Page 31 of Liquids

“Carl,” he says, low and deep.

“I can’t bear looking at it. Can’t bear the beauty I create. It seems wrong somehow.”

“You ever thought of creating something horrible?

I laugh at this. “What like?”

“Something rotting. Mold. You’re the artist.”

“Cleanse my soul of his death by expressing the worst life has to offer, you mean?”

He laughs. “That’s far too profound for me. Just a logical extension: If you can’t bear looking at beauty, make something ugly.”

And it makes me smile into my pillow.

“Is that why you live here?” he rumbles.

I suck in a breath and shift, but his arm clamps around me.

“I don’t know if it’s escaped your notice, but I don’t make a lot of money,” I say.

“You could earn more, though, babe.”

“How exactly?”

“You’re a trained nurse. A trained artist. You could find a better job, sell your stuff at local fairs.”

But I wouldn’t be able to drink, I don’t say. And I can’t tell him that no one would employ me as a nurse in this town, that I’m lucky to have the caregiver position I’ve got.

He laughs. “Marco’s always looking for women fighters. I could train you if you like.”

And I’m laughing now, too. How does he do this, say things that are brutal, but also need to be said, and have me laughing about it? And Marco … Rig’s body is covered in bruises. No way do I want to fight. But I could go to the gym with him. I did loads of fitness with my brother and my dad. That stopped when my dad died, too.

I thought I just wanted a quiet life, giving myself space and with no trouble. All the questions Rig is asking are hard, but something about dragging it out into the open is better. The drawing today wasn’t too bad. Holding the pencil in my hand, feeling it flow. I lost the sadness in my head for a while. I don’t want to get over losing Charlie, but maybe I could let myself draw again.

10

SURFACING

Someone’s nuzzling into my neck, and as my eyes blink open, Rig is propped over me on all fours, hands planted on either side of my head. He licks my ear.

“Urrrggghhh.”

“Day one of fight school,” he says.

“Fight school? What fucking time is it?”

“6 a.m.”

I roll onto my back, groaning. “Rig, you are fucking kidding me.”

He grins down at me. “Gotta get up.”

I groan. “Tell me why I agreed to this again?”

“Because you’re awesome. C’mon, babe, you smell great, and I’m gonna be tempted into doing something else if we don’t leave now.”

I smile up at him, pushing his wayward curls back on his head. “I’d be up for that.”