The Inspiration (19 page)

The anger lights another fire under me, so when I get home from work I make a pot of coffee, skip dinner and plow into the book project. I want to be done with this job and get off this wonky roller coaster with Max. The tug and pull bulldozes my confidence and my pride.

At midnight, after I’ve wrapped up chapter four, I decide to email a particular section to him, as I’m uncertain about some of the facts.

That’s it, plain and simple. Read between the lines Caswell—
I’m done with our games. I’ll never be one of your art groupies.

He emails me back within minutes.

I roll my eyes with a snarky flair. Now he’s the rocket scientist of emotions. I email him right away.

The inbox chimes. Before I read his reply, I hesitate, imagining that he’s pissed off. I can almost feel his anger singe my fingertips as I caress my keyboard. I open his message.

I can picture him running his hands through his hair, his eyes squinting and his jaw set. He makes me feel rash and impulsive, like speeding down the highway without headlights.

I hit send.

Hmm, very dramatic and epically impulsive…
It feels satisfying for about five seconds, then I start wondering if I’m truly ready to let go of
art guy
.

Loud music starts howling from my cell phone.
Damn, I have to change that ring tone
. I grab the phone and slam it back down on the table without answering it. How pathetic that the worst thing I can do is not take his call? He definitely has the upper hand.

I watch my phone until the voice mail blinks and then listen to his message.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.
There’s nothing like drama at one in the morning on a workday. I reply via email and attach the photo of him with his art groupies.

It’s bitchy, but at this point, does it matter? I hit send.

I close my eyes and imagine his reaction. I’ve already soaked the bridge with gasoline and thrown a simmering match on it. I stare at my screen for at least ten minutes, hitting the receive messages button every ten seconds.

Nothing.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so tired.

“Hey, Ava, check this out!” Sean sounds so pleased.

I squint at his screen. “What does that say?” I study a snapshot of a plate glass window with hot pink writing scrawled across it.

“Get a clue…this ain’t fucking mall art,” he says, reading from the screen.

Lovely.
I say to myself. “What’s that from?”

Sean reads the description from the news report. “
Artist Maxfield Caswell took offense to the opinions of some of the collectors who attended Everett Callis’ art opening last night. He used his companion’s lipstick to make his feelings clear on the window of the gallery. He was escorted out by security.”

“Hey, Sean, can you send me a link to that story?” I ask calmly. My fingers itch to forward that gem, but it’ll have to wait until I’m home. Once I’m in my apartment, I practically run to my laptop. I copy the photo and description from the article into a new email to
art boy,
and whip out my new quote.

I’m halfway done heating up my Lean Cuisine meal when the email prompt dings.

What a clever attempt at emotional manipulation. I dish it right back.

I congratulate myself on my crazy artist reference.

So posthumous fame is what matters to Max? Should I be surprised?

I take my dinner out of the microwave to cool before checking to see if he responded to my last comment.

The ass is right, but I’ll never admit it.

I close my email and tear into the new chapter. At least these fits of anger help propel me through the writing. At this rate, I’ll be done in a few weeks.

Later, I meet Jess at TBY’s in West Hollywood for dinner.

“So, is Max making you nuts yet?” she asks as she licks some salt off the edge of her margarita.

I moan. “How did you know? We aren’t even talking, just having an ongoing argument via email. Some days I hate his guts.”

She looks concerned. “Those are pretty strong words, Missy. What’s he done anyway?”

“I’m not even sure. He has the ability to get under my skin. He can be so sweet, like when he helped me after the robbery. But then he reverts back to his trashy side, which pisses me off, and we lose whatever ground we’d gained. During the good times, we’re close and I get addicted. He’s my own drug. The highs are so damn good.”

“But then…”

“But then it all goes to hell. I just have to accept I can’t be friends with him. Yet when I think of not talking to him or seeing him, I feel bad. What the hell’s wrong with me, Jess?”

She shakes her head and groans. “This is what I was fucking worried about. I should’ve cut him off at the knees and stopped the book project. Damn it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I warned him, but Max is so fucking stubborn. You’re the perfect girl for him, Ava, and he knows it on some level, and it really freaks him out. He’s acting out in all kinds of crazy ways. He’s created a life where he never has to be dependent on a woman again. That’s why he goes for the art sluts, because in a million years he’d never get involved with one.”

“Perfect? Well, it’s not like I’m looking for a boyfriend or pursuing him in that way.” I cross my arms.

“I know that, and he knows it too. Look, how long have we been friends? In all that time I’ve watched you avoid getting involved with anyone. It’s like a sport with you. You’re almost as bad as he is.”

“I don’t think I’m that bad.”

“Well, regardless, some people can’t be together and they can’t be friends either. Maybe that’s how it is for you and Max. Or you can accept each other, flaws and all, and be friends.”

I nod, trying to imagine my life without Max in it. What if we really can’t be friends?

“I know the real Max, and that’s why I’ll always be there for him. But this bullshit he’s going through lately is wearing on me. I hope he snaps out of it soon.”

She’s holding back something, but I don’t press. Jess is the smartest woman I know, and I trust her.

Friday afternoon, Jess calls. Max has backed out of a group show for personal reasons. She is pissed. In her book, the only acceptable
personal reason
for such an action is being hit by a bus. Since she’s pretty sure that isn’t the case, she’s heading over to his place now to conduct an intervention.

That evening, I find a fitting new quote to send after polishing off my takeout.

I wait for his reply, wishing I felt more satisfied. Then I second-guess myself. Maybe there’s a good reason he backed out of the show. I should’ve talked to Jess first before sending another snarky email. Feeling a little unsettled, I grab a bottle of beer out of the fridge and look through my DVDs. I pick out
The Twilight Zone
Collection that had belonged to my dad, figuring it’s just the right mood for how I’m feeling tonight. I pop the first disc in my laptop and kick my legs up on the couch.

About ten minutes into the second episode, the doorbell rings. It’s nine-thirty.
What the hell? What if the robbers are back and testing to see if anyone is home?
A wave of fear runs through me. Why, oh why, did Riley have a date with Dylan tonight? I need reinforcements. The bell rings again, but three times in rapid succession. I look through the peephole.

Through the warped perspective of the peephole, I see a big distorted head as Max tries to peer through the peephole too. I jump back.

Shit! The emails! I’d better face the music,
I decide and immediately regret the sweatpants and tight T-shirt I’d changed into when I got home.

I open the door. Max has dark purple circles under his eyes, and he looks wired and edgy, as if he’s had too much coffee. He’s slightly bobbing his head and twisting his hands together.

“Hey, Max. What are you doing here?” I ask as casually as possible.

At first he doesn’t say a thing, just looks as if he’s trying to figure me out.

“I have one question, Ava. Why are you fucking with me? Are you enjoying this? Your goddamned emails have me so agitated I can’t sleep. I can’t focus on anything. Do you hate me that much?”

He’s hunched over and his hands curl into fists before he jams them into his pockets. I didn’t think it was possible, but he looks pathetic.

“No, I don’t hate you, Max. I don’t know—I just couldn’t help myself. But hey, you’ve been giving it back too,” I say quietly.

“I’ve teased you, not assassinated your character repeatedly,” he says, his voice getting loud.

I guess I was too heavy-handed, even for someone who seems impenetrable. Now I feel bad. “I’m sorry. I obviously didn’t realize it would upset you.”

He looks at me with disbelief as he folds his arms over his chest.

“Why the hell are you stalking me on the internet? Are you trying to make me feel worse than I already do about myself? Are you trying to destroy me? ’cause I have to tell you, I think it’s working.”

Destroy him?
That’s a little dramatic.

“Why does it even matter what I think about your behavior?”

He throws his head back with a frustrated groan. “Has it occurred to you that I care about what you think of me?”

“You do?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Do you mean because I’m writing your book?”