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Smugly, Arthur reaches into his back pocket and produces his cell phone. After tapping on the face of it for a moment, he turns it around to show me a bright picture on the screen. Squinting, I realize it is from the local newspaper in Willowdale. It’s a photograph of the gallery opening, with a dozen or so art lovers standing in front of paintings.
“What are we looking at?” Mary asks, reaching for the phone.
Arthur crosses his arms triumphantly in front of his chest.
“Dude, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I shrug.
“Mary? Find our friend Sturgill in the picture, would you?”
Mary squints, her eyebrows knitted together. With her fingertips, she moves the picture around on the screen, then her eyebrows go up. She glances up at me, blinking.
“Is this for real? Did this happen? In public?”
Arthur nods smugly.
“Okay, give me that,” I huff, holding out my hand.
Expanding the screen, I find myself. Mrs. Cassidy is off to the side, looking extremely put out. Joanna arches against my body, her eyes closed, her palm pressed against my chest. My head is tips forward as I kiss the top of her head.
That’s it. One innocent head kiss.
Yet, looking at it, my thoughts begin to swirl. I remember it vividly. The smell of her hair, the lights in her eyes. The nervous but excited way that she fluttered around the gallery, fussing over details, proud of what she had accomplished. I was proud of her too, happy to share it with her.
“
It doesn’t mean anything,” I grumble unconvincingly. “She’s just a friend. A patient.”
“Your bedside manner has really gotten intense,” Arthur quips.
“What’s her name? What is she like?”
“What is she like?” I repeat, incredulous and annoyed. I push myself up from the table and straighten my shirt. “She’s not like anything. She’s gone. That’s it.”
Nobody pays attention to me as I walk out of the enclosure, though I can feel Mary and Arthur watching me exit. But it doesn’t matter, because I’ll be gone in a week regardless.
They’re wrong, anyway. I don’t see them often enough, and they don’t know my life. They don’t understand that I don’t have room for that kind of complication. And that thing about my parents’ house being huge and lonely was just a lucky guess.
Chapter 18
Joe
I never really noticed how dirty my apartment building was until I got back from Willowdale. It must be all the traffic, all that pollution turning into a grime that covers every surface in a film.
Every floor, every wall, every outdoor surface has this dusty, sooty feeling to it. It’s not like back home—
I mean, of course New York is my home. But it’s not like in Florida where the ocean breezes seem to scour our little town clean.
I mean, their little town. Not mine. Manhattan is my little town now.
My grandmother’s clothes arrived in crates, but I seem to be kind of running out. I’m afraid to take these to my normal dry cleaner, worried I’ll never get them back again. Maybe I should try handwashing? I am not sure. But I’ve used every outfit at least once now, and summer is in full swing. It’s hot. This mint green wrap is not quite right for the season.
And it’s not quite right for my body, I notice as I try to make the snap parts meet at my waist. Scowling, I suck in my breath and try to make the fabric obey. If I can’t wear this, I’m going to have to go back to my regular clothes. I will have run out of Grandma Ann’s fantastic vintage finds.
Weirdly, that makes me want to cry. Like, actually cry.
That is the problem with being late with my pills. I screwed up this entire cycle and now, even though I’m done with the pills, my period didn’t start yet. The last three days I have felt bloated and overstuffed. My swelling bust line is just the latest symptom of PMS.
“Jeez, forget it,” I huff, slipping back out of the dress and picking out a colorful swing dress in swirls of rose.
