Is that really your style?” He steps a little closer, and I swear, I feel the heat of him radiating toward me in the cool room. His scent is turpentine and soap and smoke, a strange and oddly magnetic combination.

“Not really,” I say quietly. “I guess I don’t have a style.”

“Bullshit,” he says, but his voice is gentle. He snags the stool next to me and sits down, tucking a bit of stray hair behind his ear. I wonder what he looks like without the top half of his hair pulled back, if he ever allows it to fall around his face.

“I take it you majored in art?” I ask, eager to move the topic away from myself.

His smile contains the slightest twist of bitterness. “Much to my family’s chagrin, yes. Not only college, but graduate school as well.”

“Do you like teaching?”

Those eerie wolf-gray eyes meet mine. “Sometimes. I like helping people express themselves.”

“Me, too. Therapy can be the same way.”

He sits back a little. “Maybe so. I like painting better, though. It’s the only therapy I need.”

He sounds the slightest bit defensive, and I think back to what I saw last night, how much pain inhabited his canvas. “And does it always look … like that?”

“Only when it needs to.” He tilts his head. “Are you stalling, Romy?”

Looks like I’m not the only one eager to steer the conversation away from myself. “Stalling to avoid what? Going home? No.”
Maybe
.

His eyebrow arches. “We have rules. You can’t leave here without getting that brush dirty.”

“Maybe I should pack up for tonight.” I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of this guy.

His fingers dance down the stalk of my brush, and I feel it like he’s stroked my skin. “Want to try something before you give up?”

“Huh?”

The corner of his mouth lifts into a lopsided smile. “Trust me for a second?”

I frown. “With what?”

He chuckles. “Come on, Romy. I’ve been through artistic blocks more times than I can count. Let’s see if we can’t get you through yours.”

I look up at his face. There’s a few days-worth of stubble on his cheeks, and there are light circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping well. I search his gaze to see if this is a sleazy pick-up or mockery and find none of that. “Okay.”

Slowly, he takes the palette and brush from my hands and sets them on the floor next to my easel. Then he straightens up and puts his hands on my shoulders, and I tense up for a moment at the unexpected touch. He stills, but doesn’t let me go. “Face your canvas,” he instructs after a few seconds. “And close your eyes.”