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A flash of apology filters through his brief gaze, in the tension of his jaw, in the way his fingers flex once at his side like they’re also struggling to not reach for me. I read his silence better than if he said the words out loud. Not here. Not now. For one unforgivably weak second, I almost soften. He’s here, he’s safe. Meg too, her gaze drifting between the two of us.
“Erm…yeah, I guess,” she says, but her voice doesn’t have its usual bite. Thiago watches all of us too, picking up on Meg’s tension like a loose thread he intends to unravel later. The dutiful, devoted boyfriend who room-sits and covers for them. Clenching my teeth, they grind together irritably. How did Thiago become the keeper of Everest’s secrets when I’ve been sitting alone in the dark?
“Should we get to practice then?” Meg adds, anxious to cut through the silence all four of us have fallen into. From her perspective, I’m the outsider who has no idea what’s going on. I’m the one who doesn’t belong here. My stomach twists, a strange yearning stemming from the desire to not be alone anymore. Everest is all I’ve ever needed, yet as his world is apparently expanding, I’m still here. Being left behind. Becoming lost in his shadow. A stupid, naive part of me thought, over time, our lives would merge and expand together, not separately. Always separately.
Turning his attention back to her, Everest nods. That’s all, a single nod. Then he barges past us and heads down the hallway, taking his golden-boy shoulders, tense face, and cowardly silence with him. I stand there frozen, confused and openly rejected.
I thought Everest would hang back. There’s so much we need to discuss, after I’ve felt his body sliding against mine and filled my senses with the confirmation that he’s okay. I wasn’t even going to bust his balls for appearing from Meg’s room, instead of coming right next door to see me. All I needed was to hear him say my name, Cody or Reid or whatever he prefers, and to remind me that he still loves me. That I haven’t fucked everything we’ve built, that I haven’t lost him for good this time. But none of that happens.
Instead, Everest strides away without even a glance back over his shoulder, and my chest cracks in two. Refusing to crumble beneath Meg and Thiago’s gaze, I turn and storm back to my room, back to my prison, back to my cage. That’s how he’s always preferred me anyway. Out of sight and out of mind.
Everest started texting me that evening, and me being the petty, childish asshole I am, it’s been my turn to ignore him. I’m not in the headspace to speak to him, not that he’s offered any sort of apology or explanation anyway. Just a few clipped messages that sit on my lock screen like stones thrown at a window.
Everest: We need to talk.
Everest: Cody.
Everest: I know you’re angry.
Everest: Please don’t ignore me. I need you.
I scoff at that last one. He didn’t need me when he came up with this master plan of his, confiding in Thiago of all people. The man he claimed to hate, who is now cheering them on at every practice and creating individual handshakes with each of the players.
Yes, I’ve been watching. I’ve been watching for days. I can’t help myself. I’ve decided it’s the punishment I deserve, the emotional equivalent of locking myself in a room and setting fire to the curtains. Watching Everest move on with his life, to see him and Meg interact without them being at each other’s throats, even the way he’s interacting with Thiago seems to irritate him less.
He looks happy when he knows others are watching, smirking along and agreeing to whatever Meg says. But in the moments I catch him alone, something returns to haunt him. A darkness crawling back in, dragging his shoulders down and stripping the light from his eyes. It’s those glimpses that finally pull me from my own idiocy.
Well, that and some kind of new pills my dealer gave me to try, ones that apparently stem from ADHD medication and are supposed to help with focus. I can confirm from the one I popped this morning, I do indeed feel much calmer than I did when I woke up in a sweaty post-nightmare panic.
Shooting Everest a message to meet me at his house after class, I settle into my stool, picking up a paintbrush for the first time in over a week. The paint feels thick beneath the bristles, not quite gliding how I’d like, but I don’t care. I’m painting, that’s all that matters. Liz approaches and takes a brief glance. She says nothing of how I’m scraping the canvas rigidly, her mouth upturned in a small smile.
“It’s nice to see you back, Master Wilder.” I tip my head in a quiet, reluctant response. She doesn’t mean back in this room, as I’ve been here all week, simply sitting with my head down and hands loose in my lap. Whatever it took to be in the same room as Meg in the back row. She’s not even doing anything, but my awareness of her has never been stronger.
Focusing on dragging paint back and forth, the color churns into something akin to a deep purple bruise as pencils scratch, and students mutter around me. Liz moves on to check on others, her voice fading in and out until she reaches Meg’s table.
“I just don’t know how to start,” Meg confesses quietly, yet somehow, I pick up on the vulnerability in her tone. Something I’ve realized over the past few days is that stupidly, pathetically I miss talking to her. Having her back next door has somehow been worse because it’s like we’ve gone back in time, becoming complete strangers when we’re anything but. I know Meg, I know her possibly better than she knows herself, but I no longer feel able to talk to her.
“The first stroke is always the hardest,” Liz agrees, rounding the easel to stand by her side. I sneak a peek over my shoulder, noting how Liz studies Meg’s work for a long moment. Meg tries not to fidget at the scrutiny, and I glance away before she spots me looking. After a few minutes, the jingle of Liz’s bracelets sounds as she returns to the front of the studio. I clench my jaw, telling myself to only worry about my own work. But then again, I know how it feels to have your art judged and criticized, and before I know it, I’m taking another sly glance.
Meg is fine, obviously. Headphones in, she squares her shoulders and adds another stroke to her canvas. The determination in her posture causes me to smile. I miss that stubborn determination, especially miss it being aimed in my direction. Christ, I sound like Everest.
The pill in my system makes class pass unbearably slowly, as if the world is moving around me in slow motion. On my own piece, ribs begin to bleed through the bruise as I go in with white, shading in reverse to make the image appear like an X-ray rather than a realistic depiction. Eventually, I’m in such a relaxed state that the brush seems heavy in my hand, and I let my arm fall aside. A low whistle draws my gaze to the back of the room, and this time, I don’t even try to hide it.
Liz is back standing with Meg, assessing her work. I can only catch a glimpse from this angle, but a pair of eyes sits upon the canvas, staring out in a mix of blue, grey and green. Meg pulls her headphones free, smiling before she can stop herself.
“Now that’s what we want to see. Great work today, Meg.” Liz praises, and Meg’s smile doubles. Something light flutters in my chest. She deserves to smile like that. She deserves to have people in her life who encourage and pick her up, which is the polar opposite of me. I only ruin, destroy and hurt. I know that, yet as Liz picks up the canvas and snaps the frame over her knee, I can’t help the defensive streak that punches through my chest.
The crack echoes through the studio, and Meg freezes. The canvas folds in on itself as the wood splinters, the paint hidden inside like a secret being buried before anyone else can see it. Liz tosses the broken piece into the trash with the same gentle smile she wore while destroying a piece of Meg’s soul.
“The next one will be even better. I’m excited to see it.” That’s Liz for you, kind, understanding and brutally effective. Meg just stands there, the brush clutched in her fist and eyes locked on the trash can. Around her, everyone goes back to their own tasks, Liz drifts onto her next unsuspecting victim, and I’m left staring at the hollow look in Meg’s eyes I know all too well.
My stool scrapes faintly before I’ve even decided to approach. Crossing the studio, I lower into her stool, ignoring how her spine stiffens further at the sight of me in her personal space.
“She tore up twelve of my pieces before she felt that I’d found my creative rhythm. It is for the best, trust me.” I offer Meg a small smile, foolishly hoping that the small gesture is enough to smooth out some of the tension between us. If only she knew what that tiny vulnerability cost me.
“Trust you?” Meg snorts in disbelief. Her surprise quickly shifts to anger, the paintbrush in her hand snapping in two. She tosses the broken pieces into the trash with the remains of her canvas, adding one more casualty to the pile. “You’ve barely looked at me all week, and now what, you’re going to drop in with some encouragement?” She shakes her head, grabbing for her bag. “Give me a break. Whatever this is,” she waves her hand in front of my face, and I catch the flash of blue paint on her finger a second before she turns her wrist and drags it across my cheek. “I’m not interested.”
Shouldering her bag, she storms out of the studio like a whirlwind, leaving me stunned. I deserved that, but I still don’t appreciate the multiple pairs of eyes now staring openly at both me and the paint smeared across my face. The ghost of her touch that left far too much warmth, despite the callous way it was delivered. Fuck that. I’ve got better things to do than sit here being ogled at.
