The Inspiration (33 page)

“What’s the difference? The fucker’s long gone now.” He smiles darkly.

“There’s a big difference, Einstein.”

“Well, I still think I did you a favor. You deserve better. I don’t care how important his art is or what the fuck everyone sees in him. He stormed out of here like someone had stolen his car, his girl, and his best friend all in one day. What a dramatic ass…good riddance.”

Now I’m overcome with curiosity about what Max wanted to say. That he finally had the guts to come here to talk with me weighs heavily on my mind.

As we finish the work in the gallery, Brian asks what I’m doing this evening, and I confide that, if I summon the courage, I may head to Malibu to take Max the transcript for his book. While I’m out there, if he feels like talking, we will. If not, at least I’ll know that I returned the effort. I still don’t want to be with him, but I may find the closure I’m craving.

He gives me a hug and wishes me luck.

Just before six, I get in my car. The Santa Ana winds are really howling and palm fronds from the towering palm trees dotting the streets litter the ground. Swirls of dust and city grit dance around my car, shimmering from the backlit effect of the late-afternoon sun. I sit for a moment, wondering what to do.

Do I go home and watch TV, or do I get on the freeway? I rest the palm of my hand on Max’s folder—his story sitting on my passenger seat—and I close my eyes. One choice is easy, the other risky, but ultimately, isn’t it worse never to know what could’ve happened? The invisible rope winds around my waist and begins the pull toward Malibu.

The drive’s a slow blur because I’m compelled to relive the scene at the studio in my mind over and over. The what-ifs start. What if I hadn’t stopped him? The pictures are so raw and vivid in my mind that my entire body is aroused and on fire. A part of me desperately wishes we’d had sex that night. To feel him inside me would’ve been intoxicating, perhaps satiating the desire that’s simmered in me since the day I met him.

The sun blazes low as it slowly inches toward the horizon, and I lower my car’s visor and squint to see the road more clearly. I picture the look on his face while things were still good that night in the studio…in his eyes a look of lust and wanting, desperate wanting. He wasn’t holding back. He was ready to physically give me everything.

Damn.
Why didn’t I let go and give into my passion? We’d become so close lately. Finally being physical would’ve added another shade to our relationship.

But if we had fucked, would I have joined his collection of art sluts to be tossed aside? That would’ve been much worse and the idea is darkly crushing. My anger boils up again, deflating my useless what-if fantasies.

I’m so deep in thought, I almost miss Max’s driveway off Pacific Coast Highway. My hands are shaking as I punch in the security code to the gate, and the memories of my last visit haunt me. Yet the MOMA crisis that brought me here the last time ended happily, so maybe it’s a good omen for tonight.

When I get to the bottom of the road, I stop in the driveway. There’s a rental car parked behind Max’s Porsche. A surge of panic shoots through me. It hadn’t occurred to me he’d have company. The desire to turn around and head home has weighed on me the entire drive over. Now, I just want to get this over with. I’ll give him the book and leave. It’s still early evening, so I figure the worst is I’ll interrupt a dinner.

As I walk along his garden path, I notice the front door is wide open. I look in, but don’t see any sign of Max. I do notice an open bottle of tequila on the side table along with an abandoned shot glass on its side. There’s a sweater on the floor just beyond the table.

This type of foreshadowing is heavy-handed and irritating in stories I’ve read and movies I’ve watched. In those cases, I turn the channel quickly or close the book and push it onto my nightstand. But tonight seems ripe for a train wreck, and I’m troubled enough to not be willing to turn away.

I take cautious steps into the foyer. What hits me first are the sounds. The moaning and indecipherable words slam into me, rendering me breathless.

‘Oh no! Anything but this…anything but this, Max!’
my mind wails. I clutch the folder tighter to my chest and try to contain my exploding heart.

I continue forward until I’ve entered the main room. A tableau from a European porn film unfolds before me. The French doors are wide open with the ocean crashing just beyond. The sun, sharing its last rays of the day, skims over the scene, casting sharp outlines of light and darkening shadows.

The girl is blonde, the palest of yellows, which is striking against her tanned skin. I marvel at the way she’s folded over the table, her ample breasts pressed almost flat while her head is arched back. Words fall out of her mouth, and in my stupor she could be speaking Swahili or Albanian for all I know. The fact that her skirt is pushed up over her hips and her panties are missing is not surprising, but expected.

The first thing I notice about him are his hands. One has her peroxide mane wrapped around it, and he’s pulling hard, as evidenced by how far her head is jerked back. The other hand is halfway between her hip and her ass, and the shadows indicate that his fingers are digging into the flesh.

My gaze travels up to his face and I gasp quietly.

He’s ugly. I didn’t think it was possible, but his beautiful features are twisted with hate and anger as he looks down on his golden goddess.

His jeans are pushed down low on his hips and the gathering of fabric around his knees is a symphony of folds and shadows. I’m angry that he doesn’t wear a shirt, as if the thin layer would provide a shield of armor in case the whore pressed up against him.

I’m stunned to finally hear his voice. “Fucking say it, Sheila. What in the hell do you want from me?” I can hear the tequila in the slur of his words.

“I want
you
, Max! Fuck me hard. I need it so bad!”

He lets go of her and starts to undo his belt buckle, but he pauses.

“What are you waiting for, Max? Fuck me already!” the blonde goddess yells.

Okay, I’m done here. Yes, completely done.
I’m shocked and numb. I really understand the potential benefit of the depressive shutdown thing right now. But that would not be good. I need my legs moving to get me out of here immediately.

I’m in the shadows, so I take a silent step just far enough forward to deposit the folder on the table. I’m not even sure it’s a good idea to leave the book now. I just know I can’t have it in my possession another motherfucking second.

I step back and turn to my prize, the front door, my gateway out of this hell that’s burning me more with each second’s passing.

A fierce wind slams one of the French doors hard into the wall and I automatically turn toward the sound. The curtains whip up. For a moment, they are white flags suspended over the room.

Goddamn the Santa Ana winds.

And in the final act of my humiliation, the folder peels open in a horrific slow motion, and the pages take flight, dozens of slender white birds furiously soaring all over the room. Several of the pages fly up against me and wrap around my waist and legs, and I reach down to tenderly peel them off and set them free.

The ugly face now turns toward me, and the expression morphs to a deeper shade of fury. His displeasure that I’m an audience to his tawdry show is quite evident. I quickly calculate that timing-wise I’m at an advantage being mere steps from the door, where he’s on the far side of the room and has the blonde one to deal with. She doesn’t look like she’s in the mood to share, so any attempt he makes to move toward me could be greatly compromised.

And I can tell from the look on his face that he’ll be coming after me. Of this I’m eerily certain…so I must plan accordingly. I must think clearly, even though I’m fairly convinced that I’m losing all semblance of sanity as each moment passes.

I exercise my timing advantage as I bolt for the door, turning back only once to show him both the disgust and devastation shadowed in my eyes. And despite his alcohol-induced stupor, I hope he understands; one more unspoken truth shared between us.

W
hen another blast of the Santa Ana wind pushes me out the front door, some pages of the book follow me into the garden. One page careens into the koi pond, and it sickens me to see my efforts become fish food. My ridiculous miscalculation, where I bend down and retrieve the soggy page, gives Max just enough time to reach the front door before I’ve completed my exit. I’ve underestimated how fast he can move when properly motivated.

“AVA!” His howl tears through me. His jeans ride higher up on his waist now. His expression’s wild and frantic.

For a moment, I look at him. The limp wet sheet of paper caught in my fingers is steadily dripping water on my shoes. I let it go, hearing the faint slap as it hits the terracotta tile of the walkway. My bearings recovered, I bolt for the garden gate.

He charges after me, catches my wrist and, just before I make it through the gate, he pulls me back inside. My heart pounds and I refuse to look at him.

“Ava!” His voice is commanding, but as soon as he’s spoken it seems he has nothing to say beyond my name. He grips my wrist so tightly that my hand starts to go numb. I look at my car and will it to come to me. I’d really like to do a Batman move and fling myself inside my supercharged car and blast out of this fucked-up situation.

I can hear his ragged breath as he waits. God only knows why he’s waiting or what he expects me to do.

“Why did you come, Ava? Why did you come?” His tone is desperate and sounds remarkably sober.

“Because I wanted to talk to you,” I reply, still turned away. My voice sounds lifeless.

“What did you want to say?” he asks frantically.

“It doesn’t matter anymore and don’t worry, I won’t be coming back.”
You bastard.

“Don’t say it doesn’t matter!” he yells.

His fierceness scares me and I curl up inside.

“It’s all that matters.” His voice cracks with emotion like it’s a revelation.

“Max?” the blonde goddess says.

I look over his shoulder at her calling out to him, and then look back at Max. He grimaces. I look away again as tears stream down my face and I refuse to look him in the eye. I won’t give him that.

“Shut up, Sheila!” he roars.

“Ava, please tell me why you came,” he pleads.

“You shouldn’t tell her to shut up—
she’s
all that matters now. I’m finished here. Let go of me.” I swing my arm down, loosening his grip, and rush to my car.

My hands shake so much I can’t get the key in the ignition, and as I fumble I hear an angry howl and a crash. There’s a shattered potted plant in front of his garage door now and he screams again.

“It fucking matters, Ava!”

I finally get the key in, start the car, and quickly back out.

CRASH!
The sound of pottery hitting a wall is so dramatic and B movie that it’s jarring and I’m grateful his target is the wall and not me.

“AVA!” There’s a pause and then more pottery, soil and plants crash to the ground. “It’s
all that matters
!”

I floor the gas and tear up the driveway as one more crash and his howl echo around me.

“AVA!”

It isn’t until I’m on Pacific Coast Highway and accelerating straight ahead that I realize I’m not breathing. My lungs ache as I suck in as much air as possible. I’m sure I’m not steady enough to be driving. The sun has dipped below the horizon, causing the sky to quickly darken, but all I can think about is getting as far away from Malibu as possible.

When I’m no longer gasping, I can focus again. The damage from seeing Max with Sheila and Max seeing my reaction seems irreparable. The rage-filled side of me is sure I never want to see him again. Yet, now that everything’s final, I have to face that not seeing him again is heartbreaking.

Max has broken my heart. And perhaps through all of the events that led us here, his heart is broken as well.

This hits me full-force as I drive up the canyon. When I get to the highest point of the hill, my tears turn to sobs and I pull over on the desolate road, too devastated to drive. My car feels like a cage, and I throw open the door and jump out, wanting to feel the solid ground under my feet.

I step over to the edge of the canyon and look at the inky black sky, moonless and calm now that the winds have died down. The stillness and silence make me feel completely alone in the world, which only amplifies my agony. Despite my fury over what I left behind in Malibu, I torture myself by allowing better memories of Max to seep into my mind.

The times he took me to his favorite places are when I saw glimpses of the real Max. We seemed to grow closer with each experience, which lead to that fateful night in the print studio. I’ll never forget his passionate expression and his whispered words as his body and his heart leaned toward mine.

“I’ve really tried Ava, God only knows how hard I’ve tried. But I can’t fight it anymore…I don’t have it in me to deny how I feel anymore.”

I’d never felt such passion, and as my fingers skim over my lips, I relive what followed…the kiss that I’d waited my whole life for. I let out a deep sigh. I thought we were destined for a great love, not a showdown on an emotional battlefield.

My tears continue to fall as my gaze trails down to the canyon below. Void of light, it’s a black abyss, much like my heart in this aftermath. If only I could float down and surrender to the darkness. Surrounded by silence, perhaps I would be spared the ugly voices in my head and the ragged stutter of my broken heart.

Feeling pathetic, I sink down on a nearby rock and cry until my tears run out. I wonder if I’m capable of holding it together long enough to drive home. A rustling in the nearby brush, followed by the sorrowful cry of a small animal, snap me out of my stupor. I’m not the only creature suffering in the universe.