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He didn’t move, he just nodded back towards the painting. “You didn’t answer my question. Is it you?”
I was surprised at his question. I pursed my lips and looked back to my painting, determined not to let him unnerve me. “No,” I answered succinctly. “It’s my mother.” It was mostly the truth. Because the more I looked, the more I saw it really was an amalgam of the two of us, a shapeshifter of both our features.
I felt more than heard Rafe come further into the room. And then his warmth was behind me, his chin all but touching my shoulder.
“She’s beautiful. Is this her when she was your age?”
“Something like that.”
I’d only ever seen pictures of my mom at my age, of course, but Rafe was right, she had been beautiful. She still was, in her own way, of course. But she’d been stunning at my age, and I wasn’t surprised they’d chosen her as a potential belle or encouraged her to stay around for the sex parties after she wasn’t chosen.
And yes, it was true that I did resemble my mother even though I sometimes denied it. When I’d first seen the picture of her in her younger years, I’d done a double-take. It was like looking at a picture of myself I didn’t remember taking. Some of my features were foreign to her, but it was something about the eyes that was the same.
I suppose the real truth was that this painting was of both of us, inhabiting the same space at once.
Just like we’d both briefly inhabit the Oleander Manor.
And come away from the experience changed forever, if this past month had been any indication.
My mom had come away with me in her belly.
The doctor had put a shot in my arm to prevent that from happening even before I’d been presented to Rafe along with the rest of the belles, but how else might I be changed?
I’d have money, more money than I could ever imagine if what Mama Hawthorne said. I trusted her. Maybe that was foolish.
I trusted too easily.
So then I closed up and now no one else could get in. No one could pass the endless litany of tests to prove themselves to me.
Certainly Jeoffrey couldn’t, and he’d been the nicest guy I’d ever found. But not even he could penetrate the cold, iron shield that I’d built around my heart.
“She looks sad,” Rafe said, still behind me so close I could feel his warm breath on my ear. “Beautiful, but sad.”
I slammed my brush down on the side table and spun to look at him. “Well, maybe she has a fucking right to be sad! Maybe life fucked her over enough times that she got wiser to people trying to manipulate her and use her. Maybe she learned to finally fight for herself.”
Rafe’s eyes widened. “Okaaaaay,” he said. “Calm down, Fallon. It’s just a painting.”
Just. A. Painting?
At least he realized what he’d said and raised his hands in defense. “Wait, that came out wrong. I just meant, in real life she’s happy. She’s got a good job and is comfortable.”
I stared at him. Was he really so clueless? “And you think that makes someone happy?”
He frowned. “Well, no, of course not. But whenever I see your mom, she’s happy and smiling, and is always singing to herself. She doesn’t look like that anymore.” He gestured to my painting. “She found peace later in life even if she didn’t have it when she was young for whatever reason.”
“God, you can be so dense sometimes!”
“What? What did I do now?”
“What do you think people see when they look at you?” I asked.
He looked confused, but also like he didn’t like where I was going. It wasn’t going to stop me. I continued. “They see a handsome, carefree guy who has the world at his feet. Are you happy, Rafe? People look at you and they’d assume you’re happy. You have everything you could need. Food. Shelter.”
I stepped closer to him, ignoring the wet paint on my paint smock. “Are you happy, Rafe?” But I was already shaking my head even as he stared at me like a deer in the headlights.
“We both know the answer,” I whispered. “You’re as lost and unhappy as she is.” I nodded back towards the painting.
Rafe’s brow furrowed and then his eyes got intense. “That’s not your mom, is it? It’s you.”
I blinked. Wait, he wasn’t allowed to turn this around on me.
“Why are you lost, Fallon?” He reached out and traced his large finger across my right brow. “Why are you sad?”
I yanked back. “I’m not sad.” How dare he say I was sad?
I reached down, grabbed the bright red paint tube, squirted a large glob in my hand, then turned to the canvas and smeared it in a diagonal over the painting.
