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Sure, it’s like someone sawed off my limb, but at least I’m not constantly on the verge of crowding her against the nearest wall and kissing her. She’d hate that. I always knew she would, but this new distance—it’s a good reminder.
Because for a while there, I wondered…
But no. Helen is not interested, and she’s quite right too. Those dreams got me muddled, hoping when I shouldn’t. Chasing wishful thinking.
I’m an old fool.
“You have a call scheduled with a journalist at twelve thirty.” We’re in today’s favored studio, a few feet of frozen air between us. She hovers near the doorway. “And two contracts need your signature, Mr Grangemoor, so I left them on the kitchen counter.”
These days, Helen is all business. She’s even wearing a fussy pink blouse, the hem tucked into a pair of dark pants, and I don’t know how I offended her exactly, don’t know which part of me pushed her away, but it’s for the best. Over the weeks apart, a chill has settled into my bones, but at least I’m not fooling myself anymore.
I could’ve gone to my grave craving this woman. Lord help me, I still might.
“Alright. Order me some sculptor’s clay, will you?”
Feel like smashing something against a table. Working my frustrations out with my hands. And she nods, polite as ever, but there’s nothing behind her quick smile. Zero warmth as she scribbles a note on her notepad.
I scowl at the half-painted canvas in front of me, and stab at it with my brush.
Golden limbs and twisted sheets. Dark hair tangled like seaweed, and the night sky smoldering outside a window pane. This is nothing like my usual work, but I need to get the dreams out of my head somehow. Need to exorcise my demons.
My gut clenches as Helen drifts nearer, peering over my shoulder, but she doesn’t react. There’s no recognition that they’reherlimbs.
“Beautiful,” she murmurs. “Is it a memory?”
If only. “No. A dream.”
Helen hums, gazing at my work in progress.
And I should probably be embarrassed, admitting to these sorts of dreams in front of a flawless young woman, but Helen’s always been so easy to talk to. Nonjudgmental, with a keen artist’s eye. I value her opinion above all others.
She points at the top corner of the canvas. “Will you add anything here? It’s a little unbalanced.”
I tilt my head, considering. She’s right.
Fuck, this girl is always right.
And she’s standing beside me, but Christ, I miss her.
* * *
Weeks become months. We’re close, but so far apart. Moving in the same space, leaving trails of mugs and scrap paper through the same rooms, but never quite seeing eye to eye. Two moons on separate orbits.
“Cocoa, Helen?”
It’s my great pleasure these days: fetching her drinks. Taking care of her. Maybe it’s the dark winter nights drawing in, or maybe it’s the thin mountain air. Either way, my assistant seems tired.
Not just tired; worn down. Exhausted by life.
And fuck, I hate it. If I could strike some cosmic bargain, give some of my life force to her, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Anything to make her feel better. This afternoon, she’s sitting on the hotel staircase, her toes scrunching into the purple runner. Like she started to climb then got so worn out she had to sit down.
Those knee-high socks. Jesus Christ. Her green sweater dress, too. All of it.
How’s a man supposed to mend his broken heart in these conditions?
“Yes, please.” She smiles at me, but her face is drawn. Her knees knock together, her palms sandwiched between, and if I could, I’d toss my cane away and gather her into my arms; lift her up and crush her against my chest. “I’ll get going again in a sec, I promise.”
I nod. “Take your time.”
